Wok tr Bec Bote Sl mH THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PRa eve aes Ve Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2022 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill https ‘/larchive.org/details/beautiesofbritis01 camp UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT t NWT 0003036983 This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on the last date stamped under ‘“‘Date Due.” If not on hold it may be renewed by bringing it to the library. DATE DUE RET. RET. SPOR 5 analy se SSS See Ge CS ES EST GERD GEE GEESE GEE GEESE SEES EEE GES SEE «GEES GS epee ESTE if a fa Bie i Ht i ie ’ A iy Zi A & J ° X Meter tS S Py PM of o£ A . EL fg ge ai See fa ee » ae BEAUTIES aad _ OF THE BRITISH POETS; NOTICES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL. BY F. CAMPBELL, Esq. * & «* Amaranthine flowers,” YOrEOE LONDON : PRINTED BY RICHARD EDWARDS, 6, CRANE COURT, FLEET STREET. 1824. PREFACE. THERE is no living language, which can boast so great a variety and so much true excellence in the productions of the Muse as our own; and at no period of our history have we pos- sessed such a galaxy of varied talent, evinced in the poetry of the age, as at present; and never (with some few unfortunate exceptions) has the vigorous nerve and intellectual grasp of our bards, while throwing “ the drapery of amoral imagination over our poor shivering nature,” been more subservient to the inte- rests of religion, or tended more effectually to promote the intellectual, as well as the moral happiness of the rising generation. We have, therefore, in the present selection of the Beautigs or THE Britisu Poers, given to the productions of our living authors, a larger space than is usually allotted to them in works of this nature, yet not to the exclu- sion of the writers of “ the olden time.” For it has been our aim to bring together all the principal pieces of acknowledged merit, and of intrinsic beauty, which have undergone the test of the severest criticism and examination, and have received the stamp of public appro- a 2 v1 PREFACE. bation; together with many a charming anony- mous production, snatched with cautious hand, as it floated on the stream of time towards the abyss of oblivion. | While seeking for Beauties, we have been careful to ascertain that no poison lurks be- neath the flowers. Nothing has been admit- ted, which has a tendency to offend delicacy _ or injure morality ; and we have been as stu- dious to select those passages which convey some solid instruction, as those that are mere- ly addressed to the fancy. Occasionally we have introduced a Biographical Sketch, or a Critical Remark, which, we flatter ourselves will bean acceptable addition. Fea, London, March 1, 1824. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. ADDISON, JOSEPH ' Hy MM exces vee eee os eset BOOHos eG HS OHOHODHOHXZA®D ANONYMOUS * Life, Death, and Eternity weg S'a ate NE oss Wa @eiale bo Woman’s Love 2000 0000000000880 00888800 68 Chemical Analysis of Beas coos ce seccocne CSCI BNCEE LG stn cic ocd.c'olé 00:6. & aia seu ares atabs ee A OLOSS ECO SSL LUININY *\.s)0 0's 0 $'s-9: 94 a'¢.9.9ce Kade PERT AST aa telnis sac so s'¥c en dee cae ld Raiblbiel ce Nee riasihnyV CICOME: 05 550 s-a\se'g.0 09 ebieeiwiels « Memory 09 0086 00 0808 00 00 00 08 09 00099969 09 00 Mont Blanc 09000800 60000000 0009 08850900 08 Evening ©9000 0085 08 000% 0000 00996080805 55 08 SPT TUOSEE YS cline ie Se 05's 0'i'p 6, 040: bie ea a elaele woe Me COVOMANLES Shs ois'ip, win s0k's isis alle ebb 4 deb aa Bs Press Orear VIO 5 o's. seca p cts skae leet hey ¢ BAMPFYLDE, CSEINSSHE cis g als ove wine « 6c s.0io 6 db A Rowe bole « BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA Ledyard’s Praise of Woman ... s\e'aeeicle e's SS ed aa Telere ereleeie aie ses sists Cotter’s Saturday Night o..sscsessoscccececces A Bard’s Epitaph ..ccccccscceececevcvcccere Tam. 0’ Shanter Pome@eveeewoseeweaeseoeeeeoeseeee Oot O BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD To e eeeoeeneveaeocevae ee oe ees ee ee GO SCF 6 The Sympathy of Love eececeovsree ee eo CF e8 O80 C8 Passioriate LGV <2. sss cleis's ote tis sive wieteme sie o's sie Peat 2 ate otelete « PETIOU LOCAL Ac 'cione wie olivate e sue apa! 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Description ofa ‘Calm ‘after a Storm casise es. relate CONTENTS. MOORE, THOMAS The Warrior's fe ei 6 10%0 0% 50205008 EANZOS 6 i's sis : NEELE, HENRY. Lines written on secing a Model from the Monumen- _tal Bust, of Shakspeare Where is he?......... OPIE, MRS. ss The Poor Hindoo . PARNELL, THOMAS A Night Piece on Death . POPE, ALEXANDER Elegy to the Memory of.an Unfortunate Lady .... Aue Bssay on. Man.. i. set ewes be t's) PORTEUS, BEILBY Death . PRIOR, MATTHEW Trees and Plants Evidences of Divine Wisdom . ROGERS, SAMUEL The Sailor BP eaE tater ss v5.+ ie clale DAMA L ASCE EE Se TA Ss To the Butterfly TIUDADEEMGN a yovs ese s ee esa seek shake deere’ Address to Memory ...... Meee ehigte cn wet e Valles « SAVAGE, RICHARD END astaMee ds kt ei ees ce eevee bene aaa SCOTT, SIR WALTER Love of Country Sale ates hehtacgheck Fi CR PU ee eek Lady of the Lake, sc. ccccmees sbiviove cosbee cies Combat of Fitz James and. Roderick Dhu Bertram Risingham .......... Landing of the English.in Portugal Decisive Charge at Waterloo | SHAKSPEARE, WILLIAM DEUSIC Wits ieies 5's'> cece IVE CTO sie suhcy sna alciriepaiusie tele olyier we Ee wa tee wee ae Appearances Deceitful . min a eralele a eh eral ve SHAW, CUTHBERT | Monody to the eee of a Young Lady ‘SHENSTONE, WILLIAM Dhe.Schoolmistress 2.) sumMetdva s\.s40 4s) sss oe ne SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY Ode to DEORE Sold Neier pia Aesanaiche O16) anh howls saa’ SMART, CHRISTOPHER oe 6 oo eooe B28 OR ec ee'eoeovesv ev eo aoe eo2eee eer reoevevseevee0e 77028 0 2 ee ceceesnee ane se 08 Care and Generosity .........000 viokb hd rately abi SOUTHEY, ROBERT BADVOS crates oY DiPiece e nisre' Weiss G'sl ad sel aie a's wis 8, igen 6 To Ellen ...:.. AAR IAQ SERS os: SEER Cee ep Remembrance ,. eeoOSCGe eeeeev7ev eR PO SHTFH GH COB xii CONTENTS. SPENSER, EDMUND Envy ele iepereuere vere CTT CC CT OH TCH RT OTOH ODEO TE EO OH? STILLINGE LEET, EDWARD An Essay on Conversation ...0..0.eecceee THOMPSON, WILLIAM wees ee? Tnvocation TO'SICED % o's heels teletele viele steliies (ad's sa THOMSON, JAMES BL YIN OL DOMME cs stasis ea ateetitls stats 4 ate TOWNSEND, GEORGE Amid the west, the light decaying ee eeeeeeeecs If in Enchanter’s shadowy hall . WALLER, EDMUND Go, lovely Rose ssa Sci. sie a's Of Tove vrs we WATTS, ALARIC A. Lhe Firstborp i. scan asniialenee sean WATTS, ISAAC Address to the Deity ce... csccccssccces WESLEY,SAMUEL The, Coblers. ee ee saanaaae acne sey s WHITE, HENRY KIRKE 1o-e- Friend inj Distress; vi. pce oes cles Solitude .. eoeoeoeeoseoe oe 08 @eeeecoeceooeesceeneeoeeo ee gee eoeve eeeeneeeeceose eeoeereoeoew ot eeeaeseea OGeoee @GCevese WILSON, JOHN : The Evening Cloud .s..0: ssccoecepeavsavc ssc WOLCOT, JOHN Ode to the Glowworm .eescecececesecccceee ce WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM | he Watcre Meloni: siacegeuigtera 3 ite sie tis tates < DHOUgHtS ete d ciiw eave pte «be We Wibtdveiotaidis o's sive see The Convict ...... Crore one oi alelaretratara Sislscei eaters Confidence Well-grounded os ..csereseceeccenes WOTTON, SIR HENRY The’ Happy Man 30's s'c.0's o:clgiaistaomwatee cetes a0 YOUNG, EDWARD Procrastina tio 210s oyem sis «sms ae isianeanivrte4 tia es Reflections at, Midnight.) Etiee. ee ee ue ee 8s _ ERRATA. Page 128, last line but one, for their folly, read thy folly. 132, line 14, for God and thee, read God or thee. 318, line 18, for Deck’d in Behemoth’s spoils the Lybians stood, read Deck’d in Behemoth’s spoils the tall Shangalla strode. BEAUTIES OF THE BRITISH POETS, BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. DESERTED VILLAGE. Goldsmith. { Or this Poem, which has so Jong received the meed of public approba-. tion, it were now useless to echo the praises, It is a performance of distinguished merit, and contains passages, whose beauty and sim- plicity are obvious to every one. Goldsmith received a Hundred Pounds for it from his Bookseller, which he returned, under an idea of its being too much; and his way of computation was this ;— “‘ That it was nearly half-a-crown a line, which was more than any Bookseller could afford, or indeed, more than any modern Poetry was.worth.” | He, however, lost nothing by his generosity, as the Bookseller paid him the Hundred Pounds, which the rapid sale of the Poem soon enabled him to do. He was, by his own confession, four or five years collecting materials in all his country excursions for this Poem, and was actually engaged in the construction of it above two years. Dr. Johnson furnished the four last lines.] Sweer Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer’d the labouring swain ; Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer’s ling’ring blooms delay’d ; Dear lovely bow’rs of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth when ev’ry sport could please, How often have I loiter’d o’er thy green, Where humble happiness endear’d each scene ‘ How often have I paus’d on ev'ry charm, The shelter’d cot, the cultivated farm, RB ] ‘ 2 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church‘that topp’d the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whisp’ring lovers made! How often have I bless’d the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play ; Anid-all the village train from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick’d o’er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. And still as each repeated pleasure tir’d, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir’d : The dancing pair who simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter’d round the place ; The bashful virgin’s side-long looks of love, The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove— These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet’ succession taught e’en toil to please ; These round thy bow’rs their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled. ‘Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn. Amidst thy bow’rs the tyrant’s hand is seen, And desolation saddens all the green ; One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choak’d with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along thy glades,.a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desart walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy,bow’rs‘in shapeless ruin all, | And the long grass ‘o’ertops the mould’ring wall ; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hast’ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peasantry, the country’s pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England’s griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain’d its man ; For him. light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health ; And his best riches, ignorance of, wealth. But times are alter’d: trade’s unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter’d hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumb’rous pomp repose ; And ev’ry want to luxury allied, And ev’ry pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask’d but little room, Those healthy sports that grac’d the peaceful scene, Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kindred shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s pow’r. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin’d grounds ; “nd, many a year elaps’d, return’d to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew ; Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In allmy wand’rings round this world of care, In all my griefs, and God has giv’n my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bow’rs to:'lay me down ; -To husband out life’s taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting my repose ; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn’d skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; And, as a hare whom hounds and horn pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first it flew, 4 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return, and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline, Retreat from care, that never must be mine ; How blest is he; who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue’s friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And all his prospects brighten to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past ! Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev’ning’s close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ! There, as I pass’d with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften’d from below ; The swain responsive to the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low’d to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog’s voice that bay’d the whisp’ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind— These all in sweet eonfusion sought the shade, And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail— No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale— No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : All but yon widow’d, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, fore’d in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left, of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 5 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d, And still where many a garden flow’r grows wild— There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest. mansion rose ; A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nore’er had chang’d, nor.wish’d to change his place : Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for: ‘pow t, By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise— His house was known to all the vagrant train, . He chid their wand’rings, but reliev’d their pain; The long-remember’d beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ;, The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud,’ . Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims low d; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talk’d the night away— Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,. ° Shoulders his crutch, and shew’d how fields were won. Pleas’d with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began... ' ! Thus to relieve the wretched was his Bhi, a And even his vices lean’d to virtue’s side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt for all— And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledg’d offspring to the skies, | He try’d each art, reprov’d each dull delay, Allur’d to brighter worlds, andled the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt and pain by turns dismay’d, The reverend champion stood. At his controul, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt’ring accents whisper’d praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn’d the venerable place ; 6 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal each honest rustic ran; - Even children follow’d with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man’s smile ; His ready smile a parent’s warmth express’d, Their welfare pleas’d him, and their eares distress’d ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv’n, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven— As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho’ round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay, — There, in his noisy mansion skill’d to rule, The village-master taught his little school : A man severe he was, and stern to view, T knew him weil, and every truant knew;~ . Well had the boding trembler learn’d to trace The day’s disasters in his morning face ; , Full well they laugh’d, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes—for many a joke had he : Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey’d the dismal tidings when: he frown’d; © Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, | The love he bore to learning was in fault ; The village all declar’d how much he knew— "Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could guage : In arguing too, the parson own’'d his skill, For, even tho’ vanquish’d, he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thund’ring sound, Amaz’d the gazing rustics rang’d around ; And still they gaz’d, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all hé knew. But past is all his fame: the very spot, Where many a time he triumph’d is forgot. Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Fi: Low lies that house: where nut-brown draughts inspir’d, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil: retir’d ; Where village-statesmen talk’d with looks profound; And news, much older than their. ale; went round. imagination fondly: stoops to trace, The parlour-splendors of that festive place; The white-wash’d wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish’d clock that click’d behind the door ; The chest, contriv’d' a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of draw’rs by day ;, The pictures plac’d:for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when: winter:chill’d the day, With aspen boughs; and flow’rs; and fennel, gay ; While broken: tea..cups, wisely kept for show, Rang’d o’er the chimney, glisten’d in a row. Vain, transitory pleasure !: could not all Retrieve the tott’ring: mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart: Thither no more the peasant shall: repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale, No more the woodman’s: ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his sooty: brow shall clear, Relax his pond’rous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found, Careful to see the mantling: bliss: go! round; Nor the eoy maid, half willing: to: be prest, Shall kiss the cup to: pass: it. to: the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, ‘These simple blessings of the lowly train ;. ‘To me more dear, congenial to my heart, ‘One native charm, than all the gloss of art : Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; Lightly they frolic o’er: the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array’d,, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; S BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. And, ev’n while fashion’s brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay, "Tis your’s to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. —» Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from the shore ; Hoards, aay beyond the miser’s wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around : Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name, That leaves our useful product just the same. Not so the loss: the man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supply’d : Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds. The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robb’d the neighb’ring fields of half their growth. His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorn’d for pleasure all, In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorn’d and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow’d charm that dress supplies ; Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes :, But when those charms are past (for charms are frail), When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betray’d, In nature’s' simplest charms atfirst array’d ; But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise. While, scourg’d by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden and a grave ! Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, To ’scape the pressure of contiguous pride? .. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 9 if to some common’s fenceless limits-stray’d, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide: And ev’n the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped—what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin’d To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from ‘his fellow-creatures’ woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade : Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome, where pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck’d, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing’ square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure, scenes like these no treubles e’er annoy ! Sure, these denote one universal joy! | Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv’ring female lies : She, once,-perhaps, in village-plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might doi) Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer’s door she lays her head : And, pinch’d.with cold, and shrinking from the show’r, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country Graver Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Ev’n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men’s doors they ask a little bread ! Ah, no! to distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm’d before, The various terrors of that horrid shore ; B2 10 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; Those pois’nous fields with rank luxuriance crown 'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake : Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murd’rous still than they ! While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravag’d landscape with the skies. Far different these from ev'ry former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, ‘That only shelter’d thefts of harmless love. Good Heav'n ! what sorrowsgloom’d that parting day, That call’d them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles, ev’ry pleasure past, Hung round the bow’rs, and fondly look’d their last, And took a long farewell, and wish’d in vain For seats like these beyond the western main: And shudd’ring still to face the distant deep, Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep ! The good old sire the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others’ woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish’d for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his hapless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left her lover's for her father’s arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And bless’d the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ; And kiss’d her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp’d them close—in sorrow doubly dear ; Whilst the fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O, luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill-exchang’d are things like these for thee! How do thy potions with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own. At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till sapp’d their strength, and ev’ry part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; | EKv’n new, methinks as pond’ring here I stand, 1 see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch’ring vessel spreads the sail, That, idly waiting, flaps with ev’ry gale, Downward they move a,melancholy band, Pass frem the shore, and darken all the strand. | Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness are there; And piety, with wishes plac’d above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit, in these degen’rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so ; Thou guide, by which the nabler arts excel, Thou source of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well! | Farewell! and oh! where’er thy voice be tried, On Torrio’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th’ inclement chime : Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him that states, of native strength possest, Though very poor, may yet be very blest ; That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour’d mole away : While self-dependant pow’r can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. Li BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. THE COMMON LOT. Montgomery. Once in the flight of ages past There liv’d.a man—and who was he ? Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast, That man bade pai thee ! Unknown the region of his birth ; The land:in which he died, nakhown:: His name hath perish’d from the earth, This truth survives alone :— That joy and grief, ard hope and fear, Alternate triumph’'d in his breast ; His bliss and woe—a smile, a tear ! ~—Oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits’ rise and fall : We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all. He suffer’d—but his pangs are o’er ; Enjoy d—but his delights are fled ; Had friends—his friends are now no more, And foes—his foes are dead. He loy’d,—but whom he lov’ d, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb : O she was fair! but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb. The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and Heh To him exist in vain. He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encounter’d all that troubles thee ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 13 He was—whatever thou hast been ; He is—what thou shalt be. The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye, That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this,—There liv'd a man ! PROCRASTINATION. Young. | Mrs. Montague, the famous champion of Shakspeare says of this au- thor, that “his unbounded genius appeared to greater advantage in the companion than even in the author; that the Christian was in him a character still more inspired, more enraptured, more sub- lime than the poet ; and that, in ‘his ordinary conversation, ¢ letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upward to the sky.’ ” The “ Night Thoughts,” whence the following lines are extracted, written after he was sixty, and published in 1744, are the most read and esteemed of his poems, and those by which it was his desire to be principally known ; as appears by his entitling the four volumes of his works which he published himselt, ‘‘ The works of the Author of the Night Thoughts.” Dr. Edward Young was born at Upham, near Winchester, in June, 1681, and died in April, 1765, at the advanced age of 84.] By Nature’s law, what may be, may be now ; There’s no prerogative in human hours. In human hearts what bolder thought can rise, Than man’s presumption on to-morrow’s dawn ? Where is to-morrow? In another world. i4 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. For numbers this is certain; the reverse Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps, This peradventure, infamous for lies, As on a rock of adamant we build Our mountain hopes ; spin out eternal schemes, As we the Fatal Sisters could out-spin, And, big with life's futurities, expire. —Be wise to-day; ‘tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; ‘Thus on, till wisdom is push’d out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? That ’tis so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man’s miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, “ That all men are about to live,” For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They, one day, shall not drivel ; and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise ; At least, their own ; their future selves applauds ; How excellent that life they ne’er willlead! Time lodg’d in their own hands is folly’s vails ; That lodg’d in fate’ s, to wisdom they consign ; The thing they can’t but purpose, they postpone ; ‘Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool ; And searce in human wisdom to do more. All pronvise is poor dilatory man, And that thro’ ev'ry stage : when young’, indeed, In full content, we, sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious fer ourselves ; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; ; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves ; and re-resolves ;—then dies the same ! And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes thro’ their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close ; where past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; So dies in human hearts the thought of death. Ev’n with the tender tear which nature sheds O’er those we love, we drop it in their grave. THE SAILOR. Rogers. Tue sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, As all its lessening turrets bluely fade ; He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, And busy fancy fondly lends her aid. Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recall’d and cherish’d in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight view, Its colours mellow’d, not impair’d, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart, Thro’ all the horrors of the stormy main ; This, the last wish that would with life depart, To meet the smile of her he loves again. When morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or eve’s grey cloud descends to drink the wave ; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, Still, still he views the parting look she Bane. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o’er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. 16 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plantain forest, waving wide ; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o’er-arch the golden tribe. But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail ! Lo, o’er the cliff what eager figures bend ! And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale ! In each he hears the welcome of a friend. "Tis she, ’tis she herself! she waves her hand ! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl’d ; Soon thro’ the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world. LOVE OF COUNTRY. Scott. Breatues there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, g0 mark him well ; For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High tho’ his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down _ To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. O Caledonia !: stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 17 Land of my: sires! what mortal hand — Can e’er untie the filial bands: That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as to me, of all bereft, » 18'94 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still, | Even in extremity of ill. 9 0) es By Yarrow’s stream still let me stray, Tho’ none should guide my feeble way ; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Altho’ it chill my wither’d cheek ; | Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Tho’ there forgotten and alone — The Bard may draw his parting groan. ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY, Pope. [This lady’s name was Withinbury. She was a woman of eminent rank and large fortune, the ward of an uncle, who, having given her a proper education, expected that she should make at least an equal match; and such he proposed to her, but found it rejected, as it is said, in favour of Pope, with whom she was in love, and would have married. Her guardian having discovered her correspondence with Pope, and finding her determined to abide, by her own choice, sent ler to a convent, where she put a period to her existence,] _ Wuar beck’ning ghost along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? Tis she !—but why that bleeding bosom gor’d? ‘Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly ! tell, Is it in heav’n a crime to love too well, 18 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS; To bear too tender or too firm:a heart, To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part ? Is there no bright reversion:in the sky,» For those who greatly think or bravely:die ? Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul:aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire ? : Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes, : The glorious fault of angels and of gods. ‘Thence to their images on earth it flows; And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age; Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage; Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ;. Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep; And close confin’d to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below ; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother’s blood ! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death ; Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates ; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun’rals blacken all the way,) ** Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies: steel’d, And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day ! So perish all whose breasts ne’er learn’d to glow For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.’ What can atone, (O ever injur’d shade !) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid ? BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 19 No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or grae’d thy mournful bier ; By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d, By strangers honour’d, and by strangers mourn’d. What though no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour perhaps,‘ then mourn‘a year, And bear about the mockery of woe’ To midnight dances, and the public show ? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish’d marble emulate’ thy face ?'~ What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy tomb ? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be dress’d, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest. tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow ; While angels with their silver wings o’ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame. How lov’d, how honour’d once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot ; A heap of dust alone remains of thee : ’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev’n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays ; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang: shall tear thee from his heart : Life’s idle bus’ness at one gasp be o’er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov’d no more! 20 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. A REFLECTION AT SEA. ‘Maaress Ses, how beneath the moonbeams smile Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for a while, And murmuring then subsides to rest. Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on time’s eventful sea ;. _ And having swell’d.a moment there, Thus melts into eternity ! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. Burns. [The following beautiful verses were composed on the occasion men- tioned, and while the author was holding the plough. His brother, Gilbert Burns, when speaking of this Poem, remarks, ‘‘ Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic composi- tions, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise.”] ; WEE?, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure » Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie gem. a Wee, little, b Stowre, dust, dirt. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 21 Alas! it’s no thy neebor* sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee mang the dewy weet4 Wi spreckld breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glintede forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear’d above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield ; But thou beneath the random bield! O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histies stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head , In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid,. Sweet flow’ ret of the rural shade ! By love’s simplicity betray’d, And guileless trust, . Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid Low 7 the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d ! Unskilful he to note the card _ Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, - And whelm him o er! ¢ Neebor, neighbour. 4 Weet, wetness. © Glinted, peeped. f Bield, shelter, s Histie, dry. 22 BEAUTIES. OF THE POETS. Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, By human pride or cunning driv’n To mis’ry’s. brink, Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but heaven, He, ruin’d, sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date ; Stern ruin’s plough-share drives elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, Shall be thy doom ! TO : | Byron. {Lord Byron had scarcely attained the age of manhood, when he sus- tained one of those soul-chilling disappointments, which must be felt alone to be expressed, He who. never knew what it was to love, never knew how to feel or sympathize with disappointment ; but the heart must be cold indeed, and sterile in all the delicate sensibilities of our nature, that can read unmoved the following lines descriptive of his passion, and disappointment. } Ou! had my fate been join’d with thine, As once this pledge appear’d a token ; These follies had not, then, been mine, For, then, my peace had not been broken. To thee, these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving ; They know my sins, but do not know, "Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For, once my soul like thine was pure, And all its rising fires could smother ; But now, thy vows no more endure, Bestow’d by thee upon another. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 93 Perhaps, his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him ; Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake, 1 cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no'‘more can rest with any ; But what. it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas!) to find in many. Then, fare thee well, deceitful maid, ‘Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; Nor hope, nor memory yield their aid, But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; These varied loves, these matron’s fears, These thoughtless strains to passion’s measure, If thou wert mine had all been hush’d ; This cheek now pale from early riot, With passion’s hectic ne’er had flush’d, But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For Nature seem’d to smilebefore thee ; And once my breast abhorr’d deceit, For then it beat but to adore thee. But, now, I seek for other joys ; To think, would drive my soul to madness ; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my bosom’s sadness. Yet even in these, a thought will steal, - . In spite of every vain endeavour ; And fiends might pity what I feel, To know, that thou art lost for ever. 24 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. |. ‘THE GRAVE. -) Blair... {It has been objected to the poem of ‘¢ The Grave,” that it has no re- gular plan, that its reflections on mortality are not embellished by any superior graces, that itis full of vulgarisms, &c. &c. Its long popularity, and its admission into every volume of elegant poetry, form the best answer to these fastidious critics. The subject, and the interesting manner in which it is treated, will, we doubt not, render “The Grave” a lasting favourite with the public.] The house appointed for ail living. Job xxx. 23, WuitsT some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage, Their aims as various as the roads they take In journeying thro’ life; the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; The appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet. ‘Thy succours I implore, Eternal King ! whose potent arm sustains The keys of hell and death.” The Grave, dread thing ! Men shiver when thou’rt nam’d: Nature appall’d Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark © The long-extended realms and rueful wastes ; Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun Was roll’d together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly taper, By glimm’ring thro’ thy low brow’d misty vaults, Furr’d round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime, Lets fall a supernumerary horror, | And only serves to make thy night more irksome. Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell "Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms ; Where light-heel’d ghosts, and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame revorts) BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 25 Xmbodied thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree ! is thine. See yonder hallow’d fane! the pious work Of names once fam’d, now dubious or forgot, And buried ‘midst the wreck of things which were ; There lie interr’d the more illustrious dead. The wind is up.; hark! how it howls! Methinks, Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary ; Doors creak, and windows clap, and night’s foul bird, Rook’d in the spire, screams loud ; the gloomy aisles Black plaster’d, and hung round with shreds ofscutcheons And tatter’d coats of arms, send back the sound Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansiens of the dead. Rous’d from their slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise, Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, Pass and repass, hush’d as the foot of night. Again! the screech-ow] shrieks : ungracious sound ! I'll hear no more; it makes one’s blood run chill. Quite round the pile, a row of rev’rend elms, Cozval near with that, all ragged shew, _ Long lash’d by the rude winds : some rift half down Their branchless trunks ; others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows. could lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen’d here: Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs, Dead men have come again, and walk’d about ; And the great bell has toll’d, unrung, untouch’d. Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping, When it draws near to ‘ witching time of night.’ Oft in the lene church-yard at night I’ve seen, By glimpse of moon-shine, checq’ring thro’ the trees, The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o’er the long flat stones” (With nettles skirted,.and with moss o’ergrown) That tell in homely phrase who lie below ; Sudden he starts! and-hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels : Full fast he flies, and dare not look behind him, Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows ; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale 3 ) Cc 26 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O’er some new-open ‘d grave; and, strange to tell Evanishes at crowing of the cock. The new-made widow too I’ve sometimes spied Sad sight ! .slow-moving o’er the prostrate dead : Listless she crawls along in doleful black, While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye; Fast-falling down her now untasted cheek. Prone on the lonely: grave of the dear man She drops ; whilst busy meddling: memory, In barbarous succession; musters up— The past endearments-of their. softer hoars, Tenacious of the theme.’ Still, still she thinks She sees him, and, indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more ¢losely to the senseless turf, Nor heeds thé passenger that looks that way. Invidious grave ! how dost thou'rend in sunder Whom love has ‘knit; and sympathy made one ! A tie more stubborn far than nature’s band. Friendship ! mysterious cément of the soul !- Sweet’ner of life; and solder of society! I owe thee much. ‘Thow hast deserv'd of me, Far, far beyond what T'can ever pay. Oft have I prov’d the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart Anxious to please. O'} ‘when my friend and I In some thick wood‘have wander’d heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down — Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors, thro” the underwood Sweet murm’ring ; methought the shrill-tongw’d thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellow’d his pipe, and soften’d every note ; The eglantine smell’d sweeter ; and the rose Assum’d a dye more deep ; whilst évery flower Vied with his fellow plant in luxury Of dress. Oh! then the longest summer’s day Seem’d too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half: ’twas happiness: Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 27 Dull grave ! thou spoil’ st. the dance of youthful blood, Strik’st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, And every smirking feature from the face; Branding our laughter with the name of madness. - Where are. the jesters now ?: the man of health Complexionally pleasant;?: where the droll? Whose every look and: gesture was‘a joke To clapping theatres and shouting crowds, And make e’en thick-lipp’d: musing melancholy To gather up her face:into a smile Before she was aware’! Ah! sullen now, And dumb, as the green turf that covers them ! Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war ? The Roman Cesars and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story?) Where the hot-brain’d youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore | From kings of all the then discover’d globe, And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper’d, And had not room enough to do its work ! Alas! howslim, dishonourably slim ! And cramm/’d into a place we blush to name. Proud royalty !. how alter’d iu thy looks ! How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue! Son of the morning! whither art thou gone ? Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now, Like new-born ‘infant bound up in his swathes, Or victim tumbled flat: upon his back, That throbs beneath the sacrificer’s knife : Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues, The coward insults of the base-born crowd, That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, But only hop’d for in the peaceful grave, Of being unmolested and alone. Araby’s gums and odoriferous drugs, And honours by the heralds duly paid In mode and form, ev’n to a very scruple; O cruel irony! these come too late ; And only mock whom they were meant to honour. Surely, there’s not a dungeon slave that’s buried 2s BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin ’d, But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he. Sorry pre-eminence of high descent Above the vulgar-born, to rot in state ! But see! the well-plum’d hearse comes nodding on, Stately and slow ; and properly attended By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch The sick man’s door, and live upon the dead, By letting out their persons by the hour © - To mimic sorrow, when the heart’s not sad ! How rich the trappings,—-now they’re all unfurl’d And glittering in the sun! ‘Triumphant entries Of conquerors, and coronation pomps, In glory scarce exeeed. Great gluts of people Retard the unwieldy show ; whilst from the casements, And houses’ tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg’d, Hang bellying o’er. But tell us, why this waste ! Why this ado in earthing up a carcase That’s fall’n into disgrace, and in the nostril Smells horrible ?) Ye undertakers, tell us, "Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal’d, for which You make this mighty stir? °Tis wisely done: What would offend the eye in a good picture, The painter casts discreetly into shades. Proud lineage, now, how little thou appear’st ! Below the envy of the private man ! Honour, that meddlesome, officious ill, Pursues thee e’en to death; nor there stops short. Strange persecution! when the grave itself Is no protection from rude sufferance. Absurd! to think to over-reach the grave, And from the wreck of names to rescue ours : - The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame Die fast away: only themselves die faster. The far-fam’d sculptor, and the laurell’d bard, Those bold insurers of eternal fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain. The tapering pyramid, the Egyptian’s pride, And wonder of the world! whose spiky: top Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outliv’d The angry shaking of the winter's storm ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 29 Yet spent at last by th’ injuries of heav’n, Shatter'd with age and furrow’d o’er with years, The mystic cone, with hieroglyphics crusted, Gives way. O lamentable sight! at once The labour of whole ages lumbers down ; A hideous and mis-shapen length of ruins. Sepulchral columns wrestle but in vain With all subduing time ; her cankering hand With calm, deliberate malice wasteth them : Worn on the edge of days, the brass consumes, The busto moulders, and the deep cut marble, Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge. Ambition, half convicted of her folly, Hangs down the head and reddens at the tale. Here all the mighty troublers of the éarth, Who swam to sov’reign rule thro’ seas of blood ; The oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains, ' Who ravag’d kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And in.a cruel wantonness of power Thinn’d states of half their people, and pave up To want the rest ;, now, like a storm that’s spent, Lie hush’d, and meanly sneak behind thy covert. Vain thought ! ! to hide them from the general scorn That haunts and dogs them like an injur’d ghost implacable, Here too the petty tyrant, Whose scant domains geographer ne’er notic’d, And, well for neighb’ ring grounds, of arm as short, Who fix’d his iron talons on the poor, © And grip’d them like some lordly beast of prey; ; Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger, And piteous plaintive voice of misery, (As if a slave was not a shred of nature Of the same common nature with his lord,) Now tame and humble, like a child that’s whipp’d, Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kinsman ; Nor pleads his rank and birth-right. Under ground Precedency’s a jest; vassal and lord, Grossly familiar, side by side consume. When self-esteem, or other’s adulation, Would cunningly persuade us we were something Above the common level of our kind ; 30 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. The grave gainsays the smooth-complexion’d flattery, And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are. Beauty ! thou pretty: plaything! dear deceit ! That steals so softly o’er the stripling’s heart, And gives it a new pulse unknown before ! The grave discredits thee: thy charms expung’d,. Thy roses faded, and thy’ lilies 'soil’d, What hast thou more to boast of? Will 'thy lovers Flock round thee now; to gaze and do thee homage ? Methinks I see thee with thy head laid low ; Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek, ' The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll’ d, Riots unsear’d. For this»was all thy caution ? For this thy painful labours»at thy glass, ~ 'T’ improve those: charms; and keep them in repair, For which the spoiler thanks thee not’? Foul feeder ! Coarse fare and carrion please thee full’ as well, And leave as keen a relish’ on the sense. Look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers ; Honest effusion! the swoln heart in vain Works hard to pit a‘gloss on its distress. Strength too! thou:surly, and less gentle boast Of those that laugh loud at the village ring ! A fit of common sickness pulls thee down, With greater ease than e’er thou didst the stripling » That rashly dar’d thee to ‘th’ unequal fight. What groan was that I heard:?:deep groan ‘indeed ! : With anguish heavy ladén! let te trace it : From yonder bed it comes, where'the strong man, By stronger arm belabour’d, gasps for breath Like a hard-hunted beast: » How his great heart Beats thick! his roomy chest'by far too scant To give the lungs full play! What now avail The strong-built sinewy limbsand well spread shoulders ? See how he tugs for life,:and lays about him ! Mad with his pain ! eager he catches hold Of what comes next to‘hand, and grasps it hard, Just like a creature’ ‘drowning ! ! ‘hideous sight ! Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly ! Whilst the distemper’s rank and deadly venom Shoots like a burning arrow ’cross the bowels, BEAUTIES OF THE. POETS. 31 And drinks his:marrow up. Heard you that groan ? it was his last. See how the great Goliah, Just like a child that brawl d itself to rest, Lies still. What mean’st thou then, O mighty boaster ! To vaunt of nerves of thine?) What means the bull Unconscious of his-strength, to play the coward, And fly before a little thing like man ; That, knowing well the slackness of his arm, Trusts only in the 'well-invented knife. With study pale; and midnight vigils spent, The star-surveying sage, close to his eye _ Applies the sight-invigorating tube ; And travelling thro’ the boundless realins of space, Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs, That roll with regular confusion there, in extasy of thought. But ah! proud man Great heights are hazardous to the weak head : Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails ; And down thou dropp’st into that darksome place, Where nor device nor knowledge ever came. Here the tongue-warrior lies ! ‘disabled now, Disarm’d, dishonour’d, like a wretch that’s gage’d And cannot tell his ail to passers-by. Great man of language ! whence this mighty change ? This dumb despair, and drooping of the head ? Tho’ strong persuasion hung upon thy lip, And sly insinuation’s softer arts. ! {in ambush lay about thy flowing tongue ; Alas! how chap-fall’n now! thick mists and silence Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast Unceasing. Ah! where is the lifted arm, The strength of action, and the force of words, The well-turn’d period, and the well-tun’d verse, With all the lesser ornaments of phrase ? Ah! fled for ever, as they ne’er had heen ! Raz’d from the book of fame : or, more provoking, Perhaps some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes, With heavy-halting pace that drawl along ; Enough to rouse a dead man into rage, And warm with red resentment the wan cheek. 39 BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS. Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock-defrauders of the tomb, Spite of their juleps and catholicons, Resign to fate! Proud A‘sculapius’ son, Where are thy boasted implements of art, And all thy well-cramm’d magazines of health ? Nor hill, nor vale, as fur as ship could go, Nor margin of the gravel-bottom’d brook, — Escap’d thy rifling hand ; from stubborn shrubs — Thou wrung’ st their shy, retiring virtues out, And vex’d them in the fire: nor fly, nor insect, Nor writhy snake, escap’d thy deep research. But why this apparatus? why this cost? Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave ! Where are thy recipes and cordials now, With the long list of vouchers for thy cures ? Alas! thou speakest not. The bold impostor Looks not more silly, when the cheat’s found out. Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons ! Who meanly stole, discreditable shift ! From back and belly too their proper cheer ¢ Eas’d of a tax it irk’d the wretch to pay To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodg’d, By clamorous appetites no longer teas’d, Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. But, ah ! where are his rents, his comings in! Aye! now you’ve made the rich man poor indeed : Robb’d of his goods, what has he left behind ? O cursed lust of gold; when for thy sake The fool throws up his int’rest in both worlds, First starv’d in this, then damn’d in that to come. How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! To him that is at ease in his possessions ; Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish’d for that world to come ! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain! how wistfully she looks On all she’s leaving, now no longer hers ! A little longer, yet a little longer, O might she stay to wash away her stains BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 33 And fit her for her passage.! mournful sight ! Her very eyes weep blood, and every groan She heaves is biz with horror: but the foe, Like a staunch murd’rer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; All fore’d at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. Sure ’tis a serious thing to die, my soul * What a strange moment must it be, when near Thy journey’s end thou hast the gulf in view ! That awful gulf no mortal e’er repass’d, To tell what's doing on the other side ! Nature runs back and shudders at the sight, _ And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting ; Fond couple! link’d more close than wedded pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge ; That drops into the dark and noisome grave, Like a disabled pitcher, of no use. If death were nothing, and nought after death ; If, when men died, at once they ceas’d to be ; Returning to the barren womb of nothing, Whence first they sprang ; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heav’ns; then might the drunkard Reel over his full bow], and when ’tis drain‘d, Fill up another to the brim, and laugh At the poor bugbear death ; then might the wretch That’s weary of the world, and tir’d of life, At once give each inquietude the slip, By stealing out of being when he pleas‘d And by what way ; whether by hemp or steel : Death’s thousand doors stand open. Who could force The ill-pleas’d guest to sit out his full time, Or blame him if he goes? Sure! he does well That helps himself as timely as he can When able. But if there-be an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc’d And suffer’d to speak out, tells every man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; c 2 34 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. More horrid yet to die by one’s own hand. Self-murder ! name it not; our island’s shame, That makes her the reproach of neighb’ring states. Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, Self-preservation, fall by her own act ? Forbid it, heav’n ! let not upon disgust The shameless hand be erimson’d fully o’er With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt ! Just reeking in self-slaughter, in 4 rage | To rush into the presence of our Judge! As if we challeng’ d him to do his worst, And matter’d not his wrath. Unheard-of tortures Must be reserv’d for such: these herd together ; The common-damn’'d shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. Our time is fix’d and all our days are number’d ; How long, how short, we know not: this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait. the summons; - Nor dare to stir till heaven shall give permission. Like sentries that must keep their destin’d stand, And wait th’ appointed hour, till they’re reliev'd. Those only are the brave who keep their ground, And keep it to the last.. To run away Ts but a coward’s trick : to run away — From this world’s ills, that at the very worst Will soon blow o’er, thinking to mend ourselves By boldly vent’ring on. a world unknown, And plunging headlong in the dark! ’tis mad : No frenzy half so desperate as this.: Tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pity - To those you left behind, disclose the secret ? O! that some courteous ghost would blab it out, What ‘tis you are, and we must shortly be. I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes Forewarn’d men of their death: ‘twas kindly done To knock and give th’ alarm. . But what means This stinted charity? ’tis but lame kindness That does its work by halves... Why might you not Tell us what ’tis to die! Do the strict laws Of your society forbid your speaking Upon a point so nice! Vl ask no more, Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine to Cot BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Enlightens but yourselves:: well—’tis no matter : A very little time will clear up all, And make us learn’d as you are, and_as close. Death’s shafts fly thick! - Here falls the village swain, And there his pamper’d lord! © ‘The cup goes round, And who so artful’as to put it by? ‘Tis long since death had the majority ; Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart. See yonder maker of the dead man’s bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle ! Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne’er stole A gentle tear ;: with mattock in his hand, Digs thro’ whole rows of kindred and acquaintance By far his juniors! Scarce a scull’s cast up But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some passage of his life. Thus, hand in hand, The sot has walk’d with death twice twenty years ; And yet ne’er younker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale; when drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn ; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world’s hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for ; fools that we are ! Never to think of death and of ourselves At the same time; as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours. O more than sottish ! For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood, To frolic on eternity’s dread brink, Unapprehensive ; when, for aught we know, The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in. Think we, or think we not, time hurries on With a resistless, unremitting stream, Yet treads more soft than e’er did midnight thief, Tuat slides his hand under the miser’s pillow, And carries off his prize. What is this world ? What but a spacious burial-field unwall’d, Strew’d with death’s spoils, the spoil of animals, 36 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Savage and tame, and full of dead men’s bones ? The very turf on which we tread once liv’d ; And we that live must lend our carcases To cover our own offspring : in their turns, They too must cover theirs. ’Tis here all meet ! The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor ; Men of all climes that never met before ; And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian. Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder, His sov’reign’s keeper, and the people’s scourge, Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash’d The great negociators of the earth, And celebrated masters of the balance, Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts ; Now vain their treaty skill! Death scorns to treat. Here the o’erloaded slave flings down his burden From his gall’d shoulders ; and when the cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of power about him, Is meditating new, unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm, and, quick as thought, eseapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream, Time out of mind the fav’rite seats of love, Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down, Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds. The lawn-rob’d prelate, and plain presbyter, Ere while that stood aloof as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister streams That some rude interposing rock had split. Here is the large-limb’d peasant ; here the child Ofa span long, that never saw the sun, Nor press’d the nipple, strangled in life's porch ; Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters ; The barren wife; the long demurring maid, Whose lonely unappropriated sweets Smil’d like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand. Here are the prude severe, and gay coquet, The sober widow, and the young green virgin, Cropp’d like a rose before ’tis fully blown, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 37 Or half its worth disclos’d.’. Strange medley here ! Here garrulous old age winds up his tale ; And jovial youth, of lightsome, vacant heart, Whose every day was made of melody, ‘Hears not the voice of mirth :_ the shrill-tongu’d shrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. Here are the wise, the generous and the brave ; The just, the good, the worthless, the profane, The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred ; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean, The supple statesman, and the patriot stern ; The wrecks of nations and the spoils of time, With all-the lumber of six thousand years. Poor man! how happy once in thy first state, When yet but warm from thy great Maker’s hand, He stamp’d thee with his image, and, well pleas’d, Smil'd on his last fair work! ‘Then all was well. Sound was the body, and the soul serene ; Like two sweet instruments, ne’er out.of tune, That play their several parts. Nor head, nor heart Offer’d to ache; nor was there cause they should, For all was pure within; no fell remorse, . Nor anxious castings up of what might. be, Alarm’d his peaceful bosom : summer seas Shew not more smooth when kiss’d by. southern winds Just ready to expire. Scarce importun’d, The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand, Offer'd the various produce of the year, And every thing most perfect in its kind. Blessed, thrice blessed days! but ah! how short ! Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men, But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone. O slippery state of things! | What sudden turns, What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf Of man’s sad history ! to-day most happy ; And, ere to-morrow’s sun has set, most abject ! How scant the space between these vast extremes ! Thus far'd it with our Sire: not long he enjoy’d His paradise! scarce had the happy tenant Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets, Orsum them up, when straight he must be gone, Ne’er to return again. And must he go? 88 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Can nought compound for the first dire offence Of erring man? Like one that is condemn’d, Fain would he trifle time with idle talk, And parley with his fate. But ’tis in vain. Not all the lavish odours of the place Offer’d in incense can procure his pardon, Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel, With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay, And drives the loiterer forth ; nor must he take One last and farewell round. At once he lost ‘His glory and his God. If mortal now, And sorely maim’d, no wonder! Man has sinn’d. Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures, Evil he would needs try ; nor tried in vain. (Dreadful experiment! destructive measure ! Where the worst thing could happen is success.) Alas! too well he sped: the good he scorn’d Stalk’d off reluctant, like an ill-us’d ghost, Not to return; or if it did, his visits Like those of angels, short, and far between : Whilst the black deemon, with his hell-scap’d train, Admitted once into its better room, Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone ! Lording it o’er the man, who now too late Saw the rash error which he could not mend ; An error fatal not to him alone, But to his future sons, his fortune’s heirs. Inglorious bondage ! human nature groans Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel, And its vast body bleeds through every vein. What havoc hast thou made, foul monster, Sin ! Greatest and first of ills! the fruitful parent Of woes of all dimensions ! but for thee Sorrow had never been. All noxious things Of vilest nature, other sorts of evils, Are kindly cireumscrib’d, and have their bounds. The fierce volcano, from its burning entrails That belches molten stone and globes of fire, Invoiv’d in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench, Mars the adjacent fields for some leagues round, And there it stops. ‘The big-swoln inundation, Of mischief more diffusive, raving loud, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 39 Buries whole tracts of country, threat’ning more ; But that, too has its shore it cannot pass. More dreadful far than these, sin has laid waste, Not here and there a country, but a world ; Dispatching at a wide extended blow Entire mankind, and for their sakes defacing A whole creation’s beauty with rude hands ; Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches, And marking all.along its way with ruin. Accursed thing ! O where shall fancy find A proper name to call thee by, expressive | Of all thy horrors? pregnant womb of ills! Of temper so transcendently malign, That toads and serpents of most deadly kind Compar'd to thee are harmless. Sicknesses Of ev’ry size and symptom, racking pains, And bluest plagues are thine! See how the fiend Profusely scatters the contagion round ; Whilst deep-mouth’'d slaughter, bellowing at her heels, Wades deep in blood new-spilt: yet for to-morrow Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring, And inly pines till the dread blow is struck. But hold! [ve gone too far; too much discover’d My father’s nakedness, and nature’s shame. Here let me\pause ! and drop an honest tear, One burst of filial duty, and: condolence O’er all those ample deserts death has spread, This chaos of mankind. O great man-eater ! Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet:* Unheard-of epicure ! without a fellow ! The veriest gluttons do not always cram ; Some intervals of abstinence are sought To edge the appetite : thou seekest none. Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devour’d, And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up, This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full. But, ah! rapacious still, thou gap’st for more : Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals, On whom lank hunger lays his skinny hand, And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings, (As if Diseases, Massacre, and Poison, Famine and War were not thy caterers.) 40 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. But know that thou must render up the dead, And with high interest too! they are not thine; But only in thy keeping for a season, Till the great promis'd day of restitution ; When loud diffusive sound of brazen trump Of strong-lung’d cherub shall alarm thy captives, And rouse the long, long sleepers into life, Day-light, and liberty,— Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal The mines that lay long forming under ground, In their dark cells immur'd; but now full ripe, And pure as silver from the crucible, That twice has stood the torture of the fire, And inquisition of the forge. We know, The illustrious Deliverer of mankind, The Son of God, thee foil’d. Him in thy power Thou couldst not hold: self-vigorous he rose, And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook The spoils his voluntary yielding lent. (Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!) Twice twenty days he sojourn’d here on earth, And shew’d himself alive to chosen witnesses By proofs so strong, that the most slow-assenting Had not ascruple left. This having done, He mounted up to heaven. Methinks I see him Climb the aerial heights, and glide along Athwart the severing clouds: but the faint eye Flung backward in the chase, soon drops its hold, Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing. Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in ; Nor are his friends shut out: as some great prince Not for himself alone obtains admission, But for his train; it was his royal will, That where he is, there should his followers be. Death only lies between! a gloomy path! Made yet more gloomy by our coward fear ! But not untrod, nor tedious: the fatigue Will soon go off. Besides, there’s no by-road To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition’d children, Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air and softer skies, And a neer-setting sun? Fools that we are! BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 41 We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom ; But straight our wish revoke, and will not go. So have I seen, upon a summer’s even, Fast by the riv’let’s brink a youngster play : How wishfully he looks to stem the tide ! This moment resolute, next unresolv'd, At last he dips his foot ; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From th’ inoffensive stream, unmindful now Of all the flowers that paint the farther bank, And smil’d so sweet of late. Thrice welcome Death ! That after many a painful bleeding step, Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe On the long wish’d for shore. Prodigious change; Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death disarm’d Loses his fellness quite; all thanks to him Who scourg’d the venom out! Sure the last end Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit! Night-dews fall nut more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him ! in the evening-tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was - - His riper years should not upbraid his green : By unperceiv’d degrees he wears away ; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting ! High in his faith and hopes, look ! how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That’s hamper’d, struggles hard to get away ! Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest! Then! O then! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought. O how he longs To have his passport sign’d, and be dismiss’d ! ’Tis done, and now he’s happy! The glad soul Has not a wish uncrown’d. Even the lag flesh Rests too in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain; the time draws on When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust 42 BEAUTIES.OF THE POETS. Inviolate ; and faithfully shall these Make up the full account ; not the least.atom ~ Embezzled or mislaid, of the whole tale. Each soul shall have a, body ready-furnish’ di; And each shall have his own... Hence, ye profane : Ask not how this can be., Sure the same power That rear’d the piece at first, and took it down, Can re-assemble the loose scatter’d parts, And put them as they were. Almighty God Has done much more; nor is his arm impair’d Through length of days ; and what he can he will : His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, Not unattentive to the call shall wake ; And every. joint possess its former place, With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first-state., . Nor shall the conscious soul Mistake its:partner ;, but amidst the crowd, Singling its: other half, into. its arms, Shall rush, with all the,impatience of a man That’s new come home, who having long been absent, With haste runs,over every different room, In pain to see the whole... Thrice happy meeting ! Nor area nor death, shall ever part them more. eae Thus, at the shut of. even, “the: weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in’some lonely brake. Cowers down, and dozes till the. dawn of day ; Then claps his well-fledg’d wings and bears away. SONG. Townsend. Amip the west, the light decaying, Like joy, looks loveliest ere it dies ; On Ocean’s breast the small waves playing, Catch the last lustre as they rise. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 45 Scarce the blue curling tide displaces One pebble, in its gentle ebb; — Scarce on the blue sand leaves its traces, In meshes, fine as fairy web. From many a stone the sea-weed streaming, Now floats—now falls—the waves between, Its yellow berries brighter seeming Amid the wreaths of dusky green. This is the hour the lov’d are dearest : This is the hour the sever’d meet ; The dead—the distant now are nearest, And joy is soft, and sorrow sweet. SONG. Moore. Ou! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now ; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night, Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow ; No, life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns ; But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile ; May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear! The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows, If it were not with friendship and love intertwin’d ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to bedear to my mind, But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o’er the dream they believ d : 44 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. And the heart that has slumber’d in friendship securest: Is happy indeed if ’twas never deceiv'd. But send round the bowl—while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine— ‘That the sunshine of Love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of Friendship console our decline! SONG. Waller. {Edmund Waller was born at Coleshill in Hertfordshire, March 3, 1605, was educated at Eton, and removed afterwards to King’s College, Cambridge. He was sent to Parliament in his eighteenth, if not in his sixteenth year, and frequented the court of James I. Waller’s political and poetical life began nearly together. In his eighteenth year he wrote the poem that appears first in his works, ‘‘On the Prince’s Escape at St. Andero:” a piece which justifies the observation made by one of his editors, that he attained, by a felicity like instinct, a style which perhaps will never be obso- Jete; and that, “‘ were we to judge only by the wording, we could not know what was wrote at twenty, and what at fourscore.” His versification was, in his first essay, such as it appears in his last performance. He died October 21, 1687, and was buried at Beaconsfield. The last stanza of the following poem was added by Henry Kirke White. ] : Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time, and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that’s young, And shuns to have her graces spy’d, That hadst thou sprung In deserts; where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended dy’d. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 45 Smallis theworth | ; Of beauty from the light retir’d : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desir’d, . And not blush so to be admir’d. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee : How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet, and fair ! [ Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise, And teach the maid, . That Goodness Time’s rude hand defies ; That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.] EARLY PREDILECTION FOR A SEA-FARING LIFE. Crabbe. ] novep to walk where none had walked before, About the rocks that ran along the shore ; Or far beyond the sight of men to stray, And take my pleasure when I lost my way ; For then ’twas mine to trace the hilly heath, And all the mossy moor that lies beneath ; Here had I favourite stations, where I stood And heard the murmurs of the ocean flood, With not a sound beside, except when flew Aloft the lapwing,, or the grey curlew, Who with wild notes my fancied power defied, And mock’d the dreams of solitary pride. 1 loved'to stop at every creek and bay Made by the river in its winding way, And all to memory—not by marks they bare, But by the thoughts that were created there. 46 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Pleasant it was to view the sea gulls strive Against the storm, or in the ocean dive, With eager scream, or when they dropping gave Their closing wings to sail:upon the wave ; Then as the winds and waters raged around, And breaking billows mix'd their deafening sound ; They on the rolling deep securely hung, And calmly rode the restless waves among. Nor pleas’d it less around me to behold, Far up the beach; the yesty sea-foam roll’d ; Or from the shore upborne, to see on high, Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly : — While the salt spray that clashing billows form, Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm. THE WATER MELON. Wordsworth. T'was noon, and the reapers reposed on the bank, Where our rural repast had been spread, Beside us meander’d the rill where we drank, And the green willow wav'd o’er our head ; Lucinda, the Queen of our rustical treat, With smiles, like the season, auspicious, Had render’d the scene and the banquet more sweet— But, oh! the desert was delicious. A Melon, the sweetest that loaded the vine, The kind-hearted damsel had brought ; Its crimson core teem’d with the richest of wine, ~ “ How much like her kisses !” I thought. And I said, as its nectarous juices I quaff'd, «© How vain are the joys of the vicious ! No tropical fruit ever furnish’d a draught * So innocent, pure, and delicious ”’ BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 47 in the seeds which embellished this red juicy core, An emblem of life we may view ; For human enjoyments are thus sprinkled o’er With specks of an ebony hue ; - But if we are wise to discard from the mind, Every thought and affectionfthat’s vicious, "Is tes pu Leu oO Dus Like the seed-speckled core of the melon, we'll find, Hach innocent pleasure delicious. LOVE. Southey. Tuey sin who tell us love can die : With life all other passions fly, All others. are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell : Earthly these passions, as of earth, They perish where they have their birth. But love is indestructible ; Its holy flame for ever, burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceiv’d, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, And hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there. Oh! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the anxious night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, | An over-payment of delight ? 48 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. Shenstone. [The Schoolmistress is the happiest effort of this writer; it is never read without pleasure and interest. Nothing can be more natural than the portrait of the good dame, with all the little accompani- ments of her dwelling and garden. The children sporting on the green, and the tempting dainties ‘galling full sore th’ unmonied wight,” are circumstances of much simple beauty. Few poems display more good sense, or a more benevolent heart. J Audite voces, vagitus et ingens, Infantumque anime flentes in limine primo, Vircit. And mingled sounds and infant plaints we hear, That pierce the entrance shrill, and wound the tender ear. ADVERTISEMENT. What particulars in Spenser were imagined most proper for the Author’s imitation on this occasion, are his language, his simplicity, his manner of description, and a peculiar tenderness of sentiment remarkable throughout his works. Au me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise, Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize : Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try . To sound the praise of Merit ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 49 In every village mark’d with little spire, Embower’d in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw’d by the pow’r of this relentless dame, And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn’d, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, | Which Learning near her little dome did stow, Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shudder’d, and their pulse beat low, And as they look’d they found their horror grew, And shap’d it into rods, and tingl’d at the view. So have I seen (who has not may conceive) A lifeless phantom near a garden plac’d, So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ; Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy May no bold Briton’s riper age e’er taste ! Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, _ Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. Near to this dome is found a patch so green, On which the tribe their gambols do display, And at the door impris’ning board is seen, Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! The noises intermix’d, which thence resound, Do Learning’s little tenement betray, Where sits the dame, disguis’d in look profound, And eyes her airy throng, and turns her wheel around. D 3 50 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; Her apron dy’d in grain, as blue, I trow, As is the harebell that adorns the field ; And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fear entwind, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill’d, And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join’d, And fury uncontrol’d, and chastisement unkind. Few but have ken’d, in semblance meet pourtray’d, The childish faces of old Xol’s train, Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array’d, How then would fare, or earth,’ or sky, or main, Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein ? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain, The cot no more, 1 ween, were deem’d the cell Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. A russet stole was o’er her shoulders thrown, A russet kirtle fene’d the nipping air ; "Twas simple russet, but it was her own; °T was her own country bred the flock so fair ; "Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ; And sooth to say, her pupils, rang’d around, Through pious awe did term it passing rare, For they in gaping wonderment abound, [ground. And think, no doubt, she been the greatest, wight on Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear, Goody, good-woman, gossip, n’aunt, forsooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; Yet these she challeng’d, these she held right dear ; Ne would esteem him act as mought behove Who would not honour’d eld with these revere ; For never, title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame. Which ever and anon, impell’d by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came, Such favour did her past deportment claim ; And if neglect had lavish’d on the ground Fragment of bread she would collect the same: For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak That in her garden sipp’d the silvery dew, Where no vain flower disclos’d a gaudy streak, © But herbs for use and physic, not a few Of gray renown, within those borders grew ; The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue, The lowly gill, that never dares to climb, And more I fain would sing’, disdaining here te rhyme. Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around, And pungent radish, biting infant’s tongue ; And plaintain ribb’d, that heals the reaper’s wound, And marjoram sweet, in shepherd’s posy found, And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume. And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown’d The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, Ere, driven from its envied site, it found A sacred shelter for its branches here, Where edg’d with gold its glittering skirts appear. Oh wassel days! Oh customs meet and well! Ere this was banish’d from its lofty sphere ; Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell. 52 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Here oft the dame, on sabbath’s decent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; If winter ‘twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer-seat : Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Israel’s sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a song entreat, All for the nonce untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres—small heart had they to sing. Yor she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And pass’d much time in truly virtuous deed ; And in those elfins’ ears would oft deplore The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed, And tortuous death was true Devotion’s meed ; And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed ; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn : Ah! dearest Lord! forfend, thilk days should e’erreturn. In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac’d, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac d, The matron sate ; and some with rank she graced, (The source of children’s and of courtier’s pride !) Redress’d affronts, for vile affronts there pass’d, And warn’d them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry, To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise, Some with vile copper prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise, And other some with baleful sprig she ’frays : Ev’n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways ; Forewarn d, if little bird their pranks behold, Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 53 Lo, now with state she utters the command! iftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair, Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair ; The work so gay that on their back is seen St. George’s high achievements does declare, On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween ! Ah! luckless he, and born beneath the beam Of evil star! it irks me while I write ! As erst the bard» by Mulla’s silver stream Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh’d as he sung, and did in tears indite ; For brandishing the rod she doth begin To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late delight! And down they drop, appears his dainty skin, Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure His little sister doth his peril see ; All playful as she sat she grows demure, She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; She meditates a prayer to set him free : Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. No longer can she now her shrieks command, And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear * (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow: !) ~ She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to fiow, And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. h Spenser. 54 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace ; Or what device his loud laments explain ? The form uncouth of his disguised face : The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ! The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ¢ When he in abject-wise implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain, Qr when from high she levels well her aim, [claim. And thro’ the thatch his cries each falling stroke pro- The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care ; By turns, astonied, every twig: survey, And from their fellows’ hateful wounds beware, Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share ; Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair, Whence oft with sugar’d cates she doth ’em greet, And gingerbread y-rare, now certes doubly sweet ! See to their seats they hye with merry glee, And in beseemly order sitten there, All but the wight of bum y-galled, he Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair, (This hand in mouth y-fix’d, and rends his hair) And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, Convulsions intermitting ! does declare , His grievous wrong, his dame’s unjust behest, And scorns her offer’d love, and shuns to be caress’d. His face besprent with liquid erystal shines, His blooming face, that seems a purple flow’r, Which low to earth its drooping head declines, All smear’d and sullied by a vernal show’r O the hard bosoms of despotic Pow’r ! All, all, but she, the author of his shame, All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour ; Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall claim, If so I deem aright, transcending worth the fame. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 55 Behind some door, in melancholy thought, Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff ! pines, Ne for his fellows’ joyaunce careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns, And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ; And many a sullen look askaunce is sent, Which for his dame’s annoyance he designs ; And still the more to pleasure him she’s bent, The more doth he, perverse, her "haviour past resent. Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be ! But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, Beware, ye dames! with nice discernment see _ Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires : Ah! better far than ali the Muses’ lyres, All coward arts, is valour’s generous heat ; The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, Like Vernon’s patriot soul; more justly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false deceit. Yet nurs’d with skill, what dazzling fruits apvear ! Ev’n now sagacious foresight points to show A little bench of heedless bishops here, And there a chancellor in embryo, Or bard sublime, if bard may e’er be so, As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne’er shall die ! Though now he crawl along the ground so low, Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high, Wisheth, poor starvelling elf, his paper kite may fly. And this, perhaps, who censuring the design, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be ! if rigid Fates incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield, And many a poet quit th’ Aonian field ; And, sour’d by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with ’sdainful fury thrill’d Surveys mine work, and levels many a sneer, — And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, ‘What stuff is here? a6 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. But now Dan Pheebus gains the middle sky, And Liberty unbars her prison door, And like arushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o’er With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; A thousand ways in wanton ring’s they run, Heav’n shield their short-liv’d pastimes, I implore ! For well may freedom, erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers, For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles or in ladies’ bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts, where proud Ambition towers ; Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. See in each sprite some various bent appear ! These rudely carol, most incondite lay ; ‘Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Salute the stranger passing on his way ; Some builden fragile tenements of elay, Some to the standing lake their courses bend, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play : Thilk to the huckster’s savoury cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th’ allotted mite to spend. Here, as each season yields a different store, Each season’s stores in order ranged been, Apples with cabbage-net y-cover’d o’er, Galling full sore th’ unmoney'd wight, are seen, And gooseberry, clad in livery red or green : And here of lovely dye the catherine pear, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice I ween ; QO may no wight e’er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with: hopeless care ! Ot BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies tied, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round, With pamper’d look draw little eyes aside, And must be bought though penury betide ; The plum all azure, and the nut all brown, And here, each season, do those cakes abide Whose honour'd names th’ inventive city own, Rendering thro’ Britain’s isle Salopia’s praises known. Admir’d Salopia! that with venial pride Byes her bright form in Severn’s ambient wave, Fam’d for her loyal cares in perils tried, Her daughters lovely, and her striplinys brave : Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ! A motive fair to Learning’s imps he gave, Who cheerless o’er her darkling region stray, Till reason’s morn arise, and light them on their way. THE LYRE. Montgomery. Tuenre is a living spirit in the lyre, A breath of music, and a soul of fire ; It speaks a language to the world unknown, It speaks that language to the bard alone ; Whilst warbled symphonies entrance his ears, That spirit’s voice in every tone he hears ; "Tis his the magic meaning to rehearse, To utter oracles in glowing verse, Heroic themes from age to age prolong, And make the dead in nature, live in song. Though ’graven rocks the warrior’s deeds proclaim, And mountains hewn to statues wear his name ; i Shrewsbury cakes. Deal: “ay 58 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Though shrined in adamant his relics lie Beneath a pyramid that scales the sky, All that the hand has fashioned shall decay, All that the eye admires shall pass away ; The mouldering rocks, the hero’s hope shall fail, Earthquakes shalt héave the mountain to the vale ; The shrine of adamant betray its trust, And the proud pyramid resolve to dust ; The lyre, alone, immortal fame secures, For song, alone, through nature’s change endures ; Transfus’d, like life, from breast to breast it glows, From sire to son by sure succession flows ; Speeds its increasing flight from clime to clime, Outstripping Death upon the wings of Time. THE SYMPATHY OF LOVE. Byron. We met—we gaz’d—I saw, and sigh’d, She did not speak and yet replied ; There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines— Involuntary sparks of thought, Which strikes from out the heart o'erwrought, And form a strange intelligence, Alike mysterious and intense, Which link the burning chain that binds, Without their will young hearts and minds : Conveying, as the electric wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire— I saw, and sigh’d—in silence wept, And still reluctant distance kept, Until I was made known to her, And we might then and there confer Without suspicion—then, even then, I long’d, and was resoly'd to speak ; But on my lips they died again, The accents tremulous and weak, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 59 Until one hour.—There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the day ; It is—I have forgot the name— And we to this, if seems, were set, By some strange chance, which I forget : I reck’d not if I won or lost, It was enough for me to be So near to her, and oh! to see The being whom I lov’d the most— I watch’d her as a sentinel, Until I saw, and thus it was,. That she was pensive, nor perceived Her occupation, nor was yrieved Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still Play’d on for hours: as if her will Yet bound her to the place, though not That hers might be the winning lot. Then through my brain the thought did pass Even as a flash of lightning there, That there was something in her air Which would not doom me to despair ; And on the thought my words broke forth, All incoherent as they were— Their eloquence was little worth. But yet she listen’d—’'tis enough— Who listens once will listen twice ; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff. I loved, and was beloved again.— THE DYING HORSE. Blacket. Heav’n! what enormous strength does Death possess ! How muscular the giant’s arm must be, To grasp that strong-boned horse, and, spite of all His furious efforts, fix him to the earth ! 60 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Yet, hold, he rises !—no—the struggle’s vain, His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe” Of the remorseless monster, stretch’d at length He lies, with neck extended, head hard press’d Upon the very turf where late he fed. _ His writhing fibres speak his inward. pain ! His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire ! Oh, how he glares !—and, hark ! methinks I hear The bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins ! Amazement! horror! what a desp’rate plunge ! See, where his iron’d hoof has dash’d the sod With the velocity of lightning. Ah!— He rises,—triumphs ;—yes, the vict’ry’s his ! No, no!—the wrestler, Death, again -has thrown him ! And, oh! with what a murdering, dreadful fall ! —Soft ;—he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan ? Was’t from his chest, or from the throat of Death Exulting in his conquest ? I know not. But, if ’twas his, it surely was his last ; For, see, he scarcely stirs; Soft! Does he breathe ? Ah, no! he breathés no more. *Tis very strange ! How still he’s now :—how fiery hot—how cold ! How terrible, how lifeless! all within A few brief moments !—my reason staggers ! Philosophy, thou poor enlighten’d dotard, Who can’st assign for every thing a cause, Here take thy stand beside me and explain This hidden mystery. Bring with thee The headlong atheist, him who laughs at heav’n, And impiously ascribes events to chance, To help to solve this wonderful enigma ! First, tell me, ye proud, haughty reasoners, Where the vast strength this creature late possess'd Has fled to? How the bright sparkling fire, Which flash’d but now from these dim, rayless eyes, Has been extinguish’d? ‘ Oh, he’s dead,’ you say. 1 know it well :—but, how, and by what means ? Was it the arm of chance which struck him down, In height of vigour, and in pride of strength, To stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell me: Nay, shake not thus the heads that are enrich’d. With eighty years of wisdom glean’d from books, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 61 From nights of study, and. the magazines Of knowledge which your predecessors left. What! not a word !