Gas&lJh^k Book_iiiL4£ •*. NUGjE CANORiE. POEMS BY CHARLES LLOYD, AUTHOR OF " EDMUND OLIVER," " ISABEL," AND TRANSLATOR OF ALFIERI. THIRD EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. Brama assai, poco spera, e nulla chiede. LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. AND A. ARCH, CORNHILL. 1819- J. M'Creery, Printer, Black-Horse-Court, London. DEDICATORY SONNET TO SOPHIA. Once we had joys in common: — common woes Have lately been our portion; Friend, once loved ! And, still as much loved as 'mid sorrow's throes Tis possible to move, or to be moved. Faithless I'm not, because no word that glows, No look that cheers, accost a friend approved ; Love's language lies in more profound repose Than that of death, since Hope has been re- mov'd From my soul's dreams ! But could'st thou pierce my heart, And see the tender est thought it doth enshrme, 'Tis, should myself and sorrow ever part, Mine eyes shall then tell thee wlien sought by thine, While blest tears gush, like children's, without art, " These had not flowed, wert thou again not miner CHARLES LLOYD. London, 6th September, 1819. ADVERTISEMENT. ABOUT one third part of the Poems contained in this Volume is selected from a larger collection of the Author's productions, which has gone through two former editions : the pieces included in this part will be distinguished in the Index, from those which are now printed for the first time, by being marked with an asterisk. These latter ones have been written at various times, and on various occasions, since the year 1799. The latter part of this Volume will be devoted to tales, selected from the Metamorphoses of Ovid, and intended as a specimen of a translation of that work from the Latin, completed by the Author. PREFACE, In almost every department of the Belles Lettres we are apt to confound our own taste with ab- stract perfection. We are apt to pass a judg- ment originating from a standard formed in our own minds, without attending to the motive which seems to have actuated the Author. la judging of poetry, nothing is more common than this. — One man, exclusively fond of smooth and artificial versification, will almost intuitively con- demn a style less refined, or less flowing, than his judgment had conceived as necessary to ex- celleace ; while, on the other hand, another at- Till PREFACE. tached to simple and wild expressions of feeling, will almost as instinctively anathematize his more polished and refined competitor. It is in vain to seek for an invariable rule of excellence in matters of taste. The best guide as to merit is experience with regard to what has, and what has not, acted pleasurably on the minds of men. Whatever pleases generally, though not sanction- ed by any rule, must have merit : — whatever ge- nerally disgusts, or at least is received with uni- versal apathy, however it may accord with theo- retical systems, must be essentially defective. The poetical character, though marked by some general features ; though each individual possessing it belongs to one family, has its per- sonal and specific distinctions. The poet may be sublime, or fanciful; wild, or correct; pro- found, or energetic ; involved, or easy ; insi- nuating, or simple; he may possess all these characters with advantage; and the possession PREFACE. IX ©f the one shall not in the least derogate from the excellence or dignity of the other. The poetic character has not only its differences, but it has also its ranks and subordinate degrees. The epic bard certainly proposes to himself a task more arduous and exalted than those of all his competitors for poetic fame. Genius and Learning ; Imagination to conceive character, and to embody abstract qualities in high and lofty personification ; Intelligence to invigorate and inform the reason ; Patience to describe in detail; Eloquence to excite in declamation; Fancy to delight with sportiveness, and elabo- rate Information seriously to improve ; are all necessary to the completion of the Epic Poet. He must be gentle and majestic; winning and sublime ; various, yet pursuing one end ; rich and dignified ; now delighting with profusion of beauty, and now raising the soul with terrific grandeur. X PREFACE. The accurate conception of character, and the force and precision necessary to each por- traiture ; a discriminating insight with regard to the involved mazes of the passions ; a selection of thoughts and words which assist action, and give a bodily shape and presence to intellectual conceptions ; all these qualities, necessary to the dramatic poet, render his toil little less ardu- ous than that of the writer who is a competitor for epic excellence. The dramatic writer will therefore claim the second niche in the temple of poetic fame. Of poetical composition, the third in rank is the Ode. The frequent suddenness of transition, the vividness of imagery, the variety and lofti- ness of personification, and the impetuosity and splendour of thought and feeling, necessary to its construction, render it wbrthy of a high sta- tion in the gradation of poetic precedence. After PREFACE. XI the Ode, may we not place moral or didactic poetry ? Descriptive poetry associating Nature's best feelings with natural objects ? Playful poetry, the child of Fancy? And last of all, sen- timental poetry, the child of Sorrow ? Most persons talk of poetry as if it were merely intended to amuse a vacant hour : but if the Author be justified in affirming, that to feel rightly is of more importance than even to think wisely, since we more often act from impulse than from thought, it will be found that poetry holds no contemptible place in the scale of moral causes. Man, originally, is merely a creature of appe- tites: even with considerable cultivation, we can only bring the senses to a certain niceness, by associating them with objects of virtuous refine- ment ; we cannot, it is in vain to attempt it — we cannot produce out of them a mind which inva~ XU PREFACE. riably acts as an umpire over their claims, and despises, or sets at nought, their seductions. — Whatever, therefore, draws the senses to the side of virtue, associates natural impulses with the " better mind," is of high value in civilized life. Many persons, unthinkingly, are ready to say — what is the use of poetry? There is not any information contained in it. To such per- sons the Author would make the following reply. Is it of any use to have thy brute appetites chastened to exalted delight? To connect ideal charms with all the visible creation ? To learn to trace a moral character, and feel a taste ex- cited, and a passion without price gratified, by every object of pure beauty that presents itself? Is it of importance for minds of sensibility to be led from the world of Art, which is often full of disappointment, and disease, and discontent, to the more simple, and more noble, and more beautiful world of Nature, which is full of beauty, and peace, and harmony ? Is it of importance PREFACE. Xlll to be rather independent and happy in thy feel- ings than dependent and miserable? Ask thy heart these questions, and thou wilt have disco- vered how far the poetic gift is excellent, holy, and sublime. In this panegyric on Poetry, every description of it is excluded by the Author, which seduces the mind and the heart to the senses; of that poetry, which, by presenting pure and blameless objects to the former, either keeps in just sub- serviency, or elevates the latter to them, he is alone the advocate. Poetry is the language of the heart and ima- gination : and whatever in feeling refines, or ani- mates the heart, or in imagination fires and exalts the mind, is a proper object for poetry. It is a language, too, which brings images from all the world of sense ; it delights itself in body- ing forth ideal shapes, and loves all new and XIV PREFACE. fanciful combinations of, and associations with, sensible objects. It is not exactly, as a modern author has defined it to be, the language of the eye : since, were the accuracy of representing visible objects alone attended to, and not any feelings or phantasies engrafted on them, it would sink into vapid description : into description, which must yield all pretensions to equality with the sister art of Painting. Dr. Darwin defines poetry to be the language t)f the eye. He has succeeded, because, as an individual, he has a genius for the poetry com- prised in that definition ; but were all other poetry excluded, a race of meagre imitators would start up, and at last poetry herself would abandon her votaries as the only persons igno- rant of her charms. There would scarcely be any end to definitions in any art, or subject of taste, were all men thus to theorize on their own genius. A landscape painter might as well de- PREFACE. XV fine painting to be the reprehension of rural scenery, as the poetical admirer of visible ob- jects " poetry the language of the eye." How is the eye addressed in the lofty hymns* of the Old Testament, on which Milton professes to have formed his genius. In short, the es- sence of poetic excellence seems frequently to consist in avoiding every thing like accurate de- scription ; and after carefully keeping in the back ground all sources of disgust, by happily seizing on one idea necessarily involving a crowd of inferior associations, to raise the fancy, and awaken the mind to a delightful though inde- finable tumult. The best epithets in poetry are often those the least determinate, and which * u But those frequent songs throughout the law and the prophets beyond all these, not in their divine argu- ment alone, but in the very critical art of composition, may be easily made appear, over all kinds of lyrick poe- try, to be incomparable." — Milton's Prose Works. XVI PREFACE. leave the greatest scope for the imagination. It is true, that to peruse such poetry with advan- tage, the reader should partake of the poetical conception of the author. How would our Milton or Shakspeare fare, if the definition were admitted that " poetry is the language of the eye V Is not the author warranted, therefore, in the more loose and comprehensive one, that it is the lan- guage of the heart and imagination ? To conclude, — the following trifles have met with encouragement from those who are pleased with a delineation of the feelings of human na- ture. They do not affect the excellence of the higher orders of poetry ; they are only the effu- sions of sentiment, to which, in the course of this address, the author has assigned the lowest niche in the temple of poetic fame: — and he trusts that he shall not incur the stigma of pre- sumption in once more introducing them, toge- PREFACE. XV11 ther with some younger births of the same family, hitherto unintroduced to the notice of the public, since high pretension can alone justify severe reproof. London, Aug. 29, 1819. CONTENTS. N. B, — The Poems marked thus *, have appeared in former Editions ; the others are now for the first time printed. Pag© * A Poetical Effusion written after a Journey into North Wales . 1 * Ode to Derwentwater, Cumberland • 5 * Elegy on leaving Exmouth 11 * The Melancholy Man 13 *' Lines on the Death of an Infant ....,...., 20 * Stanzas written by Ulswater, Cumberland 23 * Address to the Genius of Shakspeare 25 * Christmas, A Poem 28 The Woodman 9 A Ballad 34 * Lines. 42 * London 48 * Lines to Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin 54 * Lines to a Young- Man attached to the Sports of the Field 59 * Lines to a Young Man, fyc 63 XX CONTENTS. Page * Lines suggested by the Fast, appointed for Wednesday, February 27, 1799 66 * Lines to a Brother and Sister 74 Lines to Robert Southey, Esq 80 Lines written to April, 1800 85 Lines to the Scenery of Cumberland and Westmore- land 92 Lines to the Sabbath * 100 Lines written in Retirement, in a Mountainous Court- try 106 Lines written 1 9th August, 1807 112 Lines to an Hour-Glass, addressed to Miss H W 114 Lines on a Youth self -interred on Skidd aw 117 Lines written 29th July, 1808 120 Lines to my Children 122 Stanzas. — Let the Reader determine their Title 127 Poems on the Death ofPriscilla Farmer 143 * Introductory Sonnet, by Mr. Coleridge 145 * Dedicatory Lines to the Author's Brother 147 * Sonnet 1 149 * Sonnet 2 150 * Sonnet 3. — Written at the Hotieells, near Bristol .... 151 * Sonnet 4 152 * Sonnet 5 153 * Sonnet 6 154 * Sonnet 7 155 * Sonnet 8 156 * Sonnet 9 157 * Sonnet 10 158 CONTENTS. xxi Page * Sonnet 11 159 * Lines written on a Friday 160 Introduction to the Miscellaneous Sonnets 167 * Sonnet 1. — To Craig- Millar Castle 175 * Sonnet 2.— To Scotland 176 * Sonnet 3. — To November 177 * Sonnet 4 178 * Sonnet 5 179 * Sonnet 6 180 * Sonnet 7 ...,..* 181 * Sonnet 8 . 182 Sonnet 9. — On seeing the Moon rise y among Clouds swiftly driven by the Wind, from behind a Hill across Ulswater 183 Sonnet 10.— To a Sister 184 Sonnet 11. — To the same 185 Sonnet 12. — To the same 186 Sonnet 13. — To the same 187 Sonnet 14. — To the same 188 Sonnet 15. — To the same 189 Sonnet 16. — To the same 190 Sonnet 17. — To the same 191 Sonnet 18. — Inserted in a Novel written by the Author, printed, but not published, called " Isabel" 192 Sonnet 19 193 Sonnet 20 194 Sonnet 21 195 Sonnet 22. — Written early in the Morning, soon after the Birth of my third Child, and inscribed to my Mother, who was present on the occasion 196 XX11 CONTENTS. Page Sonnet 23 197 Sonnet 24 198 Sonnet 25.— To my Mother 199 Sonnet 26. — Storm at Night, in a mountainous Country 200 Sonnet 27. — Sketch of a Mountain Cottage 202 Sonnet 28 203 Sonnet 29. — Description of a Spring Hail Stoi % m in a mountainous Country . 204 Sonnet SO. — To Sophia, written previous to a Journey to a Place very distant from that of our Residence . 205 Sonnet 31.— To Sophia 206 Sonnet 32.— To Miss W 207 Sonnet 33.— From Petrarch 208 Sonnet 34. 209 Sonnet 35. — From Petrarch 210 Sonnet 36.— From Petrarch 211 Sonnet 37.— To Solitude , 212 Sonnet 38.— To Solitude 213 Sonnet 39.— To Solitude 214 Sonnet 40. — Inserted in a Novel, written by the Author, printed, but not published, called " Isabel" 215 Sonnet 41 216 Sonnet 42 217 Sonnet 43.— Inserted in a Novel, printed, but not pub- lished, called li Isabel" 218 Sonnet 44 219 Sonnet 45 220 Sonnet 46 221 Sonnet 47 222 Sonnet 48. 2*3 CONTENTS. xxiii Page Sonnet 49. — Written in the Character of St.; Preux 224 Sonnet 50 226 Sonnet 51.— To Miss W 227 Sonnet 52.— To the same 228 Sonnet 53. — To Her who will understand this and the two preceding ones 229 Sonnet 54. — Written after a Walk by Rydal Water . 230 Sonnet 55. — Written after seeing Rydal Lake 231 Sonnet 56 232 Sonnet 57. — Inserted in a Novel, written by the Au- thor, called " Isabel" 233 Sonnet 58. — To Farm * 234 Sonnet 59 b 2o6 Sonnet 60 237 Sonnet 61 . . 238 Sonnet 62. — On the Death of Robert Lloyd 239 Sonnet 63. — On the same 240 Sonnet 64. — On the same 241 Sonnet 65. — On the same 243 Sonnet 66 —On the Death of Thomas Lloyd 244 Advertisement e 245 Sonnet 1. — Metaphysical Sonnet 247 * Sonnet 2. — To a Primrose 248 * Sonnet 3. — To the River Emont 249 * Sonnet 4. — To Loch Lomond 250 * Sonnet 5.— To the Sabbath 251 Sonnet 6. — To a Mendicant 252 * The Dead Friend 253 **uvertisement to the Translations 259 XXIV CONTENTS. Page Death of Hercules 263 Ceyx and Alcyone 277 Death of Achilles SOS Contest of Ajax and Ulysses for the Arms of Achilles. . 306 THE Author thinks it but fdir as a preliminary to the following list of Errata, to state, that he fears he must take to himself the blame due to many of the errors ; and the only apology he can make for such apparent negligence, is, that during the time when the sheets went to the press, he was invariably in a state of ill-health, and ofteu almost unable to attend to any process that required minute accu- racy, ERRATA. Page 68, line 22, for perpetual read perpetuated. 69, beginning of line 2, for and read a. 6g, line 10, for coronet read coronal. 72, lastliue, after the word " promise," omit the colon. 85, for quando read quandoque. 85, for 4th Sat. read Sat. 4. 110, line \2,for birth read birch. 122, for vestrorum read vestrum. 122, l t for I'll read I. 128, 13, for drink read drank. 129, 10, for ancient read secret. 136, Note, for interim i read interim is. l5i, 6, for dream read dreamed. 153, 11, for more read morn. POEMS. A POETICAL EFFUSION, WRITTEN AFTER A JOURNEY INTO NORTH WALES. February, 1794. Ye Powers unseen, whose pure aerial forms Hover on Cambria's awful mountains hoar ! Who breathe your fury in her raging storms, And join your deep yells to the tempest's roar, Assist my visionary soul to soar Once more enraptur'd o'er your prospects drear ; Let each sensation warm my heart once more, That wont to prompt th' enthusiastic tear, And raise my restless soul when your wild scenes were near ! B 2 A POETICAL EFFUSION. Sure ye who viewless range those prospects blest, And swiftly glance o'er many a heath-clad hill — Sure ye oft animate the glowing breast, And often warm with many a mystic thrill The pure poetic fancy ! Oh ! deign still Those high, those speechless pleasures to renew, Let Memory trace each scene with faithful skill, And let Imagination's fervour true, With no dim tints recal each magic mountain- view. In all the tedious intercourse of life, Say, is there aught of bliss sublime and high ? Amid the fluttering world's unmeaning strife, Say, is there aught to sooth or satisfy The soul aspiring to her kindred sky ? No ! — Nature, thou alone canst boast the power To reillume the melancholy eye — Cheer the dejection of the restless hour, Or bid advent'rous thought to trackless regions tower. If thou, perchance, hast ever felt the smart Of unrequited friendship, go and soothe, In independence wild, thy wearied heart ! The charm of solitary pleasures prove, A POETICAL EFFUSION. 3 Ye who the world's cold scorn may sometimes move To curse mankind ! — and ye that doubt and fear, Oh! see how Nature beams with boundless love ! — The God of Nature shall instruct you there, All rapture to the heart, all music to the ear. And you ye Cambrian hills and valleys sweet, — You gave such pleasure to a wearied mind, You fill'd a heart, which thought all joy deceit, With unfeign'd rapture, and with peace refin'd. Thanks to your charms and glories unconfin'd ! Thanks to that God who gave a heart to feel ! And may your rude scenes with an influence kind Continue long the wound of care to heal, And warm afresh with joy, Affliction's bosom chill! And you, ye shadowy spirits, that unseen All wildly glance those fabled scenes among, Whose solemn voices, oft Night's conscious queen Salute with murmur sweet, and mystic song : B 2 4 A POETICAL EFFUSION. May you for him that raptur'd roves along, Or climbs some rock whose fork'd peak cleave* the sky, If chance the powers of verse to him belong, Bid dreams of hallowed import flutter by, And purge from mortal film, his half-enlighten'd eye! ODE TO DERWENTWATER, CUMBERLAND. August, 1794. Wild scenes ! tho' absent from my sight, Remembrance often views your wakeful charm : She cherishes with fond delight The enthusiastic thrill, the feeling warm, The glow poetic, and the wild alarm, That ever wait, enchanting scenes ! on you. She often sees your hanging wood Wave on the mountain's brow, And kens your mild reflecting flood Sleep in the vale below, With feelings keenly true ; — 6 ODE TO DERWENTWATER. She views the mountain torrent white with foam, As its big mass darts wildly from on high ; While conscious shades that shed an awful gloom, From the rude glare of Day's unwelcome eye Shroud many a fairy form that loves to hover nigh. Majestic views ! What trembling effort of my votive muse, May dare to hail Shades where Sublimity shall ever dwell? Where oft She points the melancholy rock, To make it frown more dread ; And bids the beetling crag more proudly mock The embrio storm that hovers round its head. While She, of rapturous thought the Magic Queen, Wakes every ruder grace, Beauty, more lovely in an awful scene, Adorns of nature the expressive face With many a sweeter charm, And hues divinely warm,- — Bids the torrent as it flows In the vale below repose, ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 7 Bids the glowing car of day Shed a soft attemper'd ray, Gives the groves a fresher green Where mild zephyr sails serene. Beauty calms the liquid lake, And ever bids it sweetly take The margin rock, and each time-hallow'd wood, Each mountain wildly high, sublimely rude, With soft reflected grace in its reposing flood. Methinks I see in native charm attir'd All the bright forms of Keswick's happy vale : Methinks I see the scene, which oft inspir'd The glow of Genius, and the Muses' tale. Derwent ! I view thy lake of clearest glass, Which Nature decks in beauty all thine own — The liquid lustre of its level face Where the gay pinnace glitters to the sun. " I feel the balmy gales that blow," Its surface brightly clear along ; And now I hear them murmur low, The lightly trembling woods among. The cluster'd isles that scarcely peep From the blue bosom of the deep, 8 ODE TO DERWENTWATER. Which loves their grassy sides to lave, Now meet excursive Fancy's eye, And with a sweet diversity Break the wide level of the rippling wave. Ah ! as thy varying scene I mark, What cloud-clad rocks, what mountains huge appear : Here Wallow frowns, with Skiddaw in its rear, A vast stupendous mass ! and, hark ! Methinks I seem in Fancy's dream to hear A deep majestic sound From yon rude rocks rebound, Where wild woods ever wave 'mid fragments drear. On breezes borne, that fan the day, Now louder, and now louder roars The hollow sound on Keswic's shores, As on I urge my way. *Till led by Fancy to the impending shade, O'ercanopied by melancholy rocks, Lodore is seen to thunder thro' the glade, And from the appalling steep with fearful shocks ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 9 To urge the fragment thro' the opening air, Big with impending fate and deep despair To Him, the unlucky wight, that wont to wander near. Tremendous flood ! Which flingst thy foam on many a fragment rude; And bid'st the forest quake And listening nature shake, As down thou tumbles! 'mid the humid wood. For thee, her showers may summer send, And still replenish every spring ! For thee, the lone Enthusiast's friend Her wildest storms may winter bring ! May many a mountain torrent mix with thine, And seek.thy favourite haunt, sublimity divine ! What are the graces of the polish'd scene Where the wild form of Nature's sought in vain, Where artificial elegance is seen A supplement to Beauty's beamy train ! What, when compar'd to Lodore's shade ! Here wanton Nature's boundless grace, Fancy, sweet visionary maid, Is often fondly seen to trace. 10 ODE TO DERWENTWATER. Here all the viewless forms that still Awake the enthusiastic thrill ; Here fairy phantoms that dispense Rapture to sublimated sense, Impart their highest influence There, Dulness leaning on some statue near (Her emblem meet) wears out the insipid year, And talks of Nature with an ideot joy While Nature, absent maid, ne'er blest her va- cant eye. ELEGY ON LEAVING EXMOUTH. August, 1794. Jarewel, sweet scenes familiar to mine eyes, Oft have I mark'd you with a transport blest ; Tho' now no more for me your charms shall rise, Or give my soul a transitory rest. Farewel, thou blue and ever restless main, On whose clear breast yon bright orb sheds his ray ; While from the vault above with boundless reign, He proudly flames, the exulting Lord of day. Farewel, ye little skiffs that calmly scud With trembling white sail to each zephyr true Along the wide and undulating flood ; Sweet fairy objects of a fairy view ! 12 ELEGY. And you, ye proud majestic ships, that glide With swelling canvas, and with pennants gay, Stately and slow along the obedient tide, No more for me ye plow your wat'ry way 1 Farewel, the glowing sigh, the swelling thought, The throb mysterious, and the tear so sweet ; Farewel, the joys that inspiration brought, And Nature wild, in Solitude's retreat. I haste, alas ! from this unruffled main, I haste from, shores where sighs the placid wave, To scenes of moral misery and pain, The billowy storms of busy life to brave. Feelings of peace, ye melting thoughts, I go, I go, with you to never more sojourn ! Day-dreams of sweet imaginary woe, I quit your charms realities to mourn ! THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 1795. I. What means this tumult of thy soul — Those feelings words could ne'er define — Those languid eyes that vacant roll — Those cherish'd thoughts that inly pine ? Why dost thou wildly love to stray Where dimly gleams the doubtful day, And all-unconscious muse with pensive pace ? Or why in lorn dejected mood Bend o'er the melancholy flood, And with unmeaning gaze the heedless current trace ? II. Ah ! why, thou poor, distracted thing ! Those muttered accents, broken, low ; Those visionary tears that spring From unintelligible woe ? 14 THE MELANCHOLY MAN. Why does the rose that deck'd thy cheek Pal'd o'er with care, no more bespeak The lovely flush of life's luxuriant morn ? Or o'er thy shrunk, ambiguous face, Bereft of youth's untutor'd grace, Thy locks all wildly hang, neglected and forlorn? III. Should eve's meek star with paly eye Peep lonely o'er the mountain's head, While on the blue translucent sky Some feathery clouds are lightly spread ; Why wilt thou seek the rushy heath, And listen as the gale's low breath Murmurs forlorn the moss-clad waste along ? When from the white-thorn's blossom'd spray The red-breast sings his latest lay, Why with bent downcast brows stand list'ning to the song ? IV. Why does the tear unbidden start, And why those sighs that wildly swell? Why flutters thy tumultuous heart, Thy looks unspoken feelings tell, THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 15 If chance beneath thy devious feet Thou seest the lover's last retreat, The cold and unblest grave of pale despair ? Why dost thou drop a feeling tear Upon the flowret lurking near, And bid it ever droop, a meek memento, there? V. Why with unwonted longings yearn O'er this, the last resource of man, And with mysterious envy turn Thy only shelter, Worth ! to scan ? Why dost thou, to Affliction true, When April sheds her chilly dew, Bend o'er the spot, ere peeps the weeping day ? When Eve's unrealizing gleam Confounds the gaze in visual dream, Why dost thou love to hear the curfew die away ? VI. Where (monument of past delight, And truer type of joy's brief reign) The Ruin gleams, and dim Affright Shivers the homeward-plodding swain ; Why dost thou love alone to tread , Fragments with ivy overspread, 16 THE MELANCHOLY MAN. And mark the grey-tower half enshrin'd in trees \ Or listen, as in vaults beneath From viewless forms deep murmurs breathe, And sighs on mossy walls the melancholy breeze? VII. Why dost thou loiter on the beach Where rippling dies the bright-blue wave, And often with fantastic speech To the deaf ocean idly rave ? Why dost thou bid the billow bear Thy frame unnerv'd by fancied care To realms more pure, where genial souls inspire? Why dost thou view the litfle skiff, Which flutters near the frowning cliff, With many an " aching wish" and impotent de- sire? VIII. When in the crowded walks of men, 'Mid festive scenes thou'rt doom'd to mix, Why on some distant lonely glen Thine ill-attuned spirit fix ? Why dost thou spurn alluring mirth, And bend unconscious to the earth, THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 17 Mute and unknowing, absent and unknown ? Why dost thou frown on every sport, And curse indignant those that court The motley phantom Joy, on Folly's tinsel throne? IX. And wherefore, when the trump of fame Inflames the soul to glory's deed, Such deed with cynic sternness blame, And quaintly mock th' ephemeral meed ? Why now with misanthropic eye The springs of action keenly try Through the pure medium of eternal truth ? Now rais'd above this nether sphere A mere spectator, judge severe, Nor chill'd by fears of age, nor warm'd by hopes of youth ? X. Is it because each tie is gone That bound thee to this fragile state ? Because thou'rt left forlorn, alone, No friend to love !— no foe to hate ? Has keen affection often brought The pleasures of a tender thought, c 18 THE MELANCHOLY MAN. And is such thought for ever now bereft 1 Say, hast thou felt an ardent flame Which not eternity could tame, And are its joys expir'd, and all its vigour left? XL Has fancy to thy madden'd gaze Displayed th' elysian dells of bliss ? Say, did her secret wonders raise A wish for happier worlds than this ? And is the wanton faery flown, And left thee chill'd to conscious stone, At this cold prospect of unmeaning care ? And is Hope's lustre fled afar, Nor haply from her pilot star Gleams one congenial ray, repellent of despair ? XII. Is it that thou didst love mankind With ardour warm as angels feel ; And did they spurn thy generous mind, And wanton wound — nor wish to heal ? — If causes dark as these have wrought The puzzling wreck of splendid thought, THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 19 I weep ! — and meekly turn from this low earth ; Yet sometimes muse, why miscreants bloom, While Sorrow's bleak untimely gloom . Blights, ere his powers expand, the trembling child of Worth! C 2 LINES ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 1795. The fluttering gale has sunk to rest, The sloping sun-beams feebly glow, Such zephyrs breathe as sooth the breast, Such radiance pours as softens woe. The languid notes of lonesome bird, From yonder coppice sweetly wind ; And thro' the scene are faintly heard Sounds that are silence to the mind. As slow my devious feet advance Thro' Eve's unrealizing gloom, Mine eyes peruse with eager glance An Infant's solitary tomb. *Tis simple ! yet the green sod here That seems to court no stranger's eye, Than marble claims a tenderer tear, Than sculpture moves a softer sigh ! DIRGE. 21 A lonely primrose lifts its head, And here and there pale violets peep; And, if no venal tears are shed, The dews from many a daisy weep. And Pity here is often seen To prompt the nameless pilgrim's sighs, For Pity loves to haunt the scene Where Grief is stript of Art's disguise. I mark'd the spot ! — and felt my soul I Enwrapp'd in Sorrow's softest mood ; The pensive shade that o'er me stole, It could not lightly be withstood, I mark'd the spot — and thought how soon Each earthly blessing is resign'd ! E'en then I saw life's dearest boon Consign'd to dust — to death consign'd ! And while a parent's hopes and fears, To fabling Fancy forceful swell ; And while a parent's anxious tears, These accents negligently fell : — 22 DIRGE. " Thou little tenant of the grave, " Sleep on, untoueh'd by mortal strife, " Unknown the cares that man must brave, * The ills, that only end with life ! " Of eager hope, unconscious thou, " Unconscious thou of griefs extreme: " To thee- an everlasting now ! " To thee — a sleep without a dream ! u Sleep on, poor child! — a fellow worm, " Who's prov'd for thee life's joy and care, " Would fain forego the useless term, " He's tasted life and death's his prayer. " To thee, poor child ! ere grief is brought " To vex thy soul, oblivion's given ! " Oh ! if the grave could boast of thought, " That thought would make the grave < " heaven /" Farewell, sweet spot ! my soul I feel Entranc'd in sorrow's softest mood ; These pensive shades that o'er me steal, They shall not lightly be withstood. STANZAS, WRITTEN BY ULSWATER, CUMBERLAND. May, 1795. .Fair lake, I mark thine ample tide, Thy crisped surface clear and blue ; I mark the groves that fringe thy side Reflected in thy mirror true. I mark yon grey rocks rudely wild, That nod stupendous o'er the vale ; I feel the breezes warm and mild, That haste to fill yon silken sail. I see the transient shadow pass Along thy variegated hills ; And while they lave the margin grass, I hear thy sweetly murmuring rills. I hear the mellow-melting horn, While Echo swells each languid close ; On every breeze is music borne ! On every object beauty glows ! 24 STANZAS. Welcome the wild tumultuous thrill ! Hail, child of Nature, fond alarm ! To me this sigh is pleasing still, To me this tear has many a charm. But yet I wish — thou hov'ring sigh, But yet I wish — thou glowing tear, I wish — and yet I scarce know why Sophia, when you rise, were near, ADDRESS TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 1795. When first thine eyes beheld the light, And Nature bursting on thy sight Pour'd on thy beating heart a kindred day ; Genius, the fire-eyed Child of Fame ! Circled thy brows with mystic flame, And warm with hope, pronounced this prophet- lay. Thee, darling Boy ! I give to know Each viewless source of Joy and Woe, For thee my vivid visions shall unfold : Each form, that freezes sense to stone, Each phantom of the world unknown, Shall flit before thine eyes, and waken thoughts untold. 26 ADDRESS The bent of purpose unavow'd ; Of Hopes and Fears the wildering crowd ; The incongruous train of wishes undefined ; Shall all be subjected to thee ! The excess of Bliss and Agony Shall oft alternate seize thy high-attemper'd mind. Oft o'er the woody summer vale When Evening breathes her balmy gale, Oft by the wild brook's margin shalt thou rove ; When just above the western line The clouds with richer radiance shine, Yellowing the dark tops of the mountain-grove. There Love's warm hopes thy breast shall fill, For Nature's charms with kindliest skill Prepare for Love's delicious extacy ; Thy prostrate mind shall sink subdued, While in a strange fantastic mood, The wild power fires thy veins, and mantles in thine eye ! For know where'er my influence dwells, Each selfish interest it expels, TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 27 And wakes each latent energy of soul ; Indifference, of the marble mien, Shall ne'er with lazy spells be seen, To quench th' immortal wish, that aims perfec- tion's goal. There shalt thou burst, whate'er it be That manacles mortality, And range thro' scenes by fleshly feet untrod; And Inspiration to thine eye Shall bid futurity be nigh, And with mysterious power approximate to God. CHRISTMAS. 1796. This is the time when every vacant breast Expands with simplest mirth. Mem'ry, thou nurse Of mingled feeling, trace the former years, And count each jolly festival ! My heart Scarce knew to feel, ere it more lively beat, When I beheld the evergreen enwreathe The ice-emblazon'd lattice ; or aloft, Shadowing the comely flitch, that jovial branch Beneath whose licens'd shade the honest swain Imprints the kiss unblam'd : and even now Something like joy steals to my quicken'd pulse When Friends bid " merry Christmas." Oh ! 'tis good To hear the voice of hospitality ; To feel the hearty grasp of love, to quit For a brief interval the forms and pressures Of life's tame intercourse. CHRISTMAS 29 And now I glean The remnants that I may of parted joys To deck this forlorn year, stealing from hours Long past and flush with jollity. There is a time When first sensation paints the burning cheek, Fills the moist eye, and quickens the keen pulse, That mystic meanings half conceiv'd invest The simplest forms, and all doth speak, all lives To the eager heart ! At such a time to me Thou cam'st, dear holiday! Thy twilight glooms Mysterious thoughts awaken'd, and I mus'd As if possest, yea felt as I had known The dawn of inspiration. Then the days Were sanctified by feeling, all around Of an indwelling presence darkly spake. Silence had borrow'd sounds to cheat the soul ! And, to the toys of life, the teeming brain, Impregning them with its own character, Gave preternatural import ; the dull face Was eloquent, and e'en the idle air Most potent shapes, varying and yet the same, Substantially express'd. But soon my heart, Unsatisfied with blissful shadows, felt 30 CHRISTMAS. Actings of vacancy, and own'd the throb Of undefin'd desire, while lays of love Firstling and wild stole to my trem'lous tongue. To me thy rites were mock'ry then, thy glee Of little worth. More pleas'd I trod the waste Sear'd with the sleety wind, and drank its blast; Deeming thy dreary shapes most strangely sweet, Mist-shrouded winter ! In mute loneliness I wore away the day which others hail'd So cheerily, still usher'd in with chaunt Of carol, and the merry ringer's peal, Most musical to the good man that wakes And praises God in gladness. But soon fled The dreams of love fantastic ! Still the Friend, The Friend, the wild roam o'er the drifted snows Remain unsung ! Then when the wintry view Objectless, mist-hidden, or in uncouth forms Prank'd by the arrowy flake might aptly yield New stores to shaping phantasy, I rov'd With him my lov'd companion ! Oh, 'twas sweet; Ye who have known the swell that heaves the breast Pregnant with loftiest poesy, declare Is aught more soothing to the charmed soul Than friendship's glow, the independent dream CHRISTMAS. 31 Gathering when all the frivolous shews are fled Of artificial life ; when the wild step Boundeth on wide existence, unbeheld, Uncheck'd, and the heart fashioneth its hope In Nature's school, while Nature bursts around, Nor Man her spoiler meddles in the scene ! Farewell, dear day, much hath it sooth'd my heart To chaunt thy frail memorial. Now advance The darkening years, and I do sojourn, home! From thee afar. Where the broad-bosom'd hills, Swept by perpetual clouds, of Scotland, rise, Me fate compels to tarry. Ditty quaint Or custom'd carol, there my vacant ear Ne'er blest! I thought of home and happier days ! And as I thought, my vexed spirit blam'd That austere race, who, mindless of the glee Of good old festival, coldly forbade Th' observance which of mortal life relieves The languid sameness, seeming too to bring Sanction from hoar antiquity and years Long past ! 32 CHRISTMAS. For me, a plain and simple man, I rev'rence my forefathers, and would hold Their pious ord'nance sacred ! Much I hate The coxcomb innovator, who would raze The deeds of other times ! Most sweet to me These chroniclers of life ; oft round them twine Dear recollections of the past, the sum Of all those comforts which the poor heart feels While struggling here, bearing with holy care Its little stock of intermediate joy, To bless the circle of domestic love. And now farewell ! Thus former years have fed My retrospective lays ! Sad barrenness Scowls o'er the present time ! No boyish sports, No youthful dreams, or hopes fantastic, now Endear thy festival ! Rapture is fled, And all that nourish'd high poetic thought Vanish'd afar ; yet Resignation meek Chastens past pleasure with her evening hues, And lends a sober charm, mild as the shade Mantling the scene, which glisten'd late beneath Day's purple radiance, when grey twilight falls Soft harmonizing. Rich variety Pales to a sadden'd sameness ! Nor can I Forget what I have lost since last I hail'd CHRISTMAS. 33 Thy jolly tide ! The aged Friend is dead ! The Friend who mingled in my boyish sports ! The Friend who solac'd my eccentric heart ! The Friend by whose mild suffrage unimpelPd I ne'er could taste of joy ! — Yes, She is dead ! So be it ! Yet r tis hard to smile, and know So sad a loss ! I bend before my God, And, silent at the past, commune henceforth Of days in store, u of righteousness to come," Of faith, of hope, and of a better world ! THE WOODMAN. Written July, 1797. Ah ! wherefore that gibbet which dismally rocks, As the gale of the hill moans profound ; While the fair spreading valley, now whitened with flocks, Now with tufted slopes varied, and villages, mocks The cold heathy mountains around ? There suffered poor Harry, the generous and bold! The hamlet hia virtues well knew ; His the free grace of youth ; his eye always told The feelings of nature ; his looks never cold, When they promised the most were most true. THE WOODMAN. 35 And he loved : nor his loyal affection to bless The maiden did ever delay : His tongue's mellow music would sweetly ex- press, And his eyes melting gaze, and a timid caress. That his thrilled heart was rapturously gay. And often the sweets of a virtuous embrace, If at evening he anxiously hied, All faint from the copse, would his weariness chase, In a moment enlighten his moist harass'd face With a smile of inspirited pride. Then around the trim hearth he the eve would beguile, Reclined on the breast of his maid ; Having wooed her to sing, he would watch all the while, How in her soft lip's inexpressible smile, Love's witcheries furtively played. And when the green mead and the full-foliaged spray Refresh the glad eye, they would roam ; And, twining their arms, would exultingly say, That, ere the leaves fell, at the close of the day, They, wedded, should hie to one home, D 2 M THE WOODMAN. Ah, bootless the thought ! The prospect, though sweet, Was frail as the tints of the sky, When the day's radiance fades, and the traveller to cheat, A gleam riseth beauteous, most vivid and fleet, For the night-storm is brooding on high. Twas summer ; — and sultry and parching noon- tide, The woodman, with labour oppressed, The ragings of thirst would relieve ; — by the side Of his path, on a sign, he unluckily spied All the trophies of Bacchus confessed. Might ever his breast's irresistible throe To the o'ertakings of pleasure invite ; He quaffs, till with passion his cheeks deeply glow, Life's full tides through his veins more tumultu- ously flow ; — His heart shaped untasted delight ! And now he must go to the green coppice shade; While o'ercharged with delirious fire, And passionate impulse, he quickly surveyed Where a female half-clad was alluringly laid ; And he seized her with maddened desire. THE WOODMAN. 37 Twas a poor wandering idiot, diffused in the sun, Who was basking, that there met his eye : His good angel forsook him ! — Confounded, un- done, He for ever the cause of his ruin would shun, And wished at that moment to die. No more on his Mary the wretched youth thought, Or thinking, he started convulsed ! He would give at that hour the whole world to have bought The bliss which her image had formerly brought, Ere conscience that image repulsed. And though he still loved, yet his love mix'd with shame, Was bitter as once it was sweet, When the innocent maiden was near him, the flame Of tremulous agony shot through his frame, Nor her look dared he ever to meet. Now Harry's a father. The crazed outcast sent A poor babe to his cot : then he cried, " My arm is my all; will not Justice relent? " And will nothing but twenty gold pieces prevent • u The idiot from being my. bride?" 38 THE WOODMAN. Distracted at leaving the maid of his love, And loathing the outcast to wed ; — All agonized ; — hopeless ; — too poor to remove The evils that threaten, no longer he strove, But to prison was cruelly led. And long he persisted ; , but, stiffened with cold, And consumed both by hunger and thirst, — He at last to his tyrants his happiness sold, The idiot did wed, and consented to fold To his heart, what it secretly cursed. And then did he think, till 'twas madness to think, On the raptures his Mary had given ; And oft at the sight his poor senses would sink, When this ungifted wretch made him keenlier shrink From the raptures of forfeited heaven. Twas a cold wintry season, the night it was dark, And long was the eve ; — on his cheek, While his eye brooded vacantly o'er the pale As it died on the hearth, the beholder might mark Those workings that bid the heart break. THE WOODMAN. 39 He thought on the maid ; on the choice of his youth ; He thought on the days that were flown ; He painted with feelings more vivid than truth The raptures that wonted his bosom to sooth, When he counted that Maiden his own. And he dwelt on her look, on her soft melting gaze, On the roll of her languishing eye ; And he felt all the throbs of her willing embrace, And recalled the warm touch of her soft melting face, And heard the inarticulate sigh. Then he looked on his mate, and she seem'd to his view A fiend that tormented his soul ! He lifted his hand ; and, oh God ! ere he knew The extent of his crime, the poor victim he slew, 'Twas an impulse he might not control ! For their prey now the blood-hunters anxiously wait, The unfortunate woodman is bound ! Once more he beholds the heavy hinged gate Of the prison ; the fetters with torturing weight Again bend him down to the ground. 40 THE WOODMAN. There agonized, hopeless, remorseful, he lies, With passions diseasedly rife ; — Disarmed of a conscience that comfort supplies, With the frenzies of madness he impiously tries To exhaust the vexed remnants of life. He is sentenc'd to die; nor to him was the doom With regret or reluctancy fraught ; — His misery mocks all the threats of the tomb, And he earnestly prays that the moment may come, The sabbath of agonized thought. The day is appointed ; slow moves on the throng, That would glut their foul gaze with his woes ; It trampleth the vale, then windeth along That desolate hill, whose wild thickets among A gibbet all fearfully rose. The scaffold he mounts ; the moment is near, When, echoing far through the crowd, A shriek of wild agony thrills on his ear, Oh God ! — a poor maniac ! — his Mary is here — She rushes along screaming loud. — THE WOODMAN. 41 Then death it was horror; — the past was forgot — From her visage he fearfully shrunk : — One embrace she implor'd, then quick to the spot The fear-winged Mary distractedly shot, On the breast of her lover she sunk. She was senseless; her pale cheek was worn to the bone, To the breeze floated wildly her hair^ And he glued to his breast, with a horrible groan, The love of his youth ; and his eyes fixed as stone, At that moment did deathfully glare. The pang it is passed ; — for the minions of law Asunder these wretched ones tore ; The cord round his neck they inhumanly draw, Mary's eyes, tho' half clos'd, the dire spectacle saw, T$oy her senses could mortal restore. The Circumstances related in the following Lines fell under the Author's notice, and are detailed without any poetical exaggeration. 1797. Turn not thy dim eyes to the stormy sea, Thou wretched mourner ! for thy Child is gone ; Gone, never to return ! Goaded by ills, Which poor mortality may not endure, Unshrinking, he hath left his native land, His native home, all the dear charities Of brother, son, and friend ! and more than these, The inexplicable lingerings which endear To the susceptible breast the scenes where first It learn'd to feel, where young sensation gave Mysterious import to the characters Of Nature's volume ! But he may not go Without some sad memorial from the heart Which knew him best, the heart which sadly mark'd His full soul, and his vigorous spirit sink Unmechaniz'd by pain ! LINES ON A FRIEND. 43 And surely thou, Deserted mother •! for a while shalt feel Some mingled solacings of gloomy joy, When I relate his wrongs whom thou dost weep, Yet living, lost for ever. When a child, His father died, and died with ear which long Had drunk the pois'nous tale of calumny. Five infants totter'd round the widow'd mother, And he who should have screen'd them, ere he went To the cold grave ; them, and their feeble parent, With alienated love had left his all In stranger hands ; had listen'd to a lie Which robb'd their mother of a taintless name; And the poor tremblers, e'en on life's hard verge, Knew not a father's kind protection ; eat, Though affluence might have blest them, the scant meal Uncertain ; while their mother, with a heart Torn, and misgiving of the future dole Reluctantly supplied, hung o'er her babes With sorrows heighten'd by a cruel sense Of what she once had been, with agony 44 LINES ON A FRIEND. And unexpress'd despair. Meanwhile the fiends, Who fram'd with slandering tongue the deadly tale, That numb'd the fibres of the dying man, E'en till he knew not pity, till he lost All fleshly yearnings, — they did gorge their prey, And hug their hidden treasure ! Scarce arriv'd At manhood, soon as He* began to feel, He felt what injury and injustice are, And bitter disappointment. He no friend Possess'd ; yet had a bosom that might own All the varieties of social joy, From meekest pity to the expansive swell Of warm benevolence ; from passion's throe, To the holier interchange of kindred souls ! How has he struggled with the instinctive love That led him to embrace his fellow men, And bind them to his breast! I only knew The ruins of his mind ; yet have I seen The smother'd tear for passing wretchedness ! I've seen the faint flush, and the pulse of pity, * The subject of the tale ; whose name the Author has purposely omitted. LINES ON A FRIEND. 45 Working on his poor cheek, e'en while he forc'd The unnatural laugh of hard indifference To cope with nature's pleadings ! Oh, my God ! I have e'en heard him, with most strange per- version, Brag that weak man was fashion'd by his Maker To live a lonely, uncompanion'd thing ; That he was self-sufficient ; that the smile Of sweet affection was a very cheat, And love's best energies impertinence : While ever on his favourite household dog He look'd such meanings of a hollow heart, His rebel eye express'd such sad misgivings, That all he spake fell flat upon the ear, Self-contradicted . With some scanty wrecks, Snatch'd from his father's stores, he struggled long To brave the world ! enrolling his fair name With those who seek, by jostling with mankind, To gain some footing on this wretched earth. But he, the adventurer's wild spontaneous life Leading, with ardour ever prompt to act The heart's quick impulses, had not (poor man) Been school'd in all the subtleties of fraud; 46 LINES ON A FRIEND. la that nice lore of systematic lies, Which commerce, unrelenting task-master, Exacts from those who'd fatten on her smiles ! His manly reason could not tamely brook To shrink and tremble, and annihilate Its noblest energies, at the curst saws Of. mammon's sons— No; he had trod too long His mortal path unbending and erect ! As well they may, in this world's difficult pas- sage, Who know not cunning's complicated schemes. He fell, where each half-fashioned unripe knave Is shuffled off by a more perfect villain. His prospects blasted, his fair name traduc'd, His very milk of human kindness turn'd To pois'nous gall ; distracted by the tears Of his poor mother, and the sobs and prayers Of brothers, sisters, who look'd up to him For daily bread, he left his native land, And with a mind resolved to endure Through future life a most unnatural blank, Sail'd o'er the element ! I saw him go He said not aught that to the standers by Betray'd a suffering one ; but he did look ! LINES ON A FRIEND. 47 Oh God ! he look'd pale, stiff as a sear'd oak Blanch'd by the lightning ; and mute vacancy Sat on his face, as no soul dwelt within ! He went ; nor human ear hath heard of him ! Nor human tongue made mention of his name I Oft I pass by his dwelling, vacant now ; And at such times I almost curse a world That moulds to guilt the energetic soul Of loftiest promise ; and for saintly worth Invents a discipline which ends in ruin ! LONDON. In solitude What happiness! — Who can enjoy alone? Or, all enjoying, what contentment find ? Milton. 1798. Thou first of human feelings, social love ! I must obey thy powerful sympathies, E'en though IVe often found that those my heart Most priz'd, were creatures of its warm desires, Rather than aught which other men less prone To affections swift, transforming quality, Might worthy deem or excellent ! Thy scenes, Thy tainted scenes, proud city, now detain My restless feet. 'Twill sooth a vacant hour To trace what dim inexplicable links Of hidden nature have inclin'd my soul To love what heretofore it most abhorr'd. LONDON. 41) When first a little one I mark'd far off The wreathed smoke that capp'd thy palaces : Oh what a joyous fluttering of the heart, Oh what exulting hopes were mine ! Methought, Within thy walls there must be somewhat strange, Surpassing greatly any wondrous dream, Of fairy grandeur, which my crnldhood lov'd. And when I heard the busy hum of men, And saw the passing crowd in endless ranks, The many-colour'd equipage, and steeds Gaily caparison'd ; it seem'd to me As though all living things were centered here. But other feelings soon transformed these shews To meerest emptiness, e'en till my soul Would sicken at their presence ; for IVe sought To cherish quiet musings, and disdain'd The idle forms which play upon the sense, Yet give the heart no comfortable thoughts. Yes, I have sought the solitary walk, Where I might number eveiy absent friend, And give a tear to each : IVe nurs'd my soul With strangest contemplation, till it wore A sad and lonely character, untouch'd By th' operation of external shapes. Yet, London, now thou'rt pleasant — 'tis e'en so ! For I am sick of hopes that stand aloof £ 50 LONDON. From common sympathy ; for I am sick Of pampering delicate exclusive loves, And silly dreams of rapture, that would pull The shrinking hand from every honest grasp, The shrinking heart from every honest pledge, Not trickt in gracefulness poetical ! Sometimes, 'tis true, when I have pac'd the haunts Of crowded occupation, I have felt A sad repression, looking all around, Nor catching one known face amid the throng, That answer'd mine with cordial pleasantness. I've often thought upon some absent friend, E'en till an assur'd hope that he was nigh Has made me lift my head, and stretch my arm, To gaze upon the form, and grasp the hand, Of him who lived in my wayward dream. And I have look'd, and all has been to me A crowded desolation ! Not one being, 'Mid that incessant and perturbed throng, Dreamt of my hopes or fears ! Then have I pac'd With breathless eagerness ; and if an eye Has met my gaze, wherein some trace remote Lived of one on whom my heart has lean'd, A gentle thrilling of awaken'd love Has warm'd my breast, and haply kindled there LONDON. 51 A dream of parted days, that so my feet, It seem'd to me, mov'd not in solitude. Thus cart the heart, by its strange agency, Extract divine emotion from the scene Most barren and uncouth ; which images To him who cannot love, — who never felt That ever active warmth commingling still Its own existence with all present things, — Nought beside forms, and bodily substances. Methinks he acts the purposes of life, And fills the measure of his destiny With best approved wisdom, who retires To some majestic solitude ; his mind Rais'd by those visions of eternal love, The rock, the vale, the forest, and the lake. The sky, the sea, and everlasting hills. He best performs the purposes of life, And fills the measure of his destiny, Who holds high converse with the present God (Not mystically meant), and feels him ever Made manifest to his transfigur'd soul. But few there are who know to prize such bliss ; And he who thus would raise his mortal being, Must shake weak nature off, and be content To live a lonely uncompanion'd thing, E 2 52 LONDON. Exil'd from human loves and sympathies. Therefore the city must detain my feet ; For I would sometimes gaze upon a face That smiles on me, and speaks intelligibly Of one that answers all my hopes and fears. Nor is to me the sentiment of life Less acceptable, when I contemplate Numberless living and progressive beings, Acting the infinite varieties Of this miraculous scene. For though the dim And inharmonious ministrations here, Of heavenly wisdom, may confound the sense, The partial sense of man, my soul is glad ; Trusting that all, yea every* living thing, Shall understand, in the appointed time, And praise the inwoven mystery f of sin; Losing each hope and each propellent fear In perfect bliss ; and " God be all in all !" * See Hartley « On the final Happiness of all Mankind." f " For the mystery of iniquity doth already work." St. Paul to Timothy, LINES TO MARY fVOLLSTOJXECRAFT GODWIN. I AM happy in being able to offer this imperfect tribute to the memory of a woman, whose unde- served sufferings have excited my indignation and pity; and whose virtues, both of heart and mind, my warmest esteem. This will not be deemed a parasitical profes- sion, when I avow a complete dissent from Mrs. Godwin with regard to almost all her moral spe- culations. Her posthumous works, so far from convinc- ing me that " the misery and oppression peculiar to women arise out of the partial laws and in- stitutions of society ,"* appear little less through- out than an indirect panegyric on the institutions she wishes to abolish. She (with all other great * See Posthumous Works, vol. ii. p. 166. 54 LINES minds) owed her degree of intellectualization to the very restraints on the passions whicli she was aiming to annihilate ; and the source of the miseries she complained of must rather be sought for in the brute turbulencies of human nature, than in the operation of any laws, conventional or positive. However, the heart and upright dignity of this excellent woman have much interested me. I never quarrel with opinions; and I fervently wish that the expression of my admiration were more worthy of its object. " On examining my heart, I find that it is so constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection. I am afraid, not without a passion ; and I feel the want of it more in society than in solitude." Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin's Letters, vol. i. p. 178. 1798. Mary, I've trod the turf beneath whose damp And dark green coverture thou liest ! 'Twas strange ! And somewhat most like madness shot athwart The incredulous mind, when I bethought myself That there so many earnest hopes and fears, TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN. 55 So many warm desires, and lofty thoughts, Affections imitating, in their wide And boundless aim, heaven's universal love, Lay cold and silent ! Listening to the breeze, That scarcely murmur'd thro' the misty air, And looking on the white and solemn clouds, (The only things whose motion spake of life) I almost counted to have heard thy voice, And seen thy shadowy shape ; for my full heart (Tho' to my mortal sense thou ne'er wert known) Had bodied all thy mental attributes In th' unintelligent and vacant space. Mary, thou sleep'st not there ! — 'Twas but a trance, An idle trance, that led my wayward thought To seek a more especial intercourse With thy pure spirit on the senseless sod, Where what was thine, not thou, lies sepulchred. Life is a dream ! and death a dream to those Who gaze upon the dead : to those who die Tis the withdrawing of a lower scene For one more real, pure, and infinite ! Amid the trials of this difficult world, Surely none press so sorely on the heart 56 LINES As disappointed loves, and impulses (Mingling the lonely insulated soul With all surrounding and external things) Sever'd from nature's destined sympathies ! This was thy lot on earth ! — Yet think not thou, Man of the world, to triumph here o'er those, Whose separate and immortalized spirits Spoil them for life's pernicious intercourse. This is the school of minds ; and every wish, Drawn from the earthly part, shall raise the being, And fit it for a wider range, whene'er The twofold ministry of flesh and spirit Hath done its troubled business. Therefore thou, Though here tormented, shalt in better worlds Be greatly comforted ! I laugh at those Who blame that upright singleness of soul, Which ever shap'd the accents of thy tongue ! Look to yourselves, pedantic censurers ! Examine well within ; for much, I fear, Ye would but ill endure the scrutiny That only gives to her a nobler rank 'Mid beings compos'd of heart and intellect. In this fantastic scene each one assumes TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN. 57 A borrow'd character, and all agree To seem a something, which in his secret thought Each knows he is not; which the God of nature Ne'er made, or meant a child of his to be ! And if a Man of Truth make no pretence To some unhuman virtue, the brute crowd Pluck off his hair, and plant with bitterness Thorns of reproach on his devoted head ! Heaven knows that we have passions, and have hearts To love ; and they alone embrute or soil The divine lustre of the better part, Who love nor intellectual preference seek, Eradicating from each sympathy The holiness of reason, and that pure, And high imagination, which would lose The bodily in the spiritual.* I revere That simpleness which gave to her pure lips A ready utterance to each inward thought. And I revere that obstinate regard Which hung upon its object, e'en till all The tender semblances, which lingering hope * My earthly by his heavenly overpowered, — Milton. 58 LINES. Loves with such earnestness, were fully gone ! For passion, sanctified, will centre all Its warm hopes in a chosen one ! Not dead, Nor e'er abolish'd, as some idly talk ; Impostors, or base carles, who never knew Man's dearest charities. And passions ever Shake with most potent stirrings the sublime And pregnant minds, which wield with mightiest skill The multitudinous elements of life. But if that one forsake the soul which twin'd So many warm endearments round its choice, The world will seem a very wilderness ! TO A YOUNG MAN, ATTACHED TO THE SPORTS OF THE FIELD. Detested sport, That owes its pleasure to another's pain; That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued With eloquence that agonies inspire Of silent tears, and heart-distending sighs ; Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that never rind A corresponding tone in jovial souls. COWPER'S TASK. 1798. Oh stay thy hand — thou hast a power to kill But none to bring forth life ! Impressive truth, Sounding to wisdom like a warning voice, And teaching that our feebleness to work The least good thing, should guard us tremblingly From aught that looks like evil; lest we wrench From her retired seat the better soul, The sense which God hath lent us, which that God 60 TO A YOUNG MAN. Sees not polluted with a slumbering eye ; But vexes him that sets his gift at nought With aweful darkness, and a fearful wandering ! Thou seest athwart this grove of trembling trees, Trembling and glistening with the morning light, Thou seest yon lavrock rise ! — to the great sun He seems to hasten :— save the burning orb That lives above, nought but this little bird Varies the mighty solitude of Heaven ! Art thou assur'd the Almighty doth not speak To that same little bird? — that morning's glories Are not discourses of his watchful love Gladd'ning this innocent creature ? Could'st thou seek To stop his song of gratulation, quench His sense of joy, and all those living powers That dance so cheerly in him? They serve Heaven Who love his works ! and they most feel a God Who hold each bodily sense a holy thing, Communicating measurably to all The influxes of that eternal Spirit Whose countenance to man are day-light hues, And sky, and sea, and forests, lakes, and hills, And lightnings, thunders, and prodigious storms, And suns, and all the company of worlds ! TO A YOUNG MAN. 61 I would not kill one bird in wanton sport, I would not mingle jocund mirth with death, For all the smoking board, the savoury feast Can yield most exquisite to pamper'd sense ! Since nature wills that every living thing Should gratify the purposes of man, And wait his proud disposal, let him prove, E'en in this delegated function, prove, A deep humility, which fears to tread Where the all-perfect, and unquestion'd God Hath wrought strange imperfection — perhaps to bend, And by the influence of an holy sadness, To tame the o'erweening soul! not give a cause For riotous Dominion, and for Power Sweeping with mad career from off this world Its fair inhabitants ! My friend, I knew A man who liv'd in solitude : a dell A mossy dell, green, woody, hung around With various forest growth, was his abode. And in the forest many a gleaming plot Of tenderest grass, its island circlet spread ! 62 TO A YOUNG MAN. This man did rear a hut, and lived and died In that lone dell ! He had no friend on earth, Nor wanted one — For much he lov'd his God, And much those works which e'en the lonely man May taste abundantly ! And he did think So oft on life's great Author, that at last He worshipp'd him in all things, and believ'd His poorest creatures holy, and could see " Religious meanings in the forms of nature," Dreaming he saw, e'en in the passing bird, The crawling worm, or serpent on the grass, An emanation of his Maker — so That a new presence stung him into thought And made him kneel and weep ! Well ! this poor man Liv'd on the scanty fruits this little dell Afforded. Never did a dying writhe, Or dying gasp, war with his sense of good. At last he died, and such had been his life, That when he yielded up his animal frame, It only seem'd as if he went to sleep More quietly than ever ! TO A YOUNG MAN, Who considered the Perfection of Human Nature as consisting in the Vigor and Indulgence of the more boisterous Passions. 1798. This is not pleasure ! canst thou look within And say that thou art blest ? At close of day Canst thou retire to thy fire-side alone, Quiet at heart, nor heeding aught remote, The power -of wine, or power of company, To fill thy human cravings t Hast thou left Some treasured feelings, unexhausted loves, Thoughts of the past, and thoughts of times to come, Mingled with sweetness all and deep content, For Solitude's grave moment ? Canst thou tell Of the last sun-set how 'twas freak 'd with clouds, With clouds of shape sublime and strangest hues ? Canst thou report the storm of yester-night, Its dancing flashes and its growling thunder ? And canst thou call to- mind the colourless moon, 64 TO A YOUNG MAN. What time the thin cloud half obscured the stars, Muffling them, till the Spirit of the Night Let slip its shadowy surge, and in the midst One little gladdening twinkler shook its locks ? Oh, have these things within thee aught besides Human remembrance ? Have they passion, love? Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts Add images of purity and peace ? It is not so, cannot be so, to those Who in the revels of the midnight cup, Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gifts, God's supreme gifts, the energy, and fire, That stir, and warm the faculty of thought I If thou defile thyself, that joy minute, Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet mild, Must never be thy portion ! Thou hast lost That most companionable and aweful sense, That sense which tells us of a God in Heaven And beauty on the earth : that sense which lends A voice to silence, and to vacancy A multitude of shapes and hues of life ? Go then, relinquish pleasure ; — would'st thou know The throb of happiness, relinquish wine, And greedy lust, and greedier imagings Of what may constitute the bliss of man ! TO A YOUNG MAN. 65 Oh ! 'tis a silent and a quiet power, An unobtrusive power, that winds itself Into all moods of time and circumstance ! It smiles, and looks serene ; in the clear eye It speaks refreshing things, but never words It makes its instruments, and flies away As 'twere polluted, from the soul that dares To waste God's dear endowments heedlessly, And without special care that present joy May bring an after-blessing. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FAST, Appointed for Wednesday, February 27, 1799. Humble yourselves, my Countrymen ! — Bow down The stubborn neck of Pride ! for, east and west, Do Anarchy and Outrage raise a shout, And tempt with blasphemy the God of Heaven ! — Humble yourselves, my Countrymen ! — behold, Save in this quiet isle, how Discord stalks, Spoiling the fair Creation. Discord, child Of grasping Lust, who, many-handed beast, Seizes whate'er of rich munificence, Or plenteous benefit is pour'd abroad ; Wallowing unprofited, and unendow'd, 'Mid all that ministers to use and joy. Why have We such immunity from woe ? Why is the wrath of heaven averted hence ? What have We left undone, or what performed, LINES. 67 To appease the God of Justice ? — Countrymen — With minds not unprepared ; and consecrate From all imaginations light, and vain, From all unholy and polluting things, Seek out the hidden cause : and, if ye find (As sure ye will) no argument to calm The humble man who loves his brethren all, And knows their crimes ; and night, and morn, puts up A silent prayer for them who heed him not ; With deeply smitten, and o'erflowing hearts, Turn to the God of Love ! There is abroad An evil spirit ; a spirit evil and foul, Who, under fair pretence of modern lights, And vain philosophy, parcels the dole Of human happiness (that quality Sought for six thousand tedious years in vain) With lavish distribution ! who with speech Drest up in metaphysic eloquence, And eked out plausibly with abstract phrase, Would snatch from God himself the agency Of good and ill ! — would spoil for ornament, Particular and relative 9 this universe; F 2 m LINES Where circumscribed frailty and defect, And harmless prejudice, and discipline, Lead on th« social and religious man, (A thing more sensitive than rational, Whom one poor unrepeatable restraint More benefits than thousand abstract truths) To gifted penitence, and righteous rule, And meek suspension of the human will, Till He imbibe the Heaven-evolved lore Of Wisdom and divine Philosophy, Through many a fruitful, and unfruitful age Piously register'd ! And so prepar'd, By patient noting of the ministries Of Heaven below ; in shadows manifest ; And dim relations; binding ages past, With present times, and ages yet unborn ; By persevering patience so prepar'd, (And mind that loves to find a good in evil, Not banish evil for uncertain good.) The vast procession of created beings, The Will that links the vilest elements. In a perpetual influence, To Highest natures, He shall comprehend : Till the magnificence of forms unveil'd The universal world shall seem to him SUGGESTED BY THE FAST. 69 A scene of order, and progressive joy, And blaze of light where God himself transfused Lives in no fabled presence ! This foul spirit God's holy place irreverently treading, Break its solemnities, and shameless brings, Scandal on many a sacred ordinance. It mocks neglected worth, and secret grief, That dare not lift a streaming eye to Heaven ! It promiseth the beauteous fruit of peace, And virtue's coronet, no trial past, No fiery anguish of the human will Quench'd with sweet drops of mercy ! Twould revoke The judgment and the privilege annex'd To Wealth and Talents, Influence and Power ! Twould snatch the promis'd blessing from the poor, Hatching an obstinate sedition From pamper'd lust and infidel despair; And blot out from its calendar of grace Faith and forbearance ; and deride the heart That seeks in this " tempestuous state of things/' 70 LINES To live a life whose inoffensive rule Owes not its charter to the earth's wise men. How were the graces of the mind produc'd ? Did not omniscient Deity defer To banish hence, the appointed difference Of states and things, of joys and earthly stores, Of office and magnificence, and rank, Which some, misnamed wise, affect to call (Masking their hate in scorn) human abuse, A vicious usurpation ? — Countrymen, — Beware of these, so opulent in speech, So fair and plausible,— beware of these ! — For they would separate what their God has join'd In mystic co-existence, evil and good, Pleasure and Pain, Honour and Infamy ! — This is a scheme of means — we vainly look, For ends, or resting-places here obtain'd ! — Where were temptation, Vice annihilate ? Could Charity exist where never came The ills of persecution ? Love perform Its perfect work where hate inflicts no wound ? Could pity weep had man no miseries ? Meekness endure did proud men ne'er prevail ? SUGGESTED BY THE FAST. 71 Or Faith with fixed eye, be crown'd above Did not some clouds obscure the moral world? I ask of Thee, thou poor oppressed Man, Who friendless feel'st thyself, save when thou turn'st To the Everlasting Friend — I ask of Thee Whose actions never have been understood, Whom falsely fixed blame (attached to deeds Inexplicable, save to the All-seeing One) Has led a superficial world to cast Among its vile dishonourable things ; — I ask of thee, whether the darkest hour Of man's rejection, has not brought a boon Thou prizest more than worlds. — Thou lovedst all, And perhaps thou lovedst One, a fellow being, Better than life itself; — thou hadst a soul Of deepest, tenderest feeling ; — yet for thee There was a fix'd and secret interdict Inwoven in the mystery of thy fate, Which blasted all thy promises of joy ! It seem'd that thou wert guilty — 'twas not so ! Thou wert what proud men call unfortunate ! — I ask of thee again, oppressed man, If this withdrawing of all goodly things, 7t LINES All the desirable blessings of the earth, Has not more wrought in thee ; more solid peace, More quiet joy, and heavenly grace, produc'd, Than aught a smiling providence could give? And these resources which we ne'er foresee, But which experience, sanctified by Heaven, Holds it most safe to trust, this evil spirit Would utterly destroy ; impatient ever Of present ill ; and ne'er from pious faith Trusting that all things tend to happiness. — This evil spirit misnamed Liberty- Licentiousness 'mong wise men deem'd, and call'd By aiagels blasphemy ; rejects a God Not seeing as man sees ; who sets at nought All earthly wisdom, and of smallest things Works mighty marvels of stupendous power ! But heed not, Countrymen, the bleating Wolf! Humble yourselves before the God of Heaven, Remembering still that Liberty ne'er comes Where more of wishes, more of lusts intrude Than human skill has power to gratify ! That liberty comes not with laws relax'd ; With troublous opposition, and with rude And boisterous promise : that futurity, SUGGESTED BY THE FAST. 73 Blest with the flush of prosperous event, And grac'd with revel joys, shall put to shame The pale experience. Rather, Liberty, Thou liv'st with social confidence and peace ! Where, reasoning from the unfallacious past, We trust with sweet and sober certainty The issue of the meditated deed. — Or rather, Liberty, thou lov'st to dwell Where personal honour, not defined rules ; Where manly generosity, and pride That shrinks from every stain ; not civic laws That force us to be free, till Freedom's self Becomes a galling servitude ; — are found ! Then bow yourselves, my Countrymen, and own, That, in a world where voluntary slaves Exist by millions — wretched slaves to vice — That, in a world where victims to the sword, Famine, and pestilence, are swept away As summer insects by an eastern blast, — That, in a world like this — you're Blest and Free! LINES TO A BROTHER AND SISTER, Written soon after a Recovery from Sickness. 6th April, 1799. 'Tis surely hard, the melancholy day To waste without the cheering voice of friend: To see the morning dart its golden ray, To see the night in misty dews descend, Nor catch one sound where Love and Meek- ness blend. ? Tis surely hard for him who knows how dear A kindred soul, eternally to send A fruitless prayer for smiles and words that cheer, The wish in looks revealed and rapture's holy tear, II. Him whom the spirit of attachment warms, The nameless thrilling and the soft desire : Him whom the glance of melting beauty charms, Its young allurement and its living fire ; LINES TO A BROTHER AND SISTER. 75 For him in tedious languor to expire, Dreaming of bliss, yet wake to deep despair ; Fitted for love, of every joy the sire, To drag a life of unrequited care, For him, such silent woe, 'tis surely hard to bear. III. Thank Heaven, such lot hath never yet been mine, For if the gloom of discontent should fall, And my young spirit for a season pine, I cannot, save with gratitude, recall Gay-painted hours of dancing festival, When new and joyous friendships bore away All fears of what in future might befall, All recollections of uncheer'd dismay, Giving to full content the heartsome holiday. IV. And still (with pride my heart the truth reveals) Beneath my quiet and paternal roof, Mine eyes for ever meet the look that heals Pale Sorrow's anguish with a kind reproof. 76 LINES For all the prodigal regards of youth And all the sympathies of gentlest love, And all the sweet simplicity of truth, In silent harmony for ever move Along the heaven-blest scene ordained for us to rove. V. Brothers and Sisters ! friends of infancy ! Oh how my heart rejoices when I speak Of all the sweetness of the home-bred tie, Whose gentle charities and graces meek Spread with a fairer hue the youthful cheek Than blushing passions deep and fiery glow ; Yes ! it beseems that I could never seek, My heart so turns to you, were ye to go, A new or foreign aid to mitigate the blow. VI. When morn first wakes me with its cheering smile, That cheering smile, it seems, my friends, to wear, Is friendship's charm transfused, that all the while Lives in the silent spirit of the air : TO A BROTftER AND SISTER. 77 Your voices, looks, and kind inquiries bear Their living incense to each gladdened view ; And all that beams around so gay and fair, Is Love's officious toil, that paints anew Each form that looks like life with no terrestrial hue. VII. And when meek evening glides athwart the sky And drowsy silence hangs upon the earth, Save that some distant hum which breathes to die, May chance from haunts of bacchanalian mirth To meet his ear who sadly wandering forth Courts every hinting of departed bliss ; Yes, when meek evening glides, there spring to birth Thousand dear images of happiness, The Brother's honest grasp, the Sister's holy kiss, VIII. And most to you my two beloved friends ! My Sister, and my Brother, most to you My heart its cordial gratulation sends ; Olivia, Robert, friends both tried and true ! 78 LINES Chiefly, this moment, would my soul renew To you its pledged affections, latest *met: (The absent ever it shall keep in view) But oh, Companions of my youth, not yet May I your female care and manly zeal forget. IX. Yes, all without was drear, and all within Was dark and hopeless ! pale disease had shed Her dullest glooms, and fain would I have been A quiet slumberer, number'd with the dead. But you with sweet solicitation led, And tender blandishment, my troubled breast From fears and doubts, and terrors fancy-fed, And lulled my spirit to a heavenly rest With Hope and Peace and Joy, and many a long-lost guest. * These were the only two of the family whom the author met at home on returning from a journey : soon after which meeting this poem was written. TO A BROTHER AND SISTER. 79 X. Then Sister, Brother ! friends whom ne'er I hail Without some gentle stirring of the heart; Then Sister, Brother ! friends who never fail To hold in absence, with a secret art, A sweet communion with my better part, Accept my thanks, accept my humble lays ! And for one moment if your features dart That simple welcome which affection pays, Though faultering, weak, and poor, my verse were rich in praise ! LINES T0 ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. Written at Barnwell, near Cambridge, and de- scriptive of the adjacent Country. March 1st, 1800. Southey, once more her interrupted voice The Muse resumes To tell thee, Honoured Friend, Though absent far, in Fancy's airy dream That oft thy presence my lone hour oeguiles, Were sure a bootless toil. Thou knowest well Thy station in my heart. What then select To grace the humble verse ? Perchance 'twould fill A vacant hour to learn what scenes surround The abode of him to whom thy love recurs With sweet memorial unimpaired by time. LINES. 81 No rocks ox mountains here, or " sea in storms," The world of sight endear. One joyless plain, A map that imitates the cold March sky, Lies evermore before the weary view. Yet here I snatch my hours of untold bliss \ And curious, busy, in the anxious search Of forms inanimate, on which to fix i My wayward sympathies, I haply find A charm in barrenness ; a power to please, — Though bleakest winter lowers on every side, — In many a shape which other eyes might pass Unnoticed, unremembered. The rude thorn, Coated with yellow moss, on whose sere bough* Hang scarlet berries, and some flakes of wool, That hoarsely rustles on the wide grey moor ; The chalky hill, which terminates the view, Crowned with a clump of firs, that make me think — So small things wake sublime remembrances — Of Scottish mountains, and of Scottish woods ; And other more remote acclivities, With almost undistinguisliable swell Lying like pale clouds on the horizon's bound, Amuse my soul with many a pleasing dream. 82 LINES The little sinuous stream of underwood, Shrouded in blackness of the winter months. Stealing beneath the chalky eminence ; — Amid whose shade the church tower* peeps alone, Now a dim sullen mass of duskiest hue, TTnchecquer'd, save by one distinctest spot, The single window of the embattled pile. And now with shade half cloth'd, and half with light; And near the wood, and still beneath the hill, A snow-white cottage gleaming silently : — All these to me are images of joy, That suit the hour of meditative thought, And bring refreshment to that purer mind, Which seeks, by harmony of outward forms, To 'stablish inward harmony and love, And build on visible and earthly things Unearthly thoughts ! I love the wide extent, The interminable sweep of unfenced moor, That bares its bosom to the face of heaven ! Where, when the faint sun pours a silvery light, The wandering clouds a partial blackness shed; And o'er whose thistled heaps and clodded soil, And whistling stubble, flies the cutting wind. * The Tower of Cherry-Hinton Church. TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. 83 I love the shrill song of the merry lark, Or fitful twitter of the lonely bird, Which, at this season, from these naked plains, Is all the music nature sends to heaven. Rather than human converse, found in haunts Of traffic, learning, pleasure, or of pride, Love I these quiet unpretending friends ! And these are all the quiet rural friends I here can boast possessing. Save one spire,* One spire, and woody village, whence, full oft, My soul refreshed, through the unwearied gaze, Drinks silent happiness ! The glistening spire Smiles in the sunbeam with a heavenly light ; And on a green bank fenced by orchard trees, Lying towards that spot, we see, at noon, Or hear, while bleating tenderly, young lambs Enjoy the first warm cherishings of spring. And, in the general waste, the trees around Wave not unnotic'd, though their naked boughs Boast not their summer richness, and the meads Spread their green turf so sweetly to the stream * The village of Chesterton, which, in connexion with a wooded and meadowy foreground, formed with its stream, as seen from the Author's parlour at Barnwell, an exquisite scene. G 2 &4 LINES. Silently flowing, that I seem to find This scene, by crowds frequented every day, Who note it not, a world of loveliness : And, all forgetful of sublimer charms, I look with gratitude to Him who made All fair varieties, and gave to me A sense those fair varieties to feeL LINES, WRITTEN 10TH APRIL, 1800. Qh rus ! quando ego te aspiciam? quando licebit Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno et inertibus horis Ducere sollicitae jucunda oblivia vitae. Horatii Opera, 4th Sat. In this poem the author writes in an assumed character. No man can despise the pretensions to happiness of a solitaire more than himself; but, in the alternative between society and soli- tude, circumstances will sometimes imperiously urge to the choice of the latter, even where the warmest social affections are implanted in the heart, and where no moral delinquency exists in the character of the person who thus retires from the world. " I hear people talk of the raptures of soli- tude ; and with what tenderness of affection they can love a tree, a rivulet, or a mountain. Be<- 86 lieve me, they are pretenders ; they deceive themselves, or they seek, with their eyes open, to impose upon others. In addition to their trees and their mountains, I will give them the whole brute creation ; still it will not do. There is a principle in the heart of man which demands the society of his like. He that has no such society, is in a state but one degree removed from insa- nity. He pines for an ear into which he might pour the story of his thoughts ; for an eye that shall flash upon him with responsive intelligence ; for a face, the lines of which shall talk to him in dumb, but eloquent discourse, for a heart that shall beat in unison with his own. If there is any thing in human form that does not feel these wants, that thing is not to be counted in the file for a man; the form it bears is a deception, and the legend, man, which you read in its front, is a lie. Talk to me of rivers and mountains ! I ve- nerate the grand and beautiful exhibitions and shapes of nature ; no man more. I delight in solitude. I could shut myself up in it for succes- sive days. But I know that every man, at the end of a course of this sort, will seek for the intercourse of sentiments and language. The magnificence of nature, after a time, will pro- LINES. 87 duce much the same effect upon him, as if I were to set down a hungry man to a sumptuous service of plate, where all that presented itself on every side was massy silver and burnished gold, but there was no food."* In short, let a man be ever so happy in soli- tude, nothing is more true than the old remark, that he will want some one to whom he may say, " I am happy." In solitude What happiness ! Who can enjoy alone? Or, all enjoying, what contentment find ? MILTON. Yes, in this world, neglected Genius, pine ; The prize of happiness shall ne'er be thine ; A melancholy journey thou must run, Until the tedious race of life be done, Save when to fill thy craving breast, are given Some kind prelusive images of heaven. No, Genius, no ! 'tis well for thee, if soon Thou quit with apathy life's giddy noon. If thou alike or praise, or blame, canst hear, With iron soul untouched by hope or fear; * Fleetwood, by Mr. Godwin, vol. ii. p. 200. 88 LINES, If thou canst scorn each benefit, and fly From friendship, gratitude, and sympathy; Tis well ; — go on thy way ; — and strive to keep, Such is life's cheat, this undisturbed sleep. Look not on cheeks that glow, and eyes that play With radiance softer than the vernal day ; Look not on tears that start in passion's name, Nor heed mild tones which music's self might claim ; Heed not the eloquence of lips which tell Of all the secret ecstacies that dwell With truth sincere, and love supremely blest, By a responsive, sympathizing breast. No ! — these are mysteries of life's sacred store Which, once unfolded, thou canst rest no more. Thy die is cast ; thy day of peace is fled ; And Nature's blackest storms surround thy head. To common mortals these are common joys; But not to thee ; — the perilous charm destroys ; Or leaves such sad fastidious gloom behind, That moping apathy benumbs the mind. Go then, relinquish pleasure wouldst thou taste One hour of comfort in life's gloomy waste. Relinquish human converse, human things, And all those schemes with which the wide world rings. LINES. 89 Yet there are charms for thee : spring's sunny hues, The whispering- breeze, and morning's glittering dews ; The toll of village bell at eventide, The vacant ramble by the wild brook side ; The village tower that peeps among the trees, The silent stream which curls at eveiy breeze ; The transient sun-gleams, and the shadowy spot Of sailing cloud, which like a breath is not; The merry lark, that sings sweet songs of mirth, And every bud that gems this various earth : When calm, luxuriant, summer's fervid days Have sunk away in one effulgent blaze, The timid white stars, one by one, to eye, Or deepening crimson of the twilight sky ; The witchery of rolling clouds that weave The solemn pageant of departing eve. The awful rock, the mountain wrapp'd in storms, And Nature's majesty of sterner forms; Tempest, whose blackness all creation shrouds ; The solemn march of winter's midnight clouds. The moon's soft radiance breaking forth so white, Amid the murmur of the gales of night ; When clouds with clouds fantastically play, And wave their pale skirts to her liquid ray; 90 LINES. Or when alone the silent orb on high Looks on the world with clear serenity ; From gloomy wood emerging to the sight, And pouring down the vale her flood of light. The velvet meadow, and the peaceful stream, Where through light poplars plays the chequered gleam ; The rocking forest roused to music deep, As o'er its wavy top thick tempests sweep ; The quiet lake reflecting in its tide A wond'rous world to other waves denied ; Or else, in conflict, vexed by tempests rude, Beating the dark cliff with its foamy flood : Or now, in distant blackness, scarce survey'd Far, far beneath the mountain's threatening shade, While through the clouds — that rest, the stormy day, Like travellers weary of a trackless way, 'Mid druid piles, and haunted caverns rude, The rifted rocks of giant solitude — Full many a mountain stream is seen to flow, Sprung from the skies, a track of vapoury snow; The solemn music of the ocean roar, Or wildly surging on some desart shore ; Or when scarce curling with the zephyr bland, Its blue waves tremble on the silvery sand. LINES. 91 The sweeping blast that cleaves the sounding sky ; The moorland's desolate immensity ; The lonesome bird of night, which sadly calls To mountain streams, and mossy waterfalls ; These joys unblamed, thy mystic soul may know ; These, unpolluted by an after-woe ; For Innocence, and Purity, combine To bless the worshipper at Nature's shrine. To these devoted, Genius, thou shalt prove A heaven, in solitude, of silent love. LINES TO THE SCENERY OF CUMBERLAND AND WESTMORELAND. Written at Barnwell, near Cambridge, April, 1800. To quit a work! where strong temptations try, And, since we cannot conquer, learn to fly. Goldsmith. Sin, has ne possim naturae adcedere partes, Frigidus obstiterit circum praecordia sanguis ; Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes ; Flumina amem silvasque inglorius. Georgicon Virgilii, lib. ii. Fair scenes, I may not see you, yet my heart From your enchantment will not long depart : I turn from man's unprofitable strife, From all the fruitless stir of polished life, To think on you ; to bid your prospects roll, — A wondrous vision, — o'er my gladden'd soul. Ah, scenes beloved, that I with you could stray, And loiter out with you the summer day ; LINES. 93 Could I the rosy beams of morning view Shed on your gorgeous heights its magic hue ; Could I recline beneath your rocking woods, Whose secret shades, where solemn Fancy j broods, Shroud the deep murmurs of your mountain ' floods ; Or could I slumber on those banks which lave Their fairy verdure in the crystal wave Of many a Lake that lies beneath the sky In solitary, silent majesty : Your visionary train of forms sublime Should wake the ardour of the lofty rhyme ; Should lift my soul above whate'er of low It haply learned in other scenes to know. To you I turn ! — I turn from human lore : Of what the world affords I ask no more. To me kind Heaven has given a faithful friend, And competence : no more Heaven's self can send! Now, all I seek is peace, a silent nook, Whence, with unruffled spirit, I may look On all those tempests of life's early morn, That wrung a heart by restless passion torn ; And told, did pitying Heaven not interpose, Of short-liv'd raptures, and of fatal woes. 94 LINES. Ah, scenes of peace ! — Might 1 your charms explore, Devote to nature, I would ask no more ! Might I with you consume my daily bread, And pillow nightly my reposing head ; With you awake at morning's breezy voice, And in my calm course, like yon sun,* rejoice ; Might I with you wear out the sultry day Viewing your wonders in the noon-tide ray ; With you repose at shadowy even-tide, And list her meek songs by some wild brook's side ; Or many a cloud of lurid red descry, Weaving bright visions for the poet's eye : Might I, when April's mildest evenings seem Like some pale mourner's earliest smiles to gleam, View the soft azure of her dewy cloud With faint flush tinged the silent landscape shroud ; Oh ! would kind Heaven on me such scenes be- stow, 'Twould give a comfort to each parted woe. * In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and re- joiceth'as a strong man to run his course. — Psalm 19th, Verses 4th and 5tb. LINES. 95 Here, as I welcome morning's silken ray, And drink the spirit of the vernal day, And turn with anxious thought, mine eyes around, To catch whate'er in this bleak waste is found ; If chance the heathy hill at distance rise Bath'd in the aerial brightness of the skies ; Or winnowing zephyr of the fruitful west Shed healthy freshness on my weary breast ; If chance a clear brook musically flow Adown some nameless mead, where willows grow, Along whose mossy banks of tenderest green The earliest violets of the year are seen, And many a daisy, mixed with primrose pale, Bends at the touch of spring's rejoicing gale, The gale which loves to trace the streamlet's source, And steals as wedded to its nameless course ; If chance a cot, beneath some bowery oak, Send up in silence its pale wreath of smoke ;* If sudden noon-beams, like enchantment, wake The voice of sylvan mirth from mead or brake ; * And wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees. See Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads. 96 LINES. If dewy meads with bright luxuriance glow, And every flower with new-born radiance blow ; If chance a village church, or village cot, Mark the embowered hamlet's peaceful spot, Where waves the elm beside the churchyard wall, Vocal with red-breast's trill, or sparrow's call ; Around whose hollow trunk, beneath whose shade, Stands the known bench for rustic converse made ; And stretches towards the road the slanting green, Where village hinds in pastime oft are seen ; While merry bells in tuneful peals convey The jocund news of heartsome holiday : If chance these rustic sounds and shapes impart, Some comfort to my nature-kindling heart, Clothed in the wildness of poetic light, Your brighter wonders sweep before my sight The little hill, at distance seen to rise, Of mountain speaks, whose summits pierce th« skies; Brings to my view the majesty of forms, Which bid defiance to the North's bleak storms; The rising zephyr tells of sportive gales, That curl your lakes and fan your laughing vales ; LINES. D7 Or, borne aloft on pinion more sublime, To the peaked cliff's aerial summit climb ; The crystal stream which winds where willows grow* With more than mountain murmurs seems to flow, Near its smooth lapse, and sand of sunny dyes, The chasm yawns, and rock-piled summits rise ; And o'er its vacant banks does fancy see The stormy torrent's fearful imagery, The peaceful cottage to my soul recalls Your more fantastic shed, with leafy walls, Where I, with Love, would gladly wear away What more remains of life's mysterious day : It brings the little hut, the nameless stream, Where Hope might ponder on her softest theme ; It brings the mead that spreads before the door, Its cheerful verdure, and its flowery store ; It brings the woods above the roof that rise, Whence many a glad bird's song salutes the skies ; It brings the garden prankt with many a flower, The sacred transports of the evening bower, Where, clothed in peacefulness, my soul should prove The father's fondness, and the husband's love : H 98 LINES. It brings with all its charms the imaged cell. Which hopeful fancy fears to love too well ! As yet this must not be ! my weary feet, Must still awhile toil on where proud men greet. The obtrusive world's unprofitable load Must still with many a pang my bosom goad : Yet grant, oh Heaven, a spirit to endure, Not yield ; though art in every shape allure. E'en now I feel within my burthen'd mind An anxious trouble 'mid your charms to find, That day of rest from each polluting thing, Which silence, solitude, and nature bring ; And every shape and sound that here annoy Speak, though in accents rude, of future joy. LINES TO THE SABBATH. April 23, 1803. The Author is well aware that, as far as the following Poem appears to be argumentative, the principle which it inculcates is indefensible : it seems like inferring that, because an institu- tion may be abused, however excellent it may be in its design, it should not be used. Wherever, whenever, and on whatsoever oc- casion, human beings meet together, they will carry human passions with them ; to church, as well as to market ; to the meeting-house, as well as to the ball-room : the good done by means of positive religious rites is prodigious; and it would be difficult to make out a case of any counter- balancing evil of which they are the causey therefore let it not be supposed that, because h 2 100 LINES the Author in the following Poem satirizes the intrusion of vulgar passions within the sacred threshold, he no longer wishes that threshold to be passed : on the other hand, he only laments that it is not more universally passed, as such a phenomenon would be one of the most conclusive prognostics that those very passions which he has described were on the decline. In one word, let the following poem be considered rather as a picture, than as an enunciation of principles.* Ah, holy day, I love to hear the chime * Of merry bells that usher in thy morn : The rustic trimly clad, the rural lass, Delight my heart. I love to see them speed, Along the meadow pathway, to the style That bounds the churchyard. The suspense Of toil, the universal quietude * The author might add, that even the poet, par excel* lence religious, Cowper, might be deemed irreligious, if to satirize the abuse of religious institutions, render a man obnoxious to such an epithet. See his description of the coxcomb parson, and various other passages in hU poems.. TO THE SABBATH. 101 That dwells on all things, quietude from sounds Of human labour, shed a pleasing calm. Nature alone puts forth her voice to-day, The joyous birds, the bleat of sportive lambs, The low of cattle, zephyrs breathing peace, And health ; the music of the woods that wave Their dancing heads, and vocal, as they wave, With sounds like those breath'd from the iEolian lyre, When on its trembling strings the faint breeze pants, Or ocean's deeper voice from distance heard ; The gratulation of a thousand streams Sparkling like crystal to the glorious sun : — All t&ese unite in choral harmony : And frivolous art withdraws the obtrusive strife, That Nature's song may reach the ear of all. Haste, let me join the comely throng that seeks The House of God : there be my prayer breathed forth With more expressive accent, and the song Of praise ascend more ardent, with the hymn Mingled of countless grateful spirits : there 102 LINES The decent rite, the anthem's chaunted lay, The hallowed vestment, and the sacred grace Of hoar antiquity's religious garb, Shall aid the pious feeling, and express The shapeless fervours of abstracted love, Devotion's undefined extasy In saintly forms of import well conceived. Vain dream, alas ! for though the form may speak The inward sentiment that now disturbs The o'ercharged heart, — though all inanimate things, The decent rite, the anthem's chanted lay, The hallowed vestment, and the sacred grace Of hoar antiquity's religious garb,— Though to the feeling heart when, undisturbed, It contemplates the scene, an energy May seem to breathe within the gothic walls, Tilling the sanctuary, like that of old, With an invisible, present Deity : — Though all the circumstance of things unite To aid profound impression, they unite In vain; for what can inert objects do, Mute and inanimate, when all the soul, TO THE SABBATH. 103 The spirit of the assembly, counteract Their weak, inefficacious agency. Where does the dowager, seldom visible, Come forth with all her " honours thick upon her," Chariot, and footman, with embroidered gold, Flying, with prayer-book in his hand, to ope The already unclasped pew, and shewing wide To the abashed assembly, she can keep Menials for vanity as well as use ? — at church. Where does the importance of the country squire, Hedged in the immunities of his kingly pew, Find a fit scene of action ? — at his church. Where does the high-bred lady condescend To exhibit all her store, of courtly airs, Her nods, grimace, and regulated smiles, And all precedency's theatric forms ? — At church.- — Where does the giddy serving-maid, Or farmer's daughter, love to expose the charm Of ribbands, hats, and lace, that Folly's food Which will ere long to ruin tempt her heart? At church. — Say, where do vanity and pride, Pretence, and sly hypocrisy resort ? — To church : — and where, if piety be found, 104 LINES Simple, with cheek bedewed with contrite tears, Will flinty scoffers point and smile ? — at church. Mark the sleek pastor, how he hurries through The sacred office ! The simplicity Of gospel days, the tongue that utters things Accordant with the heart, the heart that feels Accordant to the law and testimony — Where are they found? The pompous hierophant Hiding beneath professional pretence The love of power ; or the coxcomb, pert, Scented, accomplished, as the spruce gallant — Too oft characterize the anointed band. I know that there are some who bear the mark Of true apostleship, who feel for souls, Weep for the wandering, pray for the distress'd, And, interceding, stand between their God And many a trembling sinner ; of their flock The spiritual fathers ; when occasion bids, The temporal fathers too ; weeping to see The havock and disorder vice has made, They bear a balm for every human wound. But these how few ! and he that deeply feels The worth of piety, that simply longs TO THE SABBATH. 105 To utter, what he cannot bear to keep In selfish silence, whither shall he fly If Sanctity, Simplicity, and Love, Pity, and Mercy, Truth without pretence, Be qualities to spiritual fellowship Essential, indispensible esteemed. LINES WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT, IN A MOUN- TAINOUS COUNTRY. Nec vixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit. 26th April, 1803. Driven from the sweet society of man, Where shall the solitary being find Companions for his thoughts, associates Meet and instructive ? — May the simple lay Point out to those by adverse circumstance, And manifold adventure, separate From cheerful haunts of man, to those divorc'd For ever from the smiles of fickle fortune, Haply some soothing solaces of pain, Some secret sources of concealed delight, Innocent, yet ennobling, free to all, And independent of another's will. LINES 107 Man hath an eye to see ; but, indisposed, Neglects the gift, save in the gaudy scene Of glittering art. But there are forms unknown, Save to the watchful, meditative eye, Which yield sincere delight. The harmonious scenes Of nature, and the harmonious scenes of art, — Where modest art, not striving for a vain Pre-eminence, is nature's minister, — Affect a feeling deeper than the sense Of beauty : thoughts of moral good they raise, Visions of innocence, and holy peace ; Not those fantastic dreams of old Romance, And pastoral Folly ; these severe and pure, As those enervating, corrupt, inane. Can heart unmoved, that hath a sentiment Of goodness left, the cottager behold, Who duly to his toil goes forth at morn, And brings at close of each laborious week His hard-earned pittance ; while his partner's thrift In wholesome fare discreetly parcels out The fruit of honest industry. His babes Cleanly, though coarsely clad, his neat fire-side, Bespeak accordant industry at home ; 108 LINES And save when sickness visits — common foe Of rich and poor — the unregarded hut, Where dwells this humble pair, go when you will, Your eyes may feast upon a scene of peace. Nor do domestic scenes in rural life Alone delight : the grey stone church, the cot Of rudest fabric, or the pastoral farm, Placed midway on some tempest-howling hill, Protected solemnly by ancient pines, Are not unnoticed by the poet's eye, Nor by his heart unfelt.* There is a scene To which I often turn ; the rustic bridge 'Neath whose grey arch, in days of wintry gloom, Whitens far off the torrent's foam ; the bridge ; The inn for tired foot-passenger, who haunts These seldom trodden scenes ; the village school, The village green, where little rustics sport, And dance, and sing ; the mill, the waterfall, Make up the measure of its simple charms ; * This is as exact a description, as it is in the power of the Author to give, of a scene on which a little knot of buildings is collected together, sitnated about two miles from Ambleside, Westmoreland, and called Skelwith Bridge, WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT. 109 But, these all lie embosomed where the swell Of mighty mountains, and untravelled hills, Protects them from the intrusive eye of man, And wanton Art's capriciousness : this knot Of little dwellings, should the night o'ertake The weary mountaineer, with glimmering light Might haply cheer the wanderer: should his hand The latch uplift, a cordial welcome there Might chance await his weary form ; perchance The foaming can, the gossip's merry tale, The blazing hearth, and kind officiousness, Might rouse the sense of long-forgotten joy. *Mark yon grey scar, where, from the rifted cliff, The holly, birch, the oak, the yew, and ash, Start ; while the huge mass of that hanging rock, Cloathed with the ivy's mantling evergreen, Resembles most some fortress imminent, Or tower of ancient castle, piled alone * Tiiis description also is topographically exact. The scene is to be found on the right hand side of the river Brathay, about a mile and a half from Ambleside, and is seen to most advantage from the opposite side of that stream. 110 LINES On pathless height abrupt, 'mid woods and wilds, And savage precipice : in wintry hours When, like dishevelled tresses, brown sere leaves, — 'Mid here and there some haply interspersed Of sickly yellow, some of blacker dye, — Rustling with bleak winds, shiver on the oak, Still the green ivy mantles the grey scar, And shadowy pines wave darkling ; mingled hues From tawny oak, the ivy, rock, and pine, Enrich the wild, fantastic imagery. But when the smiling hours of spring advance, And vernal suns arise, the slender birth First grateful yields its bloom to fostering gales Trembling with fairy leaf of feathery gold : Its silvery stems innumerable, like shafts Taper and glossy, mock the forest's gloom, And through its depths conspicuously shine, As polished pillars of white marble, seen At night, in some old temple's vast expanse. Nor, leaving loftier scenes, in days of spring, Do shady lanes retired, a mean delight Afford ; — 'mid leafy thicket, plume-like fern, On mossy bank, there pale primroses peep ; The harebell, orchis, and wild strawberry, WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT. Ill Anemone ; the scented violet, Azure and white ; veronica, tho' last , Not least in loveliness, whose spikes are bathed In brightest blue transparency of Heaven. These are the forms which in his solitude Amuse the poet's mind, dispel his cares, And cheat away retirement's languid hours. Come, dear Sophia, let us wander forth, And taste the charms of nature : while our hearts Distend with mutual feeling, the warm tear Shall gush at thoughts of present happiness, And haply too the smile of gratitude Shall play upon our lips, and thankful throbs - Swell in each breast to Him, to whom we owe Escape from past perplexity and care. LINES WRITTEN 19th august, 1807. u For, who can enjoy the world without deceiving, or being deceived ?"— Mrs. Grant's Letters. Whence, and what are we? — Wherefore are we made The sport of passions that defy controul ? Why do these dreams of happiness invade, With ardent impulse, my aspiring soul ? Say, am 1 born to live the sport of dreams, Of lying dreams, that flatter, and that fly ? Are they illusive, these delicious gleams That prompt the soaring wish, the immortal sigh? I might be happy, could I cease to think, That all I have is but entrusted power ; I might be happy, could my reason wink At pleasure's thrill, and love's enraptured hour. LINES. 113 I might be happy, could these conflicts cease, Or reason take possession of my soul ! Could stern resolve bid passion be at peace, And every struggle of my will controul. Why are we destined thus to wage a war ? Nor from the fated proof have power to fly ? Here, conscience, awful priestess ! cries, be- ware ! — There every sense is wooed by extasy I Is this thy destiny, Oh man ? — Are these The terms on which thy soul its life received ? Reason, thou canst not tell me how to appease This questioning of what may be believed ! Experience teacheth that the noblest mind, The pang that weans from life shall likeliest brave ! Here pause : — and with a faith devout, not blind, Implore thy God to pity and to save ! LINES ON AN HOUR-GLASS. Addressed to Miss H W- 2Qth Jan. 1808. " When Time doth float on Pleasure's wing, And hours glide on, allur'd by joy, Reflection's sigh from thee shall spring, Thou little monitory toy ! " When anxious care doth ply the loom Of life, with fingers dull and slow, Thou shalt remind me that this gloom Came, and with changeful time will go." Thus Harriet whispered as the sand, Ebbed softly from her hour-glass near : A faithful friend could not withstand The occasion for a vow sincere. \ x' LINES ON AN HOUR-GLASS. 115 (For as this toy, the welcome guest Of buoyant mirth or languid care, Doth solemn thoughts to one suggest, And to the other solace bear, — So she, disinterested friend, Has smiles for joy, for sorrow sighs ; Though still her inward feelings tend With sacred grief to sympathize). " Oh, may no present hour, attired In gloom, a prayer for change draw forth ! Yet each successive hour, inspireol By hope, exceed the last in worth : May fancy wreathe around this toy Blooms stolen from the Elysian clime ; And Peace, the monitor of Joy, Brood on the tranquil lapse of time ! These sands, that fall in silent showers, To their Jirst source we turn once more ; May friendship so for thee the hours Of youth, in distant age restore P I 2 116 LINES ON AN HOUR-GLASS. Oh, Harriet, thoughtless of thy power ! And humble, useful glass, like thee, The highest blessing thou dost shower Unconscious of thy destiny. E'en as this toy, that through life's span The quick illapse of time revealed, Doth bring prime benefits to man — Till Time to Eternity doth yield; So of the virtues' holy train, Disinterested love shall call For Heaven's most gratulating strain — Till self be lost !— God all in all ! LINES, Written in consequence of hearing of a young Man that had voluntarily starved himself to death on Skiddaw, and who was found after his decease in a bed of turf piled with his own hands, previous to that event. 29th June, 1808. What didst thou feel, thou poor unhappy youth. Ere on that sod thou laid'st thee down to rest? Ah, little know the children of this world What some are born to suffer ! Did some dread And perilous thought possess thy blasted mind ? Did fierce remorse assail thee ? Wert thou torn With fatal, incommunicable thoughts ? I pity thee, poor stranger ! In a world Fearful, a world of nameless phantoms framed, Was thy abode ! — Thou sawest not with eyes, Thou heardest not with ears, nor felt'st with touch, Like eyes, and ears, and touch of other men, Thine was a cruel insulation, thine 118 LINES. A malady beyond the reach of love, Beyond the reach of melting sympathy. Oh, when Heaven wills that the external world And the internal world should be at war; When Heaven suffers that sensation's chords Shall all be out of tune ; when every sense At variance with the other, like a wrench'd And shattered instrument of music, yields A harsh report of discontinuous pangs, As infinite in number as in fear, To the universal influences of life, What does not man endure ! — Yet man e'en then Perchance has somewhat of the flush of health, Has strength of muscle, and the swelling limb, So he is pitied not ! Though if he smile, His smile like wandering spectre of the night, Apparent in some beauteous maiden's shape, Fills with more deadly chill, because it wears The form of joy in circumstance of woe !— Though if he speak, the incongruous attempt Betrays the treachery of his voiceless thought ! His words are like the sound of crazy bells, Swinging in open air, no longer pealed By hands accordant ; but the tempest wakes Or sullen breeze, when nightly visitant, LINES. 119 Strange discord from their hoarse and iron tongues ! His accents, unaccountably impelled, Or rush with fearful spontaneity, Or languidly eke out their dying tones ; And sentences half finished, broken words, Abrupt transitions, discontinuous thought, Of intellectual alienation tell. Say, fared it so with thee ? Then be at peace ! And may the God the fortitude who gave To bear thy silent voluntary pangs, Receive thee in the arms of pitying love. LINES, WRITTEN 29TH JULY, 1808. Oh Love, the bosom formed for thee No meaner joy can move ; Not to be loved is not to be, To him who knows to love. Tis not the rapturous transport sought, In passion's granted aim ; 'Tis not the kiss with nectar fraught, The look without a name ; But 'tis the soft endearing sense, The wish with wish that blends, That to each word an influence Of fascination lends. 'Tis the fond partial estimate, In confidence sublime ; The thought that swells with warmth so great, That reason seems a crime. LINES. 121 TTis this, oh Love, or chiefly this, Which, for the once-loved breast, When ceases thy celestial bliss, Robs future life of rest. LINES TO MY CHILDREN. Written under the Influence of great Depression of Spirits, 11th June, 1819. Heu ! quam minus est reliquis versari, quam vestroriim memiuisse. My babes, no more I'll behold ye* Little think ye how he ye once lov'd, Your father who oft did enfold ye, With all that a parent e'er proved. How with many a pang he is saddened, How many a tear he has shed, For the eight human blossoms that gladden'd His path, and his table, and bed. LINES TO MY CHILDREN. 123 None knows what a fond parent smothers, Save he who a parent has been, Who once more, in his daughters, their mother's, In his boys has his own image seen ! And who Can I finish my story ? Has seen them all shrink from his grasp ; Departed the crown of his glory, No wife, and no children to clasp ! — By all the dear names I have utter'd, By all the most sacred caresses, By the frolicksome nothings I've mutter'd, In a mood that sheds tears while it blesses ; By the kisses so fond I have given, By the plump little arm's cleaving twine, By the bright eye, whose language was heaven, By the rose on the cheek pressed to mine ; By its warmth that seemed pregnant with spirit; — By the little feet's fond interlacing, While others pressed forward to inherit The place of the one thus embracing ; 124 LINES By the breast that with pleasure was troubled, Since no words were to speak it availing ; Till the bliss of the heart was redoubled As in smiles on the lips 'twas exhaling; By the girl,* who, to sleep when consign'd, The promised kiss still recollected ; And no sleep on her pillow could find, If her father's farewel were neglected ; Who asked me, when infancy's terrors Assail'd her, to sit by her bed ; And for the past day's little errors On my cheek tears of penitence shed. By those innocent tears of repentance, More pure e'en than smiles without sin, Since they mark with what delicate sentence Childhood's conscience pronounces within. By the dear little forms, one by one, Some in beds closely coupled half-sleeping, While the cribb'd infant nestled alone — Whose heads at my coming all peeping, * Sophia. TO MY CHILDREN. 125 Betrayed that the pulse of each heart Of my feet's stealing fall knew the speech ; While all would not let me depart, Till the kiss was bestowed upon each ; By the boy,* who, when walking and musing, And thinking myself quite alone, Would follow the path I was chusing, — And thrust his dear hand in my own ; (Joy more welcome because unexpected, By all this fond store of delights, Which, in sullen mood, had I neglected, Every curse with which Heaven requites. Were never sufficient for crushing A churl so malign and hard-hearted) But by the warm tears that are gushing, As I think of the joys that are parted; Were ye not as the rays that are twinkling On the waves of some clear haunted stream, Were ye not as the stars that are sprinkling Night's firmament dark without them ? * Owen, 126 LINES TO MY CHILDREN. My forebodings then hear ! — By each one Of the dear dreams through which I have tra- vell'd, The cup of enjoyment from none Can I take, till the spells, one by one, Which have withered ye all, be unravelVd. STANZAS. LET THE READER DETERMINE THEIR TITLE. Written 27th and 28th June, 1819. " I have, of late, lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of exercise ; and, indeed, it goes so hea- vily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, this brave o'erhanging, this majestical roof, look you, fretted with golden fires, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours." — Shakspeare. — Hamlet. Oh, that a being in this latter time Lived such as poets in their witching lays, Feigned were their demi-gods in nature's prime ! The Dryad sheltered from noon's scorching rays 128 STANZAS. By leafy canopy ; — the Naiad's days Stealing by gently wedded to some spring, In pure connatural essence ; — while the haze Of twilight in the vale is lingering, The Oread from mountain top the sun-rise wel- coming. Oh, that a man might hope to pass his life, Where through lime, beech, and alder, the proud sun His leafy grot scarce visited ; — where strife Is known not ; — to absolve — to impeach him none ; — His moral life, and that of nature, one : — Where fragrant thyme, and crisped heath- bells prank The ground, all memory of the world to shun, And piercing, while his ears heaven's music drink, Nature's profoundest depths, the God of Nature thank. To drink the pure crystalline well, to lave His strong limbs in some Naiad haunted stream, On that sod, which one day might be his grave, To shelter him from noon-tide's scorching beam, STANZAS, 128 In cool recess ; — and thus, while he might dream His life away, his appetite assuaged JJy kerneird fruits with which the earth doth teem ; — Forget that he hath been where men engaged In civilized contention, foamed and raged. Oh, that the wild bee, who, with busy wing, Hums, as she travels on from flower to flower; Oh, that the lark that now is carolling Above yon ancient ivy-mantled tower ; Oh, that the stock-dove from her ancient bower, The gurgling fall of waters ; the deep sound Of pines, whose film-like leaves scarce own the power Of panting breeze, most like the voice pro- found Of ocean, when its roar, by distance, is half- drowned : Oh, that the bleat of lambs, the shepherd's reed, The tinkling bell which warns the flock to fold; Oh, that the harmonies we little heed, Eternal harmonies, and manifold. K 130 STANZAS. Throughout God's works in pathless mazes rolled, AH concords that in heaven and earth delight, Sweet to the sense of hearing, as we hold The form of beauty to the lover's sight, — Oh! that in one vast chorus these would all unite I My Godl this world's a prison-house to some ; And yet to those who cannot prize its trea- sure, It will not suffer them in peace to roam Far from its perturbation and its pleasure. No ! though ye make a compact with its mea- sure, — Except to one or two by fortune blest ! — Twill only mock your efforts; thus your leisure, Yielded to her, becomes a sad unrest ; — It pays the fool the least that worships her the best. Yet, on the other hand, if ye forego Her haunts, and all her trammels set aside, Though 'tis her joy ungratefully to throw Scorn on her slaves, her vassals to deride,— STANZAS. 131 " Hewers of wood, drawers of water," plied With daily drudgery know this truth full well — She will from pole to pole, through time and tide, Still follow you with persecuting spell, And by her whispers foul, make solitude a hell. Therefore breathed I this prayer, that, as in years Long parted, beings were supposed to live Exempt from human ties ; — from human tears, And human joys; — endowed with a reprieve From friends to flatter, or foes to forgive ; — So it might fare with me ! — Oh, Liberty, I ask for thee alone ; — with thee to weave Quaint rhymes, to breathe the air, were heaven to me; To dream myself the only living thing, save thee! When Heaven has granted thought and energy, Passion, Imagination, Fancy, Love, Pleasures and pains, hopes, fears, that will not die, Tis surely hard to be condemned to rove k 2 132 STANZAS* In a perpetual wilderness ; to move Unblest by freedom, and humanity ;— I blame not those for whom the world hath wove, Spells that to them are best reality — Some are there 'twill not serve, nor yet will let them fly. Oh ! for an island in the boundless deep ! Where rumour of the world might never come ; Oh, for a cave where weltering waves might keep Eternal music !— round which, night-winds roam Incessantly, mixed with the surging foam ; And from their union bring strange sounds to birth ; — Oh, could 1 rest in such an uncouth home, No foes except the elements ; — the earth, The air;— though sad, I'd learn to make with them strange mirth. I'd learn the voices of all winds that are ; The music of all waters : and the rude Flowers of this isle, although both " wild and rare," Should be by me with sympathy endued. STANZAS. 133 I would have lovers in my solitude ; Could animal being be sustained, the mind Such is her energy, would find all good ; And to her destiny eftsoons resigned, In solitude would learn the infinite to find. Oh ! thou first Cause, thou giver of each bless- ing, E'en were / cursed, so vain a thing I'm not As to suppose nothing is worth possessing ; — That misery's the universal lot. A cold hand lies on me ; — a weight ; — from what, Whence, where, or how, — boots it not here to tell: I only wish that I could be forgot, And that I might inherit some small cell, With blessings short of heaven, and curses short of hell. This medium is my prayer. Thought, gift di- vine ! When first — like Alpheus, sung by bards of old, Who sank into the earth, that he might join The adored Arethuse ; — the bedded hold 134 STANZAS. Through which thy rich and copious treasures roll'd, Is shaken with the tempest of despair ; And when first sapped by sorrows manifold, Thy streams no longer murmur clear and fair, Buried in silent caves of agony and care ; When first, instead of each translucent rill, Fed by thy parent fount, which issued forth, Wandering playfully " in its own sweet will ;" Instead of dimpling brooks, whose voice was mirth ; Clear waves, that to and fro upon the earth Ran amid grass, and flowers, and plume-like ferns, As they were free by charter of their birth ; Or clear tide lapsing from thy copious urns, So calm, the bending grass but tells one where it turns ; When first, instead of such prodigious wealth, Waters that stray through meads, and while they stray, So silently they flow, and with such stealth, The richer green — the lustier flowers betray STANZAS. 135 Alone, the secret of their noiseless way : While others take a more fantastic course, And with such involutions sing and play Twixt sandy banks, or with a note more hoarse, O'er rocks and sparry beds, forgetful of their source, That one might deem they were without a law, Lawless as winds, if winds could be, or ere The Almighty architect impressed an awe On nature's wildest freebooters; — or were, lake as is sung of the crystalline sphere, — Involved in maze of such perplexity, That e'en that skill which made intention clear, So intricate was it, one might deny The very law itself from its transcendency.* When first, I say — I've played the truant long, From the theme I had espoused — the streams of thought Are poisoned at their source ; the bosom wrung With tempests that contained them, — care dis- traught, -Mazes intricate, Eccentric, intervolved, yet regular, Then most, when most irregular they seem.— Milton. 136 STANZAS. Man prays for death ; he cannot then be brought To meek submission : — all is anarchy Within ; — with insurrection* fraught, His state is like a kingdom, where the die Is hazarded, of sacrilegious victory. But, let hours, days, weeks, months, and years pass by, A sullen acquiescence then succeeds, And the first proof of nature's sanity Is, that the mind its own condition heeds : Though it be choaked with thorns, and clogged with weeds, A parent's fondness still it 'gins to feel For its own creations ; and to this succeeds Strongest imagination ; — the barbed steel From foes has pierced too deep for other men to heal. * Between the acting of a dreadful thing, And the first motion, all the interim! Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream; The genius, and the mortal instruments, Are then in council ; and the state of man Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. Shakspeare. — Julius Catsar STANZAS. 137 No ! still betwixt him and his fellow men The irrepassible gulph, when once passed, gapes ; Yet, though his thoughts, that creep as in a den The slimy insect, e'en in all their shapes Have nothing reconciling, yet escapes Nought that is harmful ; like the bloated toad, They are dark,, they are dreary, loathsome: hu- man apes Thence deem them poisonous : they are a weary load; And not the less since undeservedly bestowed. But oh, mistake them not! — They are free from ill! The seven-months' babe, whose little hand's at rest, While his warm lips imbibe the milky rill, Cushioned upon his mother's well-known breast, Is not more innocent of feeling, drest In any garb of hatred or of ire. — I speak of one I've known ; earth hath no rest For such as he : — no correspondent wire In any human breast can recognize the lyre, — 138 STANZAS. like the lorn harp of Tara on the walls, Swept by the invisible breathings of the wind, When as that harp had ceased in Tara's halls, To pour the soul of harmony refin'd — That tells his fate. Strange melodies assigned To it, harsh discord seem to th' ears of all : Yet not a note doth breathe from it designed To give a pang : it mayn't be musical : — Well may a shattered lyre, a shattered bard befeU. Tones untranslateable should it discourse, When by its master touched; oh, deem not ye, Because ye know them not, and think them hoarse, That in those tones no mystery may be, Such as unravelled might give harmony To its wild cadences ! — Then let him sing ; And though his song please not, yet still if he Feels, while it floats around, as though a wing Protected him with tremulous faint o'ershadowing, Tis more than naked skies, and naked stars, Tis more than Heaven's canopy bestows, Tia more than storms,, and elemental wars, And murky clouds, winds, rain, sleet, hail, and snows, STANZAS. 139 Think* not that I blame these. They are not my foes. I seek communion, covet sympathy, E'en with their wildest moods: — they suit my woes — I meant to say when souls from agony A little respite feel, souls will self-questioned be. And now, oh God ! e'en let my wish once more, Ere this lay cease, be to thy love confessed, Grant me to vegetate on some wild shore ; Since I cannot be happy, as the best I e'er can hope to be, let mine own breast Be to itself its sole companion ; — there, Though much of wretchedness, and much unrest Be housed, at least there need be no despair Trom that which I once deemed sole source of cureless care ; That in my poor thought was malignity, — I never wished to harm a living thing, — Pain was a frightful mystery to me ; I've often shudder'd at the moth's scorched wing; Oft from the path the snail or worm would fling, * I tax ye not, ye elements, with nnkindness. SHAKSPEARE. 140 STANZAS. Doomed to the tread of careless passenger: — How* little dreamt I then this shuddering, From the heart's nice calculation, whence we infer Futurity, was my fate's harbinger. No ! — no ! — Oh God ! — If there be one beneath The cope of Heaven; or e'en in Heaven en- shrin'd, Who, with accusing voice, could dare to breathe That pang of body, or that pang of mind, From me resulting, were to them assign'd, With perverse wilfulness, when next I look Towards the starry vault, may I be blind ! Blot out my name from thy eternal book ! A shelter for my head let earth afford no nook! But since, on the other hand, I may proclaim That " peace on earth, and good-will towards men," Have, save through inadvertence, been the aim Which governed heart, and tongue, and act, and pen ; Why should I not, oh Father, once again * A sort of secret foreknowledge, which is, in fact, only a nice calculation made by the feelings, before we permit it to become an operation of the judgment. Canterbury Tales, by Miss Lee. STANZAS. 141 End that some peace is yet in store for me ? Leave to me thought, oh leave to me a den, And then from agony to be set free Sufficeth for the heart broken by agony. Once more, oh Father, hear! — Thy will is power ! — Act, thy decision is ; — all, all is thine ! — The pangs that shake me, bodings that devour, Both how I agonize, and how T pine, Thou knowest well : and though each faltering line Of mine betray affliction's cleaving curse, Thou knowest well the torments that are mine As far exceed the pictures of my verse, As atoms are exceeded by the universe. Lays such as these might then seem roundelays, And madrigals, compared to truth's plain theme, To elegies, to epitaphs, on days, On friends, on joys, departed like a beam Of summer, or the lightning's trackless gleam : Oh, then, my humble prayer do not deny If I implore, or that the feverish dream Of life might end, or that in liberty Forgotten I might live, since unwept I must die. POEMS ON drift £>eatl) PRISCILLA FARMER; BY HER GRANDSON, CHARLES LLOYD. Death! thou hast visited that pleasant place ? Where in this hard world I have happiest been. Bowles. THIRD EDITION, 145 SONNET. The piteous sobs that choak the Virgin's breath, For him, the fair betrothed Youth, who lies Cold in the narrow dwelling ; or the cries With which a Mother wails her Darling's death; These from our Nature's common impulse spring Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piled earth, Which hides the sheeted corse of grey-hair'd Worth, If droops the soaring Youth with slacken'd wing; If He recal in saddest minstrelsy Each tenderness bestow'd, each truth imprest; Such Grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety ! And from the Almighty Father shall descend Comforts on his late Evening, whose young breast Mourns with no transient love the Aged Friend, & T. COLERIDGE. DEDICATORY LINES TO THE AUTHOR'S BROTHER. My James ! to whom can I more fitly bring These rhymes, which I have caroll'd sorrowing, Than to a Brother who did once possess With me an equal share of kindliness From Her departed ! and whose tears will swell At these, my dirgelike melodies, that tell J How good She was. — Thou sportedst once with me, A careless infant round her aged knee, And aye, at welcome eve didst haste to share Her pious greetings and her simple fare. When Manhood's maze, trac'd by wild-footed Hope, Seem'd all inviting, towards our upward slope How did she often turn her moisten'd eye, That, but for us, were fix'd beyond the sky ! L 2 143 DEDICATORY LINES. And ah ! how feelingly would She express The aid that Virtue brings to Happiness ! And when She droop'd, we both, my James, did bend, O'er a lost Parent, Confessor, and Friend ! My Brother, I have sought that he who gave And took our Friend, her virtues may engrave Deep in our bosoms; as we journey on Cheerily sometimes, oftner woe-begone, Still we may think on her with holiest sighs, And " struggle to believe," from yonder skies, Her children She regards; and when we fare Hardly on this bleak road, our mutual prayer Shall rise, that we in heaven may repossess Our earliest Guide to heavenly happiness ! CHARLES LLOYD. 149 SONNET L My pleasant Home ! where erst when sad and faint I sought maternal friendship's sheltering arms, My pleasant Home ! where is the rev'renc'd Saint Whose presence gave thee thy peculiar charms? Ah me ! when slow th' accustom'd doors unfold, No more her looks affectionate and mild Beam on my burthen'd heart ! O, still and cold The cherish'd spot where Welcome sat and smil'd ! My spirit pines not nursing fancied ill ; Tis not the fev'rish and romantic tie Which now I weep dissever'd ; not a form That woke brief passion's desultory thrill : I mourn the Cherisher of Infancy ! The dear Protectress from life's morning storm ! 15ft SONNET II. Oh, I have told thee every secret care ! And crept to thee when pale with sickliness ! Thou did'st provide my morrow's simple fare, And with meek love my elfin wrongs redress. My Grandmother ! when pondering all alone Fain would I list thy footstep ! but my call Thou dost not hear ; nor mark the tears that fall From my dim eyes! No, Thou art dead and gone ! How can I think that Thou didst mildly spread Thy feeble arms, and clasp me o'er and o'er Ere infant Gratitude one tear could shed ! How think of Thee, to whom its little store My bosom owes, nor tempted by Despair Mix busy anguish with imperfect prayer ! 151 SONNET 1IT. Written at the Hotwelh, near Bristol. Meek Friend ! I have been traversing the steep Where when a frolic boy with patient eye Thou heededst all my wand'rings, (I could weep To think perchance thy Shade might hover nigh, Marking thy alter'd Child) ; how little then Dream I, that Thou, a tenant of the grave, No more shouldst smile on me, when I might crave Some little solace 'mid the hum of men ! Those times had joys which I no more shall know, And e'en their saddest moments now seem sweet, Such comforts mingle with remember'd woe ! Now with this hope I prompt my onward feet, That He, who took Thee, pitying my lone heart, Will reunite us where Friends never part ! 152 SONNET IV. Erst when I wander'd far from those I lov'd, If weariness o'ertook me, if my heart Heav'd big with sympathy, and ach'd t'impart Its secret treasures, much have I been mov'd Thinking of those most dear ; and I have known The task how welcome, feelingly to pour Of youthful phantasies th' eccentric store Thro' the warm line : nor didst thou seldom own The tender gratulation, earliest Friend ! And now when heavily the lone hours roll Stealeth an Image on my cheated soul No other than Thyself! and I would send Tidings of love — till the mind starts from sleep As it had heard thy knell ! — I pause, and weep I 153 SONNET V. When that dear Saint my fancy has possessed, Cheating my griefs, and then to bitter tears Leaves me, I seek to calm my aching fears, Thinking how holily She still suppress'd Each dim disquietude, looking to Him The Friend of patient souls, who wait to hear The " still small voice" to forlorn Sorrow dear! Then do mine eyes with kindlier sadness swim : — And I implore, that She whom I did weep As I had had no hope, as on Death's sleep No more arose, when She shall liveliest dart On each tranc'd sense, may teach my prayers to rise Impassioned, and a purer sacrifice, Lifted by Her, the Priestess of my Heart ! 154 SONNET VI. When Thou that agonized Saint dost see Worn out, and trembling on the verge of death, Murmur meek praises with convulsed breath, And sanctify each rending agony, Deeming it a dim Minister of Grace Medicinal, and stealing her from all That subtly might her ling'ring spirit thrall ; When Thou dost read in her unearthly face, How She doth keep in thankful quietness Her patient soul, dar'st Thou thy best Friend deem As One deceiv'd by a most idle dream ? Ah, surely no ! if Thou at all possess A humanized heart ; e'en if thy mind Hate not the only hopes of humankind ! 155 SONNET VII. Oft when I brood on what my heart has felt, And think on former friends, of whom alas ! She the most dear, sleeps where th' autumnal grass To the wet night- wind flags, I inly melt; And oft I % seem (my spring-tide fled away ; While the heart's anguish darkens on my brow ) Likest the lone leaf on the wintry bough That pines for the glad season's parted ray ! Such thoughts as these, when the dull hours pass by Shroud them in hues of saddest sickliness ! Yet oft I wiselier muse, yea almost bless The shiverings of departed extasy ; Thinking that He who thus my spirit tries Draws it to Heaven a cleansed sacrifice ! 150 SONNET VIII. My Bible, scarcely dare I open thee ! Remembering how each eve I wont to give Thy due texts holily, while She did live, The pious Woman ! — What tho' for the meek Thou treasurest glad tidings, still to me Of her I lov'd thou dost so plainly speak, And kindling virtue dost so amply tell Of her most virtuous, that 'twere hard to quell The pang which thou wilt wake ! Yet, hallow'd book, Tho' for a time my bosom thou wilt wring, Thy great and precious promises will bring Best consolation ! Come then, I will look In thy long-clasped volume, there to find Haply, tho' lost her form, my best friend's mind ! 157 SONNET IX. When from my dreary home I first niov'd on, After my Friend was in her grave-clothes drest, A dim despondence on my spirit prest, As all my pleasant days were come and gone ! Strange whispers parted from th' entombing clay, The thin air murmur'd, each dumb object spake, Bidding my overwhelmed bosom ache : Oft did I look to Heaven, but could not pray ! " How shall I leave thee, quiet scene ?" said I, " How leave the passing breeze that loves to sweep " The holy sod where my due footsteps creep ? " The passing breeze? Twas She ! The Friend pass'd by !" But the time came ; the passing breeze I left ; " Farewell P I sigh'd, and seem'd of all bereft ! 158 SONNET X. Oh, She was almost speechless! nor could hold Awakening converse with me ! (I shall bless No more the modulated tenderness Of that dear voice !) Alas, 'twas shrunk and cold, Her honour'd face ! yet, when I sought to speak, Through her half-open'd eye-lids She did send Faint looks, that said " I would be yet thy friend ! ,? And (Oh, my choak'd breast!) e'en on that shrunk cheek I saw one slow tear roll ! my hand She took, Placing it on her heart — I heard her sigh, " Tis too, too much !" Twas Love's last agony ! I tore me from Her! Twas her latest look, Her latest accents — Oh, my heart, retain That look, those accents, till we meet again ! 159 SONNET XL As o'er the dying embers oft T cower, When my tir'd spirits rest, and my heart swells Lull'd by domestic quiet, Mem'ry dwells On that blest tide, when thou the evening hour Didst gladden : while upon th' accustomed chair I look, it seems as if Thou wert still there : Kirtled in snowy apron thy dear knees, Propt on the fender'd hearth my fancy sees, O'er which exchanging souls we wont to bend! And as I lift my head, thy features send A cheering smile to me — but, in its flight O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night Sweeps surlily ! starting, my fancy creeps To the bleak dwelling where thy cold corse' sleeps ! LINES Written on a Friday, the Day in each Week formerly devoted by the Author and his Bro- thers and Sisters to the Society of their Grand- mother. This is the day we children wont to go In best attire, with gay high-swelling hearts, And infant pride, to the belov'd repast Of her, our reverenc'd Grandmother ! the time By us, delighted infants, still was call'd An holiday ! E'en ere the shadowy morn Peep'd dimly thro' our half-drawn curtains, we Would tell each other of the day, and hail With one accord, and interchange of soul, The heartsome festival of home-born love ! Our matin task, with o'ercharg'd restless souls That wearily suppress'd joy's giddiness, How ill perform'd ! Learning's dull mockery o'er, How did we shout, and rend the air with cries Of glad deliverance ! For the hour was come, LINES. 161 The hour of Joy! Faint-heard, the rumbling wheels Proclaim the kind conveyance sent by her, The watchful Friend, to bear the feeble ones : Perchance some babe that still in helplessness Clings to its Mother's breast, or one that left But now its Nurse's lap, another yet That scarcely lisps its benefactress' name, Yet calls itself, in pride of infancy, Woman or Man ! — Ah, enviable state I When, in simplicity of heart, we're pleased With misery-meaning names ! The mother still With kisses fond, or smiles of anxious hope, Tended affection's tott'ring troop : while we, By pedant watch'd, hurried along with step Measuring back half its way, all anxious now To reach the lov'd abode, yet oft repress'd By him, the surly Tyrant of those years, When freedom seems most precious. But the tree First seen, that screen'd that spot, how eagerly We hail'd it, beat our hearts, our froward steps Now quicken'd, now untractable, in spite Of threaten'd durance, bore us on, till soon, A happy train ! athwart the lawn we rushd, Mounted the steps, burst swiftly thro' each door In vain our course impeding, and at last M 162 LINES, Threw our fond arms around the much-lov'd form That smil'd our welcome, bright'ning every face With kind reflection of propitious Love ! Oh ! 'twas a scene that fiU'd the happy heart ! A scene, which when my musing memory feigns, Starts a warm tear unwittingly, a sigh Rises within, for it will ne'er return ! The welcome o'er, and intercourse of looks Anxiously smiling, interrupted oft By quaint inquiry, and meek playfulness, Each hastens to his sport. This to a spot Trimly defended from the intruding step, Hight by the busy urchin, who had there Exhausted all his little store of taste, A Garden! — There he weekly brought some flower, Primrose or violet, or, of costlier kind, The rose tree, or the tulip's gaudy gloss : For all his scanty hoard unsparingly This tiny scene engross'd, the well-earn'd gift Was here expended, and he oft would gaze With big-swoln heart, exulting at the thought That he might call the spot belov'd his own! It was a fairy scene ! the utmost range LINES. 163 Of some soft sylph that guards infantine bliss, And prompts its nascent dreams ! Aloft in air Some tempt th' adventurous swing, while others waft The shapely kite. Thus pleasing still and pleas'd The day pass'd on : the hospitable meal (Where circulated looks affectionate) Employ'd no tedious hour, for all around Was childish mirth, and warm solicitude ; So fled, 'twixt cares of friendliness and joys Heartfelt and unrestrained, all cheerily, In sanctity of bliss, the simple day ! Twere not misnam'd if call'd a little Sabbath ! To me, when frisking in the sports which now Memory tenacious dwells on, 'twas I ween A prodigality of bliss ! but, ah ! I elder than the train that gather'd there Joy's infant buds, earlier their blight deplor'd ! When ran the urchins to their sports, for me Ere youth to manhood all reluctantly Resign'd its sway ; or evanescent, ere The tremulous dimple to the rigid line, The woe-fix'd character of countenance, Had yielded quite ; how oft unblest and restless. Slow, and with ling'ring gaze reverted still, M 2 164 LINES. IVe wander'd From the scene, the simple scene That once engross'd me wholly ; and would pine Troubled with wishes, and perplex'd desires, Then all mysterious. Often would I weep Still wond'ring at my tears, and sigh, and sigh — Yet could my fancy feign no rapt'ring object Apt for my hopes. Nor seldom would I brood On vision'd bliss seen dimly. Thus consum'd My days inactive : thus my infant powers Fed on imagination's airy stores, Till all reality was anguish ! Now Manhood advanc'd, bringing the unsumm'd ills Of Life, and bleak disaster claimed my tear While yet I wept o'er fancy-pictur'd woe. For She, the Friend, departed ! died, and left Her child but half matur'd ! (for manly years Produc'd not manly thought) — I can no more ! Farewell, best friend ! ah, holy Friend farewell ! This day was once with thee enjoy 'd, 'tis now In sad remembrance more than ever thine ! SONNETS. Ego, apis Matina? More, modoque, Grata carpentis thyma per laborem Flurimum, circa nemus uvidique Tiburis ripas, operosa parvus Carraina fingo. Hor. lib. iv. Ode 2. INTRODUCTION TO THE MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. The following Sonnets can pretend to little more than to be commemorations of particular feelings, or particular scenes, with which, from time to time, the Author was more than usually impress- ed. The first eight Sonnets have appeared in former editions of the poems of the Author : — all the subsequent ones are now printed for the first time. In these, comprized in the latter collection, the Author has, with a very few exceptions, rigo- rously adhered to the repetition of rhymes found in all the sonnets of Italian Authors, from whom those of Great Britain have borrowed this species of composition. In his opinion, the Sonnet, from its brevity, is a poem so liable to be overlooked, 168 if not despised, that it is well, by connecting with its structure some artificial complexity, to give to it, independently of whatever poetic merit it may possess, the additional one of difficulty surmounted. A poem in three elegiac stanzas, with a couplet tacked to the end of them, like those to which Mrs. Charlotte Smith allows by courtesy the epithet of sonnet, is, in the opinion of the Author, rather an epigram. In the sonnet there should be a oneness of thought and feeling ; and this strict unity should pervade it from the beginning to the end: it should not conclude with a point ; but the same austere energy with which it is closed should be conspicuous in its first line, and should equally pervade it as a whole. It seems peculiarly adapted as a vehicle for commemorating the more interesting impressions of life : — the writer of it, if he have been accus- tomed to put down in this form his more vivid feelings, may look back upon a series of such compositions as containing a body of sentimental biography; and to him may be justly applied the description of Lucilius contained in the following lines of Horace : — 169 Hie velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris ; neque, si male gesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque, si bene ; quo fit, ut omnis Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella Vita sen is. The Author cannot so well express what fur- ther he may have to say on this subject, as by availing himself of the following paragraphs from the pen of Mr. Coleridge. ** The sonnet is a small poem, in which some lonely feeling is developed. It is limited to a particular number of lines, in order that the reader's mind, having expected the close at the place in which he finds it, may rest satisfied; and that so the poem may acquire, as it were, a totality — in plainer phrase, may become a Whole. It is confined to fourteen lines, because as some particular number is necessary, and that particu- lar must be a small one, it may as well be four- teen as any other number. When no reason can be adduced against a thing, custom is a suf- ficient reason for it. Perhaps, if the sonnet were comprized in less than fourteen lines, it would become a serious epigram; if it extended to more, it would encroach on the province of the 170 Elegy. Poems, in which no lonely* feeling is developed, are not Sonnets, because the Author has chosen to write them in fourteen lines : they should rather be entitled Odes, or Songs, or In- scriptions. " In a sonnet, then, we require a development of some lonely feeling, by whatever cause it may have been excited, in which moral sentiments, affections, or feelings, are deduced from, and associated with, the scenery of Nature. Such compositions generate a habit of thought highly favourable to delicacy of character. They create a sweet and indissoluble union between the intel- lectual and the material world. Easily remem- bered from their briefness, and interesting alike to the eye and the affections, these are the poems which we can ' lay up in our heart, and in our soul,' and repeat them * when we walk by the way, and when we lie down, and when we rise up.' " The author is sorry, after having made this beautiful extract from the Introduction to the * The Author supposes, that by " lonely" Mr. Cole- ridge means " single " feeling, not solitary feeling. 171 Sonnets of Mr. Coleridge, that he is obliged to confess that he totally differs from him in the opinion given in the succeeding part of that composition : after having laid it before his readers, he will conclude this little address with the reasons which induce him to dissent in opi- nion from so great an authority in almost all questions, and particularly in any one connected with poetry. " Respecting the metre of a sonnet, the writer should consult his own convenience. — Rhymes, many or few, or no rhymes at all — whatever the chastity of his ear may prefer, whatever the rapid expression of his feelings will permit ; — all these things are left at his own disposal. A sameness in the final sound of its words is the great and grievous defect of the Italian language. That rule, therefore, which the Italians have esta- blished, of exactly four different sounds in the sonnet, seems to have arisen from their wish to have as many, not from any dread of finding more. But, surely, it is ridiculous to make the defect of a foreign language a reason for our not availing ourselves of one of the marked excel- lences of our own. * The Sonnet/ says Preston, 1 will ever be cultivated by those who write on tender pathetic subjects. It is peculiarly adapted 172 to the state of a man violently agitated by a real passion, and wanting composure and vigour of mind to methodize his thoughts. It is fitted to express a momentary burst of passion/ &c. Now, if there be one species of composition more difficult and artificial than another, it is an Eng- lish sonnet on the Italian model. Adapted to the expression of a real passion ! Express mo- mentary bursts of feeling in it ! I should sooner expect to write pathetic axes, or pour forth ex- tempore eggs and altars!" The Author replies, that experience affords the test by which this question is to be tried. Milton, Warton, and, later than these, Miss Seward, and especially Mr. Wordsworth, have produced beautiful, and the latter most sublime, English sonnets on the Italian modeL Where Mr. Coleridge learned that " the sameness in the final sounds of its words is the great and grievous defect of the Italian language," the Author can- not tell. No reader perceives such a defect in Ariosto, Tasso, or Dante. — It is certainly more easy to rhyme in that, than in almost any other language, since most of its words terminate with a vowel; but to this very circumstance, must the melody of that language be in some measure attributed. Again, the Author recurs to what 173 he has already said, that in a poem so tottering on the brink of insignificancy as is the sonnet, it is well, in order to give an artificial value to it, that in the mode of its composition some diffi- culty be overcome. Yet, were his experience allowed as of any weight, he should say, that when once the mind is resolved upon such a re- straint, no more difficulty is perceived in writing a sonnet on the Italian model, than on the more loose one of three elegiac stanzas and a couplet. — Besides, it should seem that the very argu- ment deduced from custom, in the composition of the sonnet, which Mr. Coleridge brings for the restriction of fourteen lines, might equally apply to the further one of confining the termination of its lines to four sounds, — taking for granted, that the author is justified in asserting, that, when the will is bent upon it, it is almost as easy to write a sonnet on the Italian model, as to compose one without any restraint than that of the fourteen lines, he shall, in further extenuation of the for- mer rule, assert with Mr. Coleridge, that " when no reason can be adduced against a thing, custom is a sufficient reason for it." — As for the quotation made by Mr. Coleridge from Mr. Preston, the language there adopted seems a begging of the 174 question ; a position is gratuitously laid down, in order to vindicate an inference. The author al- ways considered the sonnet rather as a severe and terse composition ; he never dreamed of it as peculiarly " fitted to express a momentary burst of passion." — Rather did he look upon it as a poem of a meditative and thoughtful cast. There would be no end to theoretical innovations, if persons are thus to frame factitious theories as an apology for them. SONNETS. SONNET I. TO CRAIG-MILLAR CASTLE. 1796. This hoary labyrinth, the wreck of time, Solicitous, with timid step I tread ; Scale the stern battlement, or vent'rous climb, Where the rent watch-tower bows its grassy head : These dark, damp caverns breathe mysterious dread, Haply still foul with tinct of ancient crime ; Methinks some spirit of the ennobled dead High-bosom'd maid, or warrior chief sublime Haunts them : the flappings of the heavy bird Imagined warnings fearfully impart; And the dull breeze below, that feebly stirred, Seemed the deep breathing of an o'er-charged heart. Proud Tower, thy halls now stable the lean herd, And musing Mercy smiles that such thou art ! 176 SONNET II. TO SCOTLAND. 1796. Scotland ! when thinking on each heathy hill, O'er whose bleak breast the billowy vapours sweep, While sullen winds imprisoned murmur deep 'Mid their dim caves, such thoughts my bosom fill, I cannot chuse but sigh ! Oft wandering wild I've traced thy torrents to their haunted source, Whence down some huge rock with fantastic course, Their sheeted whiteness pouring, they beguiled The meek disheartened One, in solitude Who sought relief. Beneath some aged tree Thy white cots dimly seen yielded to me Solace most sweet: nor seldom have I viewed Their low thatch wishfully, and paused to bless The uncultur'd children of lone quietness. 177 SONNET III. TO NOVEMBER. 1796. Dismal November ! me it sooths to view, At parting day, the scanty foliage fall From the wet fruit tree ; or the grey stone wall, Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew. To watch the yellow mists from the dank earth Enfold the neighbouring copse ; while, as they pass, The silent rain-drops bend the long rank grass, Which wraps some blossom's unmatured birth. And through my cot's lone lattice glimmering grey Thy damp, chill evenings have a charm for me, Dismal November ! for strange vacancy Summoneth then my very heart away ! 'Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell. And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell ! N 178 SONNET IV. 1796. I HAD been sad, and drooped like one forlorn, When, as it might befall, I threw mine eye Athwart the sunny plain ; a breeze past by Pure and inspiriting, as newly born, The viewless messenger of some far glen ! It breathed, methought, faint tones of distant peace ! Sighing, I turned me from the haunts of men, And bodied forth some dell, where care might cease. I gazed, (a lone tear stealing down my cheek), And wished that I knew one whom I might throw Mine arms around, and snatching her from woe, Yield her my heart ; and in some simple cell Where I might win the solace of the meek, Pray for the hard world, where I once did dwell ! 17U SONNET V. 1796. When witching evening wore her shadows dim. Those big-swoln broodings oft I sought to wake . Which made my lone heart fancifully ache; And wayward tears unnoticed still would swim, Filling each "idle orb!" And I have loved This mystic transport ; me the wildering hour Soothed ; and dim vested Silence seemed to pour Balm, such as might befit a wretch that roved, | Sicklied with thought. Nor was not this my lot ! Now was I mazed with strange perplexities, And now to my tranced sprite such dreams would rise, That when I waked, I wept " to find them not!'* Wept that stern reason chased with blasting eye The feverish mind's fantastic imagery. N 2 180 SONNET VI. 1796. *Twere well, methinks, in an indignant mood, When the heart droops unfriended, when man- kind, With their cold smiles, have duped thy honest mind, On the wet heath to stray, while dimly brood The gathered grey-mists on the distant hill : Drear should the prospect be, dreary and wide* No second living one be there espied, None save thyself; then would thy soul be still, Curbing its sorrows with a proud despair ! Then wouldst thou tread thy path with firmer pace, Nor let one scowl on thy resolved face Blab to the elements thy puny care ; But, soothed to think that solitude can bless, Muse on the world with lofty quietness. 181 SONNET VII. 1796. Ye overflowings of a restless heart, Why thus torment me ? wishes undefin'd, Why through my breast so vehemently dart, Waking convulsed commotions of the mind ? Oh ! stubborn feelings, why do ye refuse The high-wrought intercourse of souls to bless ? Why pampering lonesome anguish idly muse, Or mutter workings of obscure distress ? Almighty Parent ! what a thing am I ! Shuddering with ecstacy, yet dumb the while ! Thou, only Thou, with chaos-piercing eye, Canst see me as I am ! My Father, rise Sublime in love, and with thy calming smile Hush Thou my spirit's stormy phantasies ! 182 SONNET VIII. 1796. If the low breathings of the poor in heart, If the still gratitude of wretchedness Relieved when least expecting, have access *. To Thee, the Almighty Parent, Thou wilt dart Thy loving kindness on the offering meek My spirit brings, oppressed with thankfulness, At this lone hour : for Thou dost ever bless The stricken soul, that sighs and cannot speak. Omniscient Father ! I have been perplexed, With scoffers linked! yea, called them my friends, Who snare the soul ! But now, by doubt un- vexed, My heart uplifts itself; its aim extends To Heaven, where Thou tliy brighter dwelling hast, Oh Omnipresent Thou, first, midst, and last ! 183 SONNET IX. WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1799. On seeing the Moon rise, among Clouds swiftly driven by the Wind, from behind a Hill across Ulswater. Black is the lake, and blacker still the sky, And lake and sky with hollow murmur moan : Scarce shakes a little star its locks on high; And Fear's fantastic images alone Crowd on the expectant spirit ! O'er the hill, That lifts above the waves its shaggy brow, Rises a solemn radiance : lovelier still, And lovelier, varying like enchantment, now It stands with burning glory, bright and deep, Like that which compasseth the eternal throne 'Mid black pavillion'd clouds. So to the sleep Of Patriarch old ; when, pillowed on a stone, Was seen in vision, 'mid thick darkness given, God's fiery-winged troop, and God in Heaven ! 184 SONNET X. TO A SISTER. 4th June, 1800. Oh ! shall we visit those high scenes again? Say, shall our spirits mount as we descry Those wavy mountains o'er the western main, 'Mid the deep colours of the evening sky ? Say, shall we turn to them a grateful eye, And think of all our toil and ruth and pain, Since we with petulant inconstancy, Have sought for peace, where peace is sought in vain ? -How could we quit thee, Nature? quit thy forms Sublime and simple, pure and holy ever ? How cease to wonder at thy solemn storms, How from thy softer charms our spirit sever And hope (thee once enjoyed), where art de- forms, To find some solace for the base endeavor? 185 SONNET XL TO THE SAME. 5th June, 1800. Say, dearest Sister, shall we once more hail The exalted thoughts, the emotions pure and high, That wake the soul to living ecstacy, While wandering Nature down thy wizard vale, Where comes no threat of pride, nor sorrow's tale, Where reels not pamper'd wealth obscenely by, That mar the bosom's deep serenity, And bid the springs of simple joyaunce fail ? Yes, Nature from her chosen dwelling place, Shall still with holiest privilege endow ; And, struck with love, to her benignant grace Thy soul shall dedicate each future vow ! While many a wilder breeze than thought can trace, Shedding new life, shall wanton round thy brow. 186 SONNET XII. TO THE SAME. 5th June, 1800. Ah, go my Sister ! — do not vainly try To reconcile thy bosom's fervent beat To sordid Art's unnatural pageantry ! In spotless youth, thy fancy-guided feet, Have trod the plains, and search'd the mossy dells, The foaming mountain-torrent's mighty fall ; Have traced the haunts where Inspiration dwells ; And vainly, Maiden, would thy soul recall Feelings which Nature banished when she view'd Thy youth so vowed to mystic solitude, And o'er thy form her sacred mantle threw : " Henceforth," she cried, " Oh Maid of noble heart, " Should thou my hallow'd turf-built shrine de- sert, " Nought can thy vanished happiness renew." 187 SONNET XIII. TO THE SAME. 6th June, 1800. Heed not the tongue, nor heed the brutal look; Pure Maiden heed them not, though they assail Thy simple ear with many a baneful tale ; Thine eye with insult thou disdainst to brook ! Keep that indignant soul ! and Folly, strook With shame, (if shame o'er Folly e'er prevail,) Shall hie him back with disappointment pale, And mutter fresh spells o'er his cursed book. Mutter'd in vain ! — For, disenchanted thou, No spell can wither thee, no charm can bind ; Nature hath heard thy youth's religious vow, And 'till thou art in her sanctuary shrin'd, She, watchful for her Child, shall chase away " Terrors by night, and enemies by day," 188 SONNET XIV. TO THE SAME. 6th June, 1800. Wilt thou with me the rifted mountain seek ? Say, shall I feel thine arm entwin'd in mine, See nature's healthful blush adorn thy cheek, And catch the gleams of sympathy divine Intelligibly traced in looks like thine ? Oh, Maiden, shall our full hearts inly speak Thanks to the God of nature ? Near some pine, Which sobs, and waves, to gales from mountains bleak, Whose knotted roots transparent fountains lave, Say, shall we lift our eyes, and as we see Nature's unutterable majesty, The rock, the hill, the lake, the woods that wave, For all the wonders which his bounty gave, Praise Him who " habiteth eternity " 189 SONNET XV. TO THE SAME. 6th June, 1800. Now fade the obtrusive colours of the day, Like liquid gold the smooth clear lake lies still, One streak of purple clouds above the hill Bests in the silence of the parting ray : O'er woods, streams, heights, heaven's magic glories play ; And, save the bleatings of the distant flocks, That murmur faintly from yon wood-fringed rocks, The linnets, or the throstle's evening lay. The soothing dash of oars that linger near Yon headland summit (where the sun-tipt sail Peeps 'mid the woodland's shadow) to the ear No sound is brought ! — Dear maid, can aught prevail To shake thy soul when scenes like these appear, Or bid the tides of genial nature fail ? 190 SONNET XVI. TO THE SAME. SihJune, 1800. On the calm eve of summer's fervid day Say, shall we sail along the lake's clear tide ? And, bounding in the little skiff, survey The countless forms that grace its gorgeous side ; The faint decline of landscape scarce espied, That to the horizon southward dies away, The mass of ancient rock like castle gray, The solemn wood, or mountain bleak and wide ; The little promontory's joyous green, The intersecting underwood, the cot, Or pastoral farm, whose herds at evening seen, Wind with slow varying course the sloping vale, — Maiden, does Fancy, whispering, cheat or not ? " Yes, on that glassy tide your bark shall sail." 191 SONNET XVII. TO THE SAME. 8th June, 1800. And further tell me, when the garish light Fades from the crystal canopy of heaven, Maiden, shall we religiously delight To linger through the slowly fading even ; Shall Hope and Fancy, long by Sorrow driven, To seek some solace by a timely flight, Own that meek patience hath not vainly striven To leave that busier world, where lawless might, And venom'd malice, fix the inward wound ? Oh God, shall peace and thankfulness abound The more for sorrows past, and ills sustain'd ? And as our souls drink in harmoniously Sounds felt like silence, all resentments die In grateful love, for joys and friends retain'd. 192 SONNET XVTII. Inserted in a Novel written by the Author, printed, but not published, called " Isabel" 26tk March, 1803. Fain would I say, withdraw, thou glorious beam, And shroud thyself in darkness ! fain desire Those rocks, those meads, that wood, yon laugh- ing stream, All nature's glowing graces to retire ; For more than earthly to my heart they seem ; — So that my struggling sentiments aspire, To frame the witchery of the lover's dream ; And mental bliss in unison require. Yes, when I see that pomp of Nature, wrought ^To such excess of loveliness, I seek, Though sought in vain, a soul whose mutual thought May catch the gush of love which cannot speak ; Rescuing the sigh that may not be subdued From agonies that dwell with Solitude. 193 SONNET XIX. Z6th March, 1803. Thou cottage gleaming near the tuft of trees, Thou tell'st of joy more than I dare believe Falls to the lot of man ; where Fancy sees, (For credulous Fancy still her dreams will weave) Him whose low fate no restless cares deceive, Blest by your smiles, pure as the mountain breeze ; Love, Peace, Humility, whose ministries Give all that happiest mortals can receive. Yon sun-tipt grove's embosom'd harmony, As fades the splendour of departing day, Swells on my ear most like the minstrelsy Which from thy inmate's pipe shall bear away The soul of him who listens, till he hear Sounds that awaken love's forgotten tear. 194 SONNET XX. 30th March, 1803. Is not all nature smiling ? Why should I Pine with the agonies of wretchedness, This active life excites, that vanity, And him the fervours of affection bless : Ambition beckoning waves her banners high, Streaming with rays of glory and success, And on the wing of Folly thousands fly To grasp the toy of hourly happiness. Dejection presses me with power-like fate In fellowship with woe, and inward care ; The beauteous forms of nature wrought so fair. Sink on my spirits with a weary weight ; Nor active life less threatens with despair, There flourish insincerity and hate. 195 SONNET XXL 30th March, 1805. Ye buds obedient to the breath of spring, Why with no wonted smile are ye caress'd ? Thou soul of Love that, borne on zephyr's wing. Dost steal unseen within the soften'd breast, Who, blessing and tormenting, know'st to bring Soft sighs, inquietudes, and many a guest That hint of dangerous joy, why dost thou wring, Not sooth my spirit to delicious rest ? Tis that I seek what human heart ne'er found, A world where Love, Truth, Peace, their laws maintain ; Tis that I ask on this polluted ground, For wells of living water ! Spring- tide train, Urging a hopeless wish, 'tis thus ye wound, To seek the more for what I seek in vain.* * I weep the more because I weep in rain. — Gray. o 2 196 SONNET XXII. Written early in the Morning, soon after the Birth of my third Child; and inscribed to my Mother, who was present on the occasion. 31st March, 1803. At this still hour, when, scarce by whistling swain, Bearing his pail, the meadow path is trod ; And thick mists hovering silently retain On ivied scar, and on the hill's dark sod, Their nightly station; when throughout the plain No wreathed smoke betrays the unseen abode Of early shepherd ; how can I restrain The hymn that mounts in gratitude to God ? The name of Father, now, with threefold force, Lives in my heart ; and she to whom I trace The gift of life, excites another source Of natural transport ; her belov'd embrace Strengthening our dear, domestic intercourse, Protects this blossom of her grateful race. 197 SONNET XXIII. 14th April, 1803. There is I know not what within my breast, Which, when these days of vernal beauty come, Excites my ardent sentiments to roam For happiness by mortals not possess'd : The song of birds, the lawn whose soft green vest Is prank'd with spring-flowers ; the translucent foam Of yon clear stream that winds around my home, Whose mossy banks my tottering babes have press'd With daily joy : the hills aerial height Piled in the summer skies of cloudless blue, And faintly bathed with like cerulean hue, So raise my soul, that, when she shares the sight, Who doubles every charm she loves to view, My o'ercharg'd heart is troubled with delight. 198 SONNET XXIV. 14th April, 1803. And when the bleat of lambs from yonder bank Stole with the murmur of the summer breeze, That creeps among those ancient holly trees, And ivied rocks ; when all my senses drank This river's charm, whose course pale violets prank, Primrose, and daisy ; while upon my knees My babes would mimic nature's harmonies, How in my heart the sense of pleasure sank ! Twas pure affection's simple ecstacy ! Let not the spotless sense be e'er defiled, Which, at that willing hour, so sweetly smiled; In years of manhood may the father see The pure enjoyments of the little child* The pledge of innocent maturity ! 199 SONNET XXV. TO MY MOTHER. And art thou come and gone, childhood's first friend ? Oh, sad condition of life's treacherous way, That thus our best delights must quickly end, And, save pale memory's treasures, all decay. And art thou gone ? Who knows how time may rend Existence' feeble thread ere thou canst pay Another cordial visit, or descend Oblivious, on the feelings of to-day ? We never more shall meet with thoughts like those Which now inspire our hearts; — the hour so dear, The certain hour is gone ; nor mortal knows, When, where, or how, such hour may re- appear. Fain would my heart avert the change ; it owes To change such bitter pangs, all change brings —-fear ! •200 SONNET XXVL Storm at Night, in a mountainous Country, con- trasted with Domestic and Fire-side comforts. How calm is my recess; and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear The silence, and the warmth enjoyed within. Cowper's Task, Book iv. 11th May, 1803. JVow howls the storm pent up amid the hills, At distance heard ; with still increasing roar It sweeps along the flooded vale : no more The mountain stream, fed from a thousand rills, The poet's ear with soothing murmur thrills ; But swol'n, impetuous, rushing fiercely o'er, With vexed surge, the bounds it knew before, The tempest's solemn diapason fills. 201 Now stir the fire ; while the drench'd windows shake, And, borne on blasts of night, thick sheets of rain, With shrill, swift crash burst on each rattling pane : At eve's due hour where home-bred comforts wake, Where music, books, and social converse reign, The scene is dearer for the tempest's sake. 20* SONNET XXVIL Sketch of a Mountain Cottage. nth May, 1803. Yon cottage sheltered by those aged pines, Whispering with winds that 'mid their branches sweep, Like the low murmurs of the distant deep ; Yon whiten'd cottage, mantled o'er with vines, Above whose roof the wooded hill inclines, With garden where the earliest snow-drops peep, Crocus, and violet ; where Liburnams weep, And either Lilac, with Syringa, shines. Yon cot, the heart-struck mourner well might seek, One whom dejection, or misfortunes, chase From cheerful haunts of man ; its rustic grace The dignity of better days doth speak, Nor should the worldling force, in such a place, The blush of decent pride on griefs pale cheek. 203 SONNET XXVIII. 12th May, 1803. When first among these mighty hills I came, A wild delirium wakened every sense ; Rocks, hills, woods, waters, lent their in- fluence, And shapes, and sounds, of more than earthly frame, Haunted my dreams; the thought of fear or blame Did never then a deadly chill dispense ; I swiftly caught, unmindful where or whence It sprung, at rapture's vivifying flame. But all is chang'd, — I then pursued the sprite Of airy transport ; now I seek the shrine Of hermit peace ; the future then was mine In gaudy colours drest, now reigns thick night On the next hour : — oh, could it only shine, Dreams of past joy, with your reflected light t 204 SONNET XXIX. Description of a Spring Hailstorm in a moun- tainous Country. 13th May, 1803. Amid those hills, while yet, in clefts, the snow Chills the first breath of spring's salubrious gale, Clouds thick, and lowering more and more prevail, And moans the pent up tempest dull and low. The clouds advance ; the swift blasts, as they g°> Mountain and scar, and rocking wood assail ; Confused murmurs rush athwart the vale, And winter's eddying leaves whirl to and fro. Through slanting hail which scuds along the sky Pale nature gleams in unsubstantial hue, Th' eternal mountains vanish from the view, — Now they burst sudden opening from on high, The fleet-wing'd tempest gather'd and with- drew : As swift gay sun-beams o'er the landscape fly ! — 205 SONNET XXX. TO SOPHIA. Written previous to a Journey to a place very distant from that of our. residence. 27th Nov. 1806. Shall we again the sacred stilness hail Of this belov'd abode ? Shall we again, Withdrawn from all the hum and stir of men, Read in each other's looks the cordial tale Of days of mild esteem ? — the interchange Of kindly offices ? — the sacrifice, r Silent and free, of wayward phantasies, That fain would mar a love they could not change ? Had it not been for thee, thou generous soul, Whom wrongs of mine could never turn aside, Nor petulance, nor wretchedness, divide ; Who, when the black cloud heaviest seem'd to roll, Didst spread thy faithful arms thy friend to save — His happiest fate had been the silent grave ! 206 SONNET XXXI, TO SOPHIA. September 26, 1806. May'st thou be happy, my beloved friend ! And you, sweet innocents, may ye be blest ! May peace and love from yonder skies descend And find a home in each unruffled breast ! Oh, could I shroud you in some quiet nest, Where never sounds of grief or fear offend ; Though still some weight my aching heart op- press'd, A glow of triumph with its pangs should blend. But ye, poor babes, must struggle, perhaps must fall, And thou, best friend, with me mayst bid farewell To many a flattering hope ! but this is all In darkness hid; and 'tis not fit to dwell In such a world, on griefs fantastical, Pitliest unknown ! — God grant that all end well! 207 SONNET XXXIL TO MISS W . On her proposing a Visit to the Family of the Author. 15th Oct. 1806. Did Fortune smile propitious on our lot, Or in our home refinement's magic spell Detain those graces you have woo'd so well* Glad should we be to hail you at our cot ! But honest Pride and Truth, that scorn the blot Of false pretension, urge, tho' loath, to tell Of thoughts and cares inelegant, that dwell In mediocrity's most favoured spot. Then why should we with selfish aim invite A friend we love, where anxious cares alarm 1 Rather tell her with fascination's charm, To thrid the mazy labyrinth of delight ; Circled by Fancy's rainbow-winged swarm That live but in the sunbeam of her sight - 4* 208 SONNET XXXIII. FROM PETRARCH. lUhNov. 1806. Say, what officious angel bore my grief, By pity mov'd, to the abodes on high; That now my Laura hastens from the sky, With mildest courtesy, to my relief? She comes to calm my sad and troubled breast, So full of sweetness, so devoid of pride, That life, before detested, seems supplied With consolation, and with thoughts of rest. Oh, blessed thou, who thus hast power to im- , press With sweet intelligencing looks and speech ; Looks, words, more dear from secret conscious- ness, That we alone their mystic sense can reach. For, pitying, thou dost condescend to teach That thou refusedst, but the more to bless. 209 SONNET XXXIV. lMhJan. 1807, When friendship turns her long averted face, And sweetly smiles on me again ; 'tis hard To wear the look of coldness, nor embrace The dear and profFer'd blessing of regard. Oh Thou, at whose behest man runs the race Of life, howe'er severe ; who bidst him guard His eyes, his senses, and his heart, nor chase In this bleak clime a premature reward ; Forgive me, if my thoughts, at times, rebel ; If feeling strongly, I should sometimes pine To make the flattering dreams of pleasure mine — And grasp those joys my fancy feigns too well. The ascendant will bends to thy great design Tho' trait'rous wishes throb, and tears of nature swell. 210 SONNET XXXV. FROM PETRARCH. 31st Jan. 1807. Oh chamber, which, till late, retreat supplied, From heavy storms that pelted through the day, Thou seest me now to pining care a prey, Which from the curious world I fain would hide. Oh couch, where common griefs are laid aside, How oft thy shelter did my pangs allay ? Now bath'd with tears, my sighs to thee betray A cureless passion to despair allied. Of solitude I am not weary grown : Myself I fear and my consuming woe, My tortur'd soul, my insuppressive foe ! And vulgar souls, from whom I long have flown, (Oh, humbling change !) a refuge now bestow, So much I dread to find myself alone. 211 SONNET XXXVL FROM PETRARCH. 1st February, 1807. JLove, I transgress, and consciously transgress, But, like the wretch, whom inward flames con- sume, My pangs increase, and reason's aid suppress, Till cureless agony complete my doom. Some little check to importunate distress The fear inspired, that I might bring a gloom On her sweet hours of peace ; but now no less Than fell despair goads boldly to presume. Of reckless ravings, petulant and wild, 'Tis thou, not I, oh Love, the guilt must bear, Who thus dost every power of thought per- plex, So that to airy nothings, like a child, And worse than airy nothings, I repair — Oh, pardon thou who thus my heart dost vex. P2 212 SONNET XXXVII. TO SOLITUDE. In solitude What happiness?— Who can enjoy alone? Or, all enjoying, what contentment find ? Sd February, 1807. Oh Solitude, let him thy aid implore, Whose o'erwrought soul the busy world hath tired ; And oft thou'rt wisely wooed by him inspired With taste, and learning's independent lore. But, Solitude, thou art a friend no more, To him, who, with a hopeless passion fired, To brood unmarked, incautious, hath retired On joys whose stings remain, whose sweets are o'er. Then, Solitude, thou soft but dangerous power, Who charm'st the enthusiast with insidious rest, Thy silent days unnerve, relax ; — and drest In dire illusion, comes thy loneliest hour ! The cheerful Spirit would not be thy guest ! And Frenzy clasps the wretched in thy bower. 213 SONNET XXXVIII. TO SOLITUDE. Sd February, 1807. Better the boisterous tide of life to stem, Than dwell on Love's enervating delight; Better to fret thy spirits in the game Of interest or ambition, than to blight Thy youth's first vigorous promise; bid the night Of disappointment shroud thy noteless name ; Than to a cankering foe yield up the right Of all those thoughts that pledged thy course to fame. Since happiness evades our mortal eye, Bear we the station firmly heaven assigned ! Ye melting visions that relax the mind Begone ! ye promise peace — but we must buy Our peace on earth with arduous victory O'er all that Passion to her heart would bind. 214 SONNET XXXIX. TO SOLITUDE. 4th February, 1807. Oh, Solitude, thou hast no moderate pain ! Thy griefs are cureless ; it were far more wise To chase of busy life the vanities And fretting incidents, than court thy reign Of deep, profoundest gloom. Alas, in vain Ye seek for peace whose least sensations rise Above the cold hearts loftiest ecstacies 9 By stern proscription of amusement's train. Better to toil in bleak life's thorny field ; Be galled by interruptions that estrange Thy thoughts from what thou art; than when the range Of outward forms withdraw, till then concealed, To find an inward chaos that will yield To nought save fortune, time, and place, and change. 215 SONNET XL. Inserted in a Novel, written by the author, printed^ but not published, called " Isabel." 27th July, 1807. No ear shall ever hear my source of woe ; No heart shall e'er conceive the pang I feel ; None but the Almighty power the wound can heal, Which prompts my bosom's agonizing throe ! O ye, so eloquent in sorrow, know Grief is not grief when language may reveal ; He is the man of grief who must conceal Thoughts that, like spectres, trackless come and go. Senses of ear, and eye, and touch, ye raise An insurrection through my inmost soul ; Yet o'er that soul the law of duty sways With absolute, invincible control. Oh Virtue, let me cease to love thy ways ! Or bid these tides of passion cease to roll ! •216 SONNET XLL 29th Sept. 1807. Let those to whom Love ne'er his raptures dealt Despise his power; — dead to the thrilling sense, The dear infatuating influence, With which the stricken breast is doomed to melt. Let those not talk of love, who have not knelt In supplicating anguish so intense That Grief could not conceive a recompense In all the stores of life for what it felt. If thou hast suffer'd thus, thy God implore To teach thy thought devotion's ardent aim; For all thy days of happiness are o'er If thou confidest in an earthly flame. Heaven grant the infinite of thought may find Him who alone can fill the heights and depths of mind. 217 SONNET XLII. Written 29th Sept. 1807. Thou speakest well ! Imagination owes All to herself. To trifles light and vain She gives amazing stress of joy and pain ; And sometimes, mighty in her own repose, Removeth mountains, that impending rose To check her onward path ! Creation's reign, Touched by her magic wand, brings forth a train Of playful sprites, or ghosts foreboding woes ; A world to all, save him that sees, unknown ! In summer's blissful noon strange voices swell ; In night's deep silence, whence that bursting groan ? These, and a thousand shapes, and sounds that dwell With Fancy, are exclusively their own, Loved by the Priestess of the Magic Cell, 318 SONNET XLIIL Inserted in a Novel,written by the Author, printed* but not published, called " Isabel." 1st Oct. 1807. If, as the mystics say, grace from above More frequent dawns while tears of anguish roll, Wrestling with passions of the fallen soul, There might be consolation thus to prove An inward torment; thus, like Noah's dove, To know no resting-place from grief's control ; No sheltered spot where memory doth not toll The knell of sorrow for some severed love. But if an idle anguish desecrate From every pure and intellectual aim, The abode of thought, the temple of the mind, What but despair and blasphemy await ? — Religion, come, in Patience' holy name, The self-abandon'd heart thou'rt pledged to bind.* * He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it. 219 SONNET XL1V. Two Sketches attempted, which will only be un- derstood well by him who acknowledges their likeness to himself. 1st Oct. 1807. Hard is his lot, who wheresoever he turns, No fellow-feeling finds ! whom social glee Never exhilarates ; whose heart ne'er burns With infant loves ; — nor tears of sympathy, Nor playful smiles, — to other men as free As air or light of heaven — are his ; who yearns With impotent, and pining jealousy, As other men appear to seem and be, While mockery's withering grin the novice spurns ; And sleek prosperity's unthinking sneer Dashes the trembling effort ere matur'd : — Shrinks the chill'd baffled heart, as if the fear Of unforgiven guilt, and unabjur'd Pursued; — for self-applause,* with healthful cheer, Ne'er comes where mental misery is endured. * Madame de Stael says somewhere, " Les grands maux portent leur trouble jusques dans la conscience" -220 SONNET XLV. ist Oct 180T. See this worn wretch amid the giddy throng, Feeble and timid : watch his anxious look : That mystery of care the world mistook For senselessness ! — Now bursts the festive song ! Pressed in his memory by a cruel wrong, And blasting misery of mind which shook The powers of life, so that he cannot brook The trophies that to social mirth belong. If thou hast never breath'd, though blest with ease And intellect, the unavailing prayer, The idle longing, to surrender these, And other rare pretensions, — so thy share In nature's common stores, and powers to please, Were once allowed, — thou knowest not despair* 221 SONNET XLVL 1st Oct 1807. P Why should'st thou ever strike the mournful string ? " The world will say. Because that string re- peats A tale responsive to my soul, that cheats My inward grief, by outward sounds that bring Brief alienation. Thus for those I sing Whose kindred thoughts on kindred themes may range ; Whom no extreme transition could estrange From secret disappointment's festering sting. Better t' associate powers of thought with woe, To dress her in the scanty remnants left Of fancy, grace, and beauty, than bereft Of all alleviation, bid her go, — As inadmissible to claim a share In sympathy, — to madness and despair. 222 SONNET XLVH. 1st Oct. 1807. t Twere like a dear lov'd long lost friend regain'd When least expected, in thy solitude To hear a voice which fits thy pensive mood : Men of the world, who joy's full cup have drain'd, Repress the sneer ; nor selfishly arraigned, Miscall each sentiment not understood : There are, like me, who life's gay scenes have viewed, In sorrow's discipline too early trained. How oft have arid thought, and black despair, Which, numb'd by sorrow's iron guardian pride, Would never yield to grief personified, — Seduced to tears — that long congealed had dwelt In cold repression, thus been mollified, When plaintive numbers breathed emotions felt. 223 SONNET XLVIIL 1st Oct. 1807. Come, Poesy, celestial power, and bring Thy genial train of visionary joys ! Raise my sad heart from sorrow that destroys ; And gnawing cares that check the salient spring Of genius : — come, and teach me how to sing : The world by me unenvied with its toys, The world amused by vanity and noise, And, pledged to interest, universal king. Recall the time when Fancy yet was young, And fresh affection shed the generous tear ; When falsehood was a stranger to my tongue, And vice, yet undetected, to mine ear, The dirge of murdered hope had not yet sung : Oh come, and rescue me from anxious fear I 224 SONNET XLIX. IN THE CHARACTER OF ST. PREUX. Suggested by reading, in the Heloise of Rousseau, the description of the Heroine of his Tale and St. Preux visiting, by means of an excursion by water, the rocks of Meillerie. Oct. 2nd, 1807. Sailing at ease along that placid lake, It seemed as all the world were left behind ; The universe was centred in my mind ; And what an universe was there to make Strange stir and tumult : fancy was awake, And thoughts of love and joy throbb'd quick : the wind Soothingly breathed; and mellowing beams assigned To autumn, raised such notes from bush and brake, That every object made the sense to ache, In Nature's most voluptuous mood combin'd. 225 For sailing thus along that placid tide, Dead to the world, the world unheeding me, While hopeless love in bleeding misery Throbbed in my heart, fain would despair have tried 'Mid whelming waves, the wretches latest cure — But conscience whisper'd, " Thou must yet endure.''* * The author is aware that in this little composition, he has exceeded the warrant allowed to the structure of the sonnet in the number of lines of which it consists ; but he takes the liberty, nevertheless, as it is more like a sonnet than any thing else, of classing it with compositions so entitled ; and he hopes that, lost in a crowd, its over- wieldiness of bulk will scarcely be perceived, where it has so many near relations at least, Facies non omnibus una Nee diversa tamen, qualis decet esse sororum, who, he fears, have each of them their respective blemishes. 226 SONNET L. 2nd Oct. 1807. Whether thou smile or frown, thou beauteous face, Thy charms alike possess my throbbing heart, Nor canst thou gesture, look, or word impart Fraught not with magic of enchanting grace : Oh, could I once thy lovely form embrace ! Die on thy lips, and, as fierce raptures dart, Breathe sighs that bid the mutual soul depart ! And with keen glances, keener glances chase ! It may not be, Oh Love ! — Thou gavest to me A heart too prone thy raptures to adore ! The touch, the look, the sigh, are mine no more I Love is departed, and in agony The infatuated spirit must deplore That after love no other joy can be. 227 SONNET LI. TO MISS . Oct. 4, 1807. Oh sentiment, in thy immortal glow, Our daily life with aspect new is seen, Thine is the touch discriminating, keen ! In persons, things, thou various shades dost know Which to mere intellect could not bestow A self-amusing topic : blank, I ween, Save to the initiate mind, thy busiest scene, Filled with affections, fears, and joy, and woe. But, ah ! how seldom must the trembling sense, By thee inspir'd, a heart responsive find ! How many to thy favours make pretence ! But rarely art thou, bashful instinct, kind, Where Modesty with virgin influence Hides not, with jealous car.e, her stores of mind ! Q 2 228 SONNET LIL TO MISS . Oct. 4, 1807. Once more, oh sentiment, I strike my lyre, Thy powers to sing. — To all the stores of art Thou dost entrancing dignity impart ! To painting, music, poesy, thy fire Doth give a fascinating influence : Forms, sounds, and words, subordinate to thee, Rise to a more imperious agency, Ineffable in grace and eloquence. Come not with death, oh sentiment ! nor come With disappointment, sorrow, and disease ! Then dim the impassioned eye, the tongue is dumb Where fascination played her witcheries. Then heaviest ills the loftiest bosom numb, Since streams most copious on that bosom freeze* 229 SONNET LIII. To her who will understand this, and the two preceding ones. 4th Oct. 1807. To her I bring these trophies of thy reign, Oh sentiment ! thy most beloved child ! Soft is her look, as if an angel smiled ; And musical her voice, as when the strain Of shepherd's flute along the twilight plain Is heard from far ; her step is calm and mild : Pride, and persuasive grace, seem reconciled In her, to consummate what poets feign. To thee I bring these trophies, beauteous form ! Round whom taste, elegance, and fancy breathe, To fashion's courtly ease you add the charm, To deem no thing that hath a heart beneath Solicitous benignity ! — Hence, warm With partial thoughts, I twine the unworthy wreathe. 230 SONNET LIV. Written after a Walk by Rydal Water , Westmore- land, in time of War. 7th Oct. 1807. In such a day how calm and mild this scene, Made for poetic thought. The woods displayed Of brown and yellow every varying shade : And here and there the fresh and lingering green Told yet of summer and her days serene, Too soon departed ! Fading fern array'd The russet hills ; and, as faint sun-gleams stray'd, In warmer hues th' upland slopes were seen. Oh, beauteous aspect of a beauteous world ! Mournful to think how little understood ! In man's distemper'd heart hath frenzy hurl'd Envenom'd shafts ! The sword, defiPd with blood, Lays waste the earth : and o'er the ocean flood The crimson flag of discord is unfurPd. 231 SONNET LV. Written after seeing Rydal Lake. 8th Oct 1807. Wild is the lake, dark in autumnal gloom ! And white its surf rolls in the silvery gleam ; Swift lights that flit like phantoms in a dream, Or white robed spirits hovering o'er a tomb The shades of autumn fitfully illume. The plaintive winds now swelling in a stream Of deep-toned music, now subsiding, seem To frame a dirge for Nature's faded bloom. The yellow leaf whirls frequent in the air ; From the full floating clouds propitious showers, As with an infant's playfulness repair To variegate the visionary hours : The elements at work exhaust their powers, From the bard's heart, to dissipate all care. 232 SONNET LVI. SthOet.1807. Whence dost thou spring, thou visionary sound, Heard by my hearth, what time the curtain hides The external world, where sable night abides ? Thy source unseen, though Fancy in her round, Scorning the illumin'd parlour's scanty bound Springs to the waste o'er which thy murmur glides, Pictures the mountain, or the roaring tides Whose haunts thou visitest with voice profound. Cease not thy music, when, at hour of sleep, The forms of day no longer cheat my woes ; When slumber's stealing powers mine eye-lids close, Still let thy melodies, so soft and deep, A soothing presage bring, that peace shall keep My bosom, rocked by Nature to repose. 233 SONNET LVIL Inserted in a Novel, written by the Author, called " Isabel" 14th Oct. 1807. My God ! I lift my sorrowing voice to thee ! I ask not health, prosperity, or fame, Joy, life, whate'er of good the thought can frame : I ask the gift of faith, when misery Must be my lot, that I may bend the knee, And feel, great God, that whence my misery came, From the same source alone my heart can claim That which from mental pangs can set me free ! Yes, Father ! let me see thy hand in grief, And grief to me shall be as comfort dear! But if, in wisdom, thou refuse to hear, If of my trials darkened faith be chief, Let resignation, with a holy fear, Refuse presumptuous, premature relief. 234 SONNET LVIII. Descriptive as well as commemorative of a place belonging to the eldest Brother of the Author's Father; a place in which were spent many of the happiest Hours of his Youth. 19th Oct. 1807. Beloved spot, ere sleep mine eyes did close On last night's pillow, thy remembered scene, Thy shrubbery, avenue, and daisied green, Thy teeming garden, farm, and orchard rose With many a thought of what I once had been ! What beauty, and what joy didst thou disclose ! What hopes, what loves, what friendships, and what woes ! What tide of life thy busy range has seen ! Now silent all, deserted ! Memory's thought Can never from that moment* be estrang'd, When the lov'd progeny, in order rang'd, * The Uncle and Aunt of the Author had sixteen chil- dren, seven sons and nine daughters, and most of them so far remarkable for beauty of person, that, when col- lected together, the family groupe probably could scarce- 235 The parent's glance of heartfelt triumph caught ! Six graceful forms the hand of death hath chang'd, And to thy once gay bowers are fear and sorrow brought. ly be rivalled in that respect. The Author once in his life saw each individual of them marshalled according to their age : — it is to this circumstance, and to the subse- quent death of six of the family, all unexpectedly, and in quick succession one after the other, carried off in the bloom of life, that the latter part of the Sonnet alludes. 236 SONNET LIX. lUh Nov. 1807. Where is that crowd of friends that could dis- pense Refreshing rapture to life's sunny morn ? Where are those loves, affections, that are born Of freedom, sentiment, and confidence ? Tis silent all ! a blank to every sense ! The energy of life, that used to scorn The rule of pale experience, is withdrawn ! That power ere while so buoyant and intense ! Yet there is One who faithful still remains, Who loves my solitude, as once she lov'd My cheer in social life : who loves my joy, Nor flies my couch when gnawing sickness reigns : She, like the minister of heaven, hath prov'd That " time and chance" can true love ne'er destroy. 237 SONNET LX. 14th Nov. 1807. Let him who runs of active life the race Despise the Muses : let him, with strong mind, Appropriate objects for each passion find : Yet are there some, who, doomed to quit the chase Of Interest, or Ambition, whose slow pace Of languid being to despair resigned, Could not support the interdict assigned To sequestration, with averted face Did the loved Muses frown on their bleak lot : For They can give to solitude a power, Can whisper soothings in the midnight hour ; And raise gay fictions where true joy is not ! The copious dews of sentiment can shower On Nature's bleakest, most deserted spot ! 238 SONNET LXL 14th November, 1807. Say, what is friendship but true sympathy Of kindred minds, where mutual feeling burns ; Where cordial warmth the cordial warmth returns, And lightens up the heart-conveying eye ? And how do Interest, and Vanity, Folly, and fear of solitude, by turns, Hypocrisy that speedily discerns The worth of borrowed reputation, try To emulate thy pure consoling flame ! Oh Friendship, with this war of fiends op- press'd, Where dost thou keep thy soul's serenity? I know thy power will zealously disclaim Divided incense. — Let my heart be blest ! — For I would sacrifice my all to Thee ! 239 SONNET LXII. On the Death of Mr. Robert Lloyd, who, together with a Brother married, both of them leaving a Widow, the former with four, and the latter with three Children, and a Sister unmarried, died each of them of Fevers, in the short space of three weeks. Written 15th November, 1811. My friend, my brother, no more shall I see That face affectionate, that face benign, Those eyes where tenderness did always shine r Whene'er they turned their gentle beams on me. If ever Faith, and Generosity, Love, and Benevolence almost divine, Forgetfulness of Self, Humility^ Blessed human nature; — Robert, they were thine ! Thy smile, — I see it now, — was kind and sweet As the first dawnings of an April morn : Thy warm solicitude each wish to meet, And catch the struggling meaning ere 'twas born, No words can emulate ! Who o'er thy urn, Lost friend, like him who lov'd thee most, should mourn ? 240 SONNET LXIIl. The same Subject continued; addressed to Mrs, Robert Lloyd. 15th November, 1811. Thou mourner desolate, what can I say To dry those tears which fall for him that's gone? I cannot bid thee hope that on life's way A human counterpart will e'er be known. No, never will a pure angelic ray Like that, which with a sweetness all his own, His dear face lighted, — never will a tone Of such solicitude, — thy love repay ! — Yet still thy soul communion sweet may hold, Still may his tenderness engross thy thought ! And though those eyes are dim, those lips are cold, With Love's warm eloquence divinely fraught, Still 'tis a holier privilege to grieve For Him, than with a less pure friend to live! 241 SONNET LXIV. Written 15th November, 1811. The following Sonnet was written after having finished, in Westmoreland, a translation of the Metamorphoses of Ovid into English verse, which the Author began six years before in Warwickshire ; and in order to facilitate the per- formance of which his brother kindly lent him the use of an apartment in his house, as being in a situation less interrupted by noise than the one in which he was stationed. This morn as dismal as the dismal theme, Which weighs my bosom when I think on thee : This morning shrouded in obscurity Of winds, and blustering rain, and vapours dim; This morn, with weary eye, and languid limb, The task is done of mimic poesy. To whom, dear friend, to whose kind sympathy, When in my breast first stirred the wayward whim, R 242 Can I ascribe assistance ? — Thou art gone ! — Thou first whene'er my frail and suffering mind Some effort made, with sweetness all thy own, And flattering promptitude most bland and kind, To gratulate my toils of little worth ! — Thou last to blame! — Thou jirst to hail their birth! 243 SONNET LXV. The same Subject continued. Written Ibth November, 1811. No, thou wert never known, wert never loved, As heart like thine should have been lov'd and known, Save by some life-long friends who now must groan That they, when thou didst live, so useless proved The cup of life to sweeten ! Friend removed From many a pang which hearts like thine alone Can feel ; which, with acuteness all thy own, Alas ! thou feltest ! Brother, Friend approved, Farewell ! I do not seek with hand profane, The veil that o'er thy heart was drawn to rend: Thou wert a hidden treasure which the vain, The proud, the worldly could not comprehend. 1 mourn for thee, thou ne'er to be forgot ! Yet more for those who loved, and see thee not ! R 2 244 SONNET LXVI. On the Death of Mr. Thomas Lloyd, who died within three weeks of the time when the subject of the last four Sonnets breathed his last. %$ih December , 181 1* If manly honour, and a soul sincere, Fidelity with delicacy joined, Immaculate transparency of mind, And worth too sensitive for this low sphere ; If Thomas, all the virtues that are dear In scenes domestic, fortitude resigned, Manners by native elegance refined, May claim, when lost, the Muse's tuneful tear ; Say, who may more imperiously pretend, As husband, brother, father, son, and friend, Than thee, to such recording eulogy ? Yet those thy silent, suffering worth, who knew, Must think this eulogy, though too, too true, Less emblematic than dumb Grief of thee. ADVERTISEMENT. JL HE following Poems, with a great number of others, had been set aside by the Author, as un- worthy of publication; but as he was inclined to think rather more favourably of these than of the others, they had been transcribed in order to be submitted to a friend, on whose judgment the Author relies much more implicitly than on his own, before he finally decided as to what Poems should, and what should not, be introduced into his Volume. However, this friend was on a jour- ney at the critical moment ; and the Author pre- ferred rejecting these Poems, to printing them from his own opinion. Before the last proof sheet of this little Volume was completed, another friend, on whom the Author thought he could equally rely, visited him ; and on the following Poems being submitted to him, gave it as his opinion, that these might be retained without impropriety. 246 There would not have been any necessity for this little explanatory remark, had not the other Poems in this Volume, with the exception of those on the Death of Priscilla Farmer, been arranged in the order in which they were written as to time: most of these, on the other hand, as the reader will perceive by comparing dates, are coeval with his earliest productions. 247 METAPHYSICAL SONNET I. Written 1794, My soul's an atom in the world of mind, HurPd from its centre by some adverse storm; The attraction's gone, its movements that confin'd The impulse fled, that urged it to perform Its destined office. Wandering through the void, Each due attrition, each excitement dead, Its moral aim and action seem destroyed, And its existence , like its functions, fled. Love was the parent orb from whence it drew Its moral being, hope its active force ; But Love's dear sun shall never shine anew ; Nor Hope again direct my wandering course ! My life is nothing to mankind ! — To me Tis worse than nothing ! ' Tis all agony ! 248 SONNET II. TO A PRIMROSE. 1795. Come, simple floweret of the paly leaf! With yellow eye, and stalk of downy green, Though mild thy lustre, though thy days are brief, Oh, come and decorate my cottage scene ! For thee, I'll rear a bank where softest moss, And tenderest grass shall carelessly combine; No haughty flower shall shine in gaudy gloss, But azure violets mix their buds with thine. Far, far away, each keener wind shall fly, Each threatening tempest of the earljr year ! Thy fostering gale shall be the lover's sigh ! The dew that gems thy bud the lover's tear ! And ere thou diest, pale flower, thou'lt gain the praise To have soothed the bard, and to have inspir'd his lays. , 249 SONNET III. TO THE RIVER EMONT. 1795. Sweet, simple stream, the shallow waves that glide In peaceful murmurs o'er thy rocky bed ; Sweet, simple stream, the gleams of eventide That on thy banks their mellowing lustre shed ; Befit the temper of my restless mind ! — For, while I hear thy waves, and see the gleam, Of latest eve, afar from human kind, To linger here unknown, I fondly dream, I snatch my flute, and breathe a softened lay ; Then melting, view it as an only friend; And oft I wonder much, that while so gay, And all unthinking, others onward wend, /here should sadly linger, and rejoice To hear a lone stream, or the flute's soft voice ! — 250 SONNET IV. TO LOCH-LOMOND. Aug. 1795. Lomond, thy rich and variegated scene, Fantastic now, now dignified, severe; Thy tufted underwood, of darker green, Thine arrowy pines that mock the rolling year; Thy soft diversity of sweeping bays, Fringed with each shrub, and edged with tenderest turf, Where, as the attenuated north-gale plays, The wild flowers mingle with the harmless surf: Thy long protracted lake, expansive now, — Boldly diversified with wood-crowned Isles, — Imprisoned now by rocks, on whose stern brow, Clad with cold heath, the summer scarcely smiles, I welcome fearfully; — and hail in thee The wildest shapings of sublimity. 251 SONNET V. TO THE SABBATH. 1T96. Ah ! quiet day, I oft recall the time, When I did chase my childish sluggishness, The " rear of darkness lingering still," to dress In due sort for thy coming ; the first chime Of blithesome bells, that ushered in thy morn, Carolled to me of rest, and simplest mirth : TVas then all happiness on the wide earth To gaze ! — I little dreamt that man was born For aught but wholesome toil, and holiest praise, Thanking that God who made him to rejoice ! But, I am changed now ! nor could I raise My sunken spirit at thy well known voice ; But that thou seemest soothingly to say, u Look up poor mourner, to a better day? 252 SONNET VI. Written July, 1796. JN ow glares the proud sun on the thirsty street, Where the shrunk, swarthy mendicant implores- Some scanty pittance from the o'erflowing stores Of those that flutter by. How little meet Is it for fellow mortals thus to greet ! This with an humble gesture that adores ; That with a flinty threat or sneer, that pours A poison to the soul ! — Poor wretch, how sweet To bind some balsam on thy heart's keen wound ! To make thee smile, and raise thee to the rank That man should hold, wherever man is found ! — But, Oh, this may not be! — Thou canst but thank Him who would succour thee ! — Be this my meed ! — And thy rich thanks shall soothe a heart in need! 253 THE DEAD FRIEND. Burton, August, 179T. When I am quiet, and my centred soul Rests from its mortal working, it has seem'd As though the dead friend liv'd again, so sweet To me has been her memory* Evermore Would I be so o'ertaken : for my tears Were tears of pleasantness, and all my sighs O'erflowings of affection ! Hallow'd spirit, Fain would I cherish the belief that thou Guidest my onward feet, cleansest my heart From every fleshly thought. Or when I muse In sacred solitude, or when abroad I ponder on my desultory way ; Or when in active life I force myself To wear the semblance which my heart not owns, I love to think that thou dost mingle still The holy leav'nings of inbreathed love With all my frail and unregenerate thoughts. The dear remembrance of thy kindled eye 254 THE DEAD FRIEND. When it met mine ; thy grasp of tenderness ; Thy mute expression of anxiety When I was sore perplex'd ; thy awful tones, Full, holy, and melodious, that inclin'd My difficult ear, and drew my wayward heart " To the better cause :" all these live o'er again, And fill the lonely hour with such strange shades Of past existence, that I seem to greet My former self, and be again that child Whom thou didst love so well, who knew so well The value of that love ! O thou wast all To me ! — the vacancy which thou hast left No mortal may fill up ; it is a part To thee and Heaven devoted ! I would there Treasure each manlier truth, whose rudiment I learn'd from thee, best parent ! Every form Of beauty, every loftier thought, and all The unshap'd energies which I may win To bright perfection's aim ; these visitants Alone, that sanctuary of my inmost soul Shall pierce, where thou dost dwell. And when mankind Deem hardly of my doings, I will turn THE DEAD FRIEND. 255 To thee, best friend! And if the time should come When all forsake me, if at that lone hour, That dreary pause of mental solitude, On thy invisible solace I may lean, Twill fill my bosom till it overflows ; For thou wast pure, and sternly virtuous, Yet tender and affectionate. Thy will Was holy and unbending ; yet that will Was mild in act; pursuing rigidly, With singleness of soul, the work that Heaven Had giv'n thee to perform ; yet bearing ever Thy lofty calling with so meek a mien, That all with mute involuntary awe Felt ere they call'd thee good ! Farewell, and raise My backward heart to somewhat of the state Hallowing thy mortal pilgrimage, that so In happier worlds than this we meet again ! TRANSLATIONS. ADVERTISEMENT TO €|)e Cranslatton^ THE following stories from Ovid, which are now printed as specimens of a translation of his Meta- morphoses, completed by the Author, are not in- tended to be literally rendered from the Latin: it has been the object of the Author, allowing for the dissimilarity of the Latin and English languages, to give an impression to readers in the latter ana- logous to that which the original might be supposed to give to those in the former ; and he has always been particularly careful not to suffer any peculiar beauties of sentiment, description, or phraseology to escape his notice. The Metamorphoses in the original are written in a style highly artificial : the Authoi*, therefore, in his translation has rather prefened the adopt- ing a smooth and even versification, to the more s 2 260 loose, easy, and natural one, which latterly has been so muck in vogue. The great merits of Ovid in the work now re- ferred to, are, a developement of an exquisite sense of physical beauty ; highly decorated, and some- times almost voluptuous description: where tke subject requires it, as in the Death of Hercules, and the contest of Ulysses and Ajax for the arms of Achilles, a command of great strength of lan- guage; and an almost unrivalled power of describ- ing the passions in a state of oscillation, or' rather the feelings of the mind, when strongly solicited by vehement passion to forego deeply rooted prin- ciple. As he is more metaphysical than most of the Latin poets, so perhaps in his writings more than in almost any of those of the others, passages frequently occur apposite to the different expe- riences of life, and which tke reader would be desirous to treasure in his memory. The Author might add, that he was, in some measure, induced to print a few of the stories from Ovid, together with his own Poems, from tke consideration tkat the latter are so exclusively of a sentimental and meditative cast, that he thought tke former might afford no unacceptable variety to the volume to some readers ; especially 261 to those who seek for narratives in poetical composi- tion. On the other hand, he lias been staggered with regard to publishing the translation as a whole, except indeed a considerable part of it should be re-written, from the consciousness, that, in those parts of the performance where, from t1\e dryness of the subject, it is most difficult to do well, his has been more than rivalled, nay, much out- done, by that of Mr, Orger, which a few years ago appeared in numbers, which, though compleated, never seems to have attracted the attention of which it teas worthy. It gives the Author pleasure to have so appro- priate an opportunity of offering his humble com- mendation — for commendation indeed is but a mite thrown into the scale of applause, when it comes from one whose name is so little known, and so utterly unestablished — to a fellow-labourer in a task, which, in the instance alluded to, was exe- cuted so much to the credit of him who under- took it. THE DEATH OF HERCULES. FROM THE NINTH BOOK OF THE METAMOR- PHOSES OF OVID. But thou, oh Nessus, tempted to betray Thy trust, most signally didst penance pay For Dejanira's love, when the swift dart Of her late trusting Lord transpierced thy heart. For she, with Hercules, who sought once more His Father's walls, came to Evenus' shore. The eddying river, swelled by wintry rains, Obstructs their progress, deluging the plains. Here Nessus flatter'd them with specious words, Nessus, strong-limb'd, acquainted with the fords ; And thus accosted Jove's intrepid son, Who, fearless, trembled for his spouse alone. " This woman, oh Alcides, on yon strand, " By my assistance, shall securely stand. * In swimming try thy strength." The friendly prayer Hercules heard, confiding : to his care 264 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. Deianira, pale with terror, gave, Who feared alike the Centaur, and the wave. Meantime Alcides to the other side His club and curved bow threw across the tide ; And though the quiver's weight increased his toil, And the Nemsean lion's shaggy spoil, " Since I begin," he cries, " fixed fate decrees " Evenus shall submit to Hercules." N or does he hesitate, nor seek its course Where flows the stream with mitigated force ; But all its power he»braves with might intense, Where boil its waves with added turbulence. Now had the Hero gained the further shore, And grasped the massy club and bow once more, When recognizing his wife's voice, he cried To Nessus, who had seized upon his bride, His trust betraying, — " What vain confidence " Of swiftness prompts thee to this violence? " Oh biform ravisher, thy prey resign, " Nor claims usurp to what alone is mine. " If I cannot persuade to what is just, " Ixion well might frighten lawless lust. " Yet though thou trustest to thy biform shape, " Thou shalt not with impunity escape. " Swiftness shall not, but wounds shall over- take :" And his exploit made good the words he spake. THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 265 His flying back he wounded with the dart, The barbed hook projected from his heart. The dart extracted, from each gaping sore, Mixed with Lernaean poison, gushed the gore. This Nessus caught. — " Nor unrevenged I die," He muttered in a stern soliloquy. He dips a vestment in the poisoned stream, And thus resenting his abortive scheme, Gave it the dame, and told her it would prove A talisman of everlasting love. The interval is long. — To every state Were known Alcides' fame, and Juno's hate. And now the hero from (Echalia came, With conquest crowned, and blessed with brighter fame. And altars to Cenoean Jove he raised, Which on the Euboic promontory blazed ; When Fame, who loves to add false things to true, From sources small, make great events ensue, Told Deianira, that Amphitryon's son, To Love's soft joys by Iole was won. Love's jealousy first realized her fears ; Alarmed at his inconstancy, in tears 266 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. She found a refuge ; having thus indulged Her grief, in words she thus that grief divulged : " Shall the adulteress in my tears rejoice ? " Since she approaches, some new artifice, " While yet I may, my injuries must bested, •' And while no other occupies my bed. " Shall I be silent, or shall I complain, " Here tarry, or seek Calydon again ? " Say, shall I abdicate this home once dear, " Or shall I blast their bliss by staying here ? " What if, Oh Meleager ! I pursue " The thought, that, as thy sister, I will do " That which befits my birth to thine allied, " That which befits the pang of outraged pride ; " And that to shew what deeds from woe can start, " I plunge my dagger in my rival's heart?" By different projects tossed, she long demurred ; At last to send the vestment she preferred, With Nessus' blood imbued; which might re- store Vigour to alienated love once more. She gave, unconscious what she would bestow, To Lichas, ignorant as herself, her woe, And, suffering wretch, with many a bland word,. Commands that he should give it to his Lord. THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 367 The unconscious Hero took it, and imbued His form with poison of Lernaean brood. He prayed, while flames arise by incense fed, And wine from cups on marble altars shed. The power of poison, vivified by heat, Thrilled in each vein, in every artery beat While Nature the fierce conflict could sustain, His wonted fortitude concealed the pain ; But, w T hen his pangs o'er patience did prevail, The altars he threw down, and with his wail Filled woody (Eta. Now, without delay, He tries the deadly vest to tear away ; And the adhesive skin, where'er he tries, And mangled flesh, bespeak his agonies ; And, horrible to tell, the robe still clings, Still its tenacity around him flings ; Or his torn limbs, and mighty bones laid bare, Attest the pangs of impotent despair. As red-hot steel dipped in the gelid flood, Hissed, and, with ardent poison, boiled his blood* His sufferings knew no bounds. The flames de- vour His cracking heart-strings with their cruel power ; Coerulean moisture all his limbs distain, His bursting nerves are audible with pain. 268 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. Each shrivelled arm he stretches to the skies, While the dire pest his marrow liquefies. " Oh Juno !" he exclaims, " feed on my woes, " Banquet on my unutterable throes, " Glut thy revenge !— And, if a foe may be " Compassioned, (for I am a foe to thee,) " Take my obnoxious life, sick with turmoils, " And cruel anguish, born for pityless toils. " Death were deliverance now ! — Such remedy " Twould well become a step-dame to apply. " Have I for such rewards Busiris slain, " Who smeared with strangers' blood the Egyp- tian fane ? " For such, Antaeus severed from the earth, " Which at once nurtured him, and gave him birth ? " Did I Iberia's triform monster dread, " Geryon? or Cerberus with the three-fold head? " Was it not ye, my hands, the horns that tore " From off the mighty bull ? And ye that bore " To the Stymphalian streams, and Elis, aid, " And the Parthenian groves ? Are ye thus paid, " Since ye the sword-belt to your faithless lord, " Embossed with Thermodontian gold, restored ? THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 260 "Since of the Hesperian apples badly kept, "The dragon ye despoiled, who never slept? " Nor could the Centaurs, nor the boar with- stand, " Plague of Arcadia, this avenging hand ! 44 Did it avert the savage Hydra's doom, 44 To increase by loss, and two-fold strength resume ? u What? When, the Thracian horses fat with blood, " And stables full of mangled limbs, I viewed, " Were not they, soon as seen, felled by my sword, 44 Their fierceness conquered, and their fiercer lord? " Say, did this arm Nemaea's lion spare ? "Say, did this neck the heavens refuse to bear? " Jove's cruel spouse could no more labours plan, " My swift performance e'en her hate outran. " But now a new plague threatens, which defies " Valour's strong arms, or virtue's energies ; " Through every member steals its poisonous breath, ** My lungs convulsed, toil with the throes of death. 270 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. " Meanwhile Eurystheus flourishes ! Great Jove, " And still they say that there are Gods above !" E'en as a tyger pierced with hunting darts, Infuriate he through lofty (Eta starts : E'en as the beast doth whet his vengeful fangs, He seeks the unconscious author of his pangs : * Oft did he groan, and often did he roar, Oft did he welter in his boiling gore ; His cruel robe oft tried to rend in vain, Trees he laid prostrate with the power of pain ; He warred with mountains, and the heavens defied, Awful in death as in his days of pride. Lichas, beneath a rocky height he spies, Trembling, and shrinking from his master's eyes ; * The following would be a more literal translation, with the exception of the words in italics, of the following passage ; but, for obvious reasons, the Author has chosen the more free one. Oft did he groan, and often did he roar, His cleaving robe oft tried to rend once more ; You might behold him laying prostrate trees, Warring with mountains, or in agonies Stretching his arms to bis paternal skies. s THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 271 In tones as wild as maniac throes inspire, And from despair collecting all his fire, He cries, " Brought'st thou these instruments of woe? " And shall the feeble lay the mighty low?" — The servant trembled, paralyzed with fear, Stammering excuses in his lord's deaf ear. Alcides seized him with his potent grasp, E'en as his master's knees he sought to clasp, Suppliant in vain. He whirled him four times > round, And sent him to the Euboic waves profound, Swifter than stones from battering rams re- ' bound. He harden'd in the aerial element ; And as they say, that showers with cold cement Transformed to snow, or as the snow congealed, Its softer essence to crisp hail doth yield ; So do the legends of the ancient world Recount, that he, by rapid impulse hurled, Became a statue in his headlong course, Bloodless from fear, exanimate from force. — Now in the Euboic gulf the rock remains, And still its human symmetry retains. Still, as if sensitive, the sailors fear To injure its repose, and cruize too near. 272 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. For thee, thou venerated son of Jove, Trees were cut down in GEta's loftiest grove ; Of these composed a funeral pyre was raised, And, ere the consecrated structure blazed, Thou gav'st to Paean's son thy shafts and bow, Destined once more to lay proud Ilion low ; To Paean's son, whose hands assiduous brought Flames, which no sooner the congeries caught. Than on the summit of the blazing wood, By thee the Nemeaean skin was strewed. Prone on thy club thou laid'st thy awful head, {Thy club last placed on thy funereal bed,) With such complacency as might become Guests crowned with wreaths, who crowd the festive dome. And now, the flames diffused in every part, Pervade the limbs, pervade the yielding heart Of him, who with the elevated pride Of virtue, their rapaciousness defied. E'en Gods beheld the agonies with fear, Of the avenger of this earthly sphere. Whom thus great Jove with joyful face address'd, Pleased that compassion stole from breast to breast :