—I ask you once again, How comes it that the wondrous essence, : Which gave such vigour to these strong-nerv’d limbs, This noble workmanship of nature thus To sink into a cold inactive clod ? Nay, sneak nat off thus cowardly !—Poor fools ! Ye are as destitute of information As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts ! —The subject of my thoughts !—yes,—there he lies, As free from life, as if he n’er had liv’d, Where are his friends, and where his old acquaintance, Who borrow’d from his strength, when, in the yoke, With weary pace, the steep ascent they climb’d ? Where are the gay companions of his prime, Who with him ambled o’er the flowery turf, And, proudly snorting, pass’d the way-worn hack With haughty brow, and on his ragged coat Look’d with contemptuous scorn? Oh, yonder see, Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun They lie, and heed him not ;—little thinking, While there they triumph in the blaze of noon, How soon the dread annihilating hour Will come, and Death seal up their eyes, Like his, for ever !—Moralizer, now Retire! Yet, first proclaim this sacred truth— Chance rules not over death ; but, where a fly Falls to the earth, ’tis Heav’n that gives the blow ! LAMBS AT PLAY. Bloomfield. , Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen Spring’s morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green, Say, did you give the thrilling transport way ? Did your eye brighten, when young lambs, at play 62 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Leaped o'er your path with animated pride, Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ? Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, At the arch meaning of a kitten’s face ; If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, Excite to’ praise or give reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your favourite joy ’Midst nature’s revels, sports that never cloy.— A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence, abash’d, soon flies the place : Thus challeng’d forth, see thither, one by one From every side assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd impatient of delay: Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, ‘* Come, let us try our speed :”’ Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they botind along ; Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every molehill is a bed of thyme ; There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try, Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom! TWILIGHT. Clare. ‘Tue setting sun withdraws his yellow light, A gloomy staining shadows over all, _ While the brown beetle, trumpeter of Night, Proclaims his entrance with a droning call. How pleasant now, where slanting hazels fall . Thick, o’er the woodland stile, to muse and lean, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 63 To pluck a woodbine from the shade withai, And take short snatches o’er the moistened scene ; While deep and deeper shadows intervene, And leave fond Fancy moulding to her will The cots, and groves, and trees so-dimly seen, That die away more undiscerned still ; Bringing a sooty curtain o’er the sight, And calmness in the bosom still as night. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. Cowper. [‘‘ Cowper is a genuine poet, and deserves all his reputation. His worst vices are amiable weaknesses, elegant trifling. Though there is a frequent dryness, timidity, and jejuneness in his manner, he has left a number of pictures of domestic comfort and social re- finement, as well as of natural imagery and feeling, which can hardly be forgotten but with the language itself.” Haslitt.] Tuere is in souls a sympathy with sounds, And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleas’d With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on. With easy force it opens all the cells Where Mem’ry slept. Wherever I have heard | A kindred melody, the scene recurs, And with it all its pleasures and its pains.— The night was winter in its roughest mood ; — The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 64 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. And has the warmth of May. The vault is biue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o’er the vale ; And through the trees I view th’ embattled tow’r, Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well suffie’d, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress’d : Pleas’d with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where’er he rests he shakes. From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither’d leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And Learning wiser grow without his books. LINES, WRITTEN ON SEEING A MODEL FROM THE MONUMENTAI. BUST OF SHAKSPEARE. Neele. His was the master-spirit ;—at his spells The heart gave up its secrets : like the mount Of Horeb, smitten by the Prophet’s rod, ' Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that grey rock BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 65 On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner hards Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal On which his Genius rose, and, rooted there, Stands like a mighty statue, reared so high Above the clouds and changes of the world, That Heaven’s unshorn and unimpeded beams Have round its awful brows a glory shed Immortal as their own. Like those fair birds Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions Beam light on that dim world they leave behind, And while they spurn, adorn it*; so his spirit, His “* dainty spirit,’ while it soared above This dull, gross compound, scattered as it flew Treasures of light and loveliness. —_——— And these Were “gentle Suaxspeare’s”’ features ; this the eye Whence Earth’s least earthly mind looked out, and flashed | Amazement on the nations; this the brow Where lofty thought majestically brooded, Seated as on a throne ; and these the lips That warbled music stolen from heaven’s own choir When Seraph-harps rang sweetest. But I tempt A theme too high, and mount like Icarus, On wings that melt before the blaze they worship. Alas! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild ! Else should the eye, whose wondering gaze is fixed Upon this breathing bust, awaken strains Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck From Memnon’s ruined statue: the rapt soul Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes «© Discourse most eloquent music.” k In some parts of America, it is said, there are birds which, when on the wing, and at night, emit so surprising a brightness, that it is no mean substitute for the light of day. Among the whimsical speculations of Fontenelle, is one, that in the Planet Mars, the want of a moon may be compensated by a multiplicity of these luminary eronauts. 66 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, «DUM VIVIMUS VIVAMUS.” Doddridge. ‘* Live while you live,” the Epicure would say, “* And seize the pleasures of the present day.”’ ‘* Live while you live,’® the sacred preacher cries, ‘* And give to God each moment as it flies.” Lord in thy sight let both united be ; J live in pleasure when I live to Thee. TIME. Herbert. { George Herbert was born April 3, 4593, in the castle, near the town of Montgomery. About 1605 he was sent to Westminster School, and committed to the care of Dr. Neale; and at the age of fifteen (he being then a King’s scholar) he was elected out of that school for Trinity College, Cambridge. He attended closely to his studies, and in 1611 was made Bachelor of Arts, and Master of Arts in 1615. In 1619 he was chosen Orator of the University ; soon after he entered into holy orders, and was presented in 1630 with the living of Bemerton, near Salisbury. The character of a plain, humble parish priest was henceforth the sole object of his ambition, and it was joined with a devotional spirit of the most ardent cast. He died in 1633. “* His aspect was cheerful, and his speech and motion did both declare him a gentleman; for they were all so meek and obliging, that they purchased love and respect from all that knew him. ‘¢ His chiefest recreation was Music, in which heavenly art he was a most excellent master, aud did himselfcompose many Divine hymns and anthems, which he set and sung to his lute or viol: and though he was a lover of retiredness, yet his love to Music was such, that he went usually twice every week, on certain appointed days to the Cathedral Church in Salisbury ; and at his return would BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 67 say, ‘That his time spent in prayer, and Cathedral-music, elevated his soul, and was his heaven upon earth.’ But before his return thence to Bemerton, he would usually sing and play his part at an appointed private music-meeting; and to justify this practice, he would often say, ‘ Religion does not banish mirth, but only mode- rates and sets rules to it.’” Izaac Walton, ‘The Temple,” whence the following poem is selected, was first published in 1635. His verses are of the school of Donne, and they abound more in conceits than in genuine poetry; yet, Gothic and uncouth as they are, there is in them a strain of piety, which the reader cannot but admire. ] Mesvine with Time, ‘ Slack thing,’ said I, ‘Thy scythe is dull; whet it, for shame.’ ‘No marvel, sir,’ he did reply, ‘If it at length deserve some blame. But, where one man would have me grind it, Twenty for one too sharp do find it.’ ‘ Perhaps some such of old did pass, Who above all things lov’d this life; To whom thy scythe a hatchet was, Which now is but a pruning knife. Christ’s coming hath made man thy debtor, Since, by thy cutting, he grows better. And in his blessing thou art blest. For, where thou only wert before An executioner at best, Thou art a gard’ner now; and, more, An usher, to convey our souls Beyond the utmost stars and poles. And this is that makes life so long, While it detains us from our God. Ev’n pleasures here increase the wrong, And length of days lengthen the rod, Who wants the place where God doth dwell, Partakes already half of hell, - 68 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Of what strange length must that need be, Which ev n eternity excludes!’ Thus far Time heard me patiently ; Then, chafing, said, ‘'This man deludes! What do I here before his door? He doth not crave less time, but more.’ THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES, IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL: Johnson. [‘‘Tke Vanity of Human Wishes” is an imitation of the tenth Satire of Juvenal ; and though Jobnson’s thoughts are not so compressed in the expression, or so energetically conveyed to the mind, as those in the Roman satirist, his diction is less laboured and unaffected, and he flows in astream of versification scarcely less rapid and eloquent, but infinitely more smooth thanthe Latin poet. He has preserved all the beauties and virtue of the original moral, but has deprived it, with infinite art, of all appearance of Epicurean infidelity, and filled it with precepts worthy of a philosopher, and wishes fitting for a Christian, He has succeeded wonderfully in giving to his imitation, the air of an original. The Christian had to struggle with the Heathen poet, and though we cannot say that he has sur- passed him, he has at least entered into a noble competition. | Ler observation with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life ; Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, O’erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, Where wav’ring man betray’d by vent’rous pride, To chase the dreary paths without a guide, As treach’rous phantoms in the midst delude, Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good; How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 69 How nations sink, by daring schemes oppress’d, When vengeance listens to the fool’s request. Fate wings with ev’ry wish th’ afflictive dart, Hach gift of nature, and each grace of art; With fatal heart impetuous courage glows, With fatal sweetness elocution flows ; . Impreachment stops the speaker’s pow’rful breath, And restless fire precipitates on death. But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold Fall in the gen’ral massacre of gold; Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfin’d, And crowds with crimes the records of mankind ; For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; Wealth heap’d on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, The danger gather as the treasures rise. Let Hist’ry tell, where rival kings command, And dubious title shakes the madded land, When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, How much more safe the vassal than the lord; Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of power, And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, Untouch’'d his cottage, and his slumbers sound, Tho’ confiscation’s vultures hover round. The needy traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. Does envy seize thee? crush th’ upbraiding joy ; Increase his riches, and his peace destroy ; Now fears in dire vicissitude invade, The rust’ling brake alarms, and quiv ring shade, Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, One shews the plunder, and one hides the thief. Yet still one gen’ral cry the skies assails, And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; Few know the toiling statesman’s fear or care, Th’ insidious rival and the gaping heir. Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth, See motley life in modern trappings dress’d, And feed with varied fools th’ eternal jest: Thou who couldst laugh where want enchain'd caprice, Toil crush’d conceit, and man was of a piece; 7O BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Where wealth, unlov'd, without a mourner died ; And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride; Where ne’er was known the form of mock debate, Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state; Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws, And senates heard before they judg’d a cause; How wouldst thou shake at Britain’s modish tribe, Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe! Attentive truth and nature to descry, And pierce each scene with philosophic eye, To thee were solemn toys, or empty.show, The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe: All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage’s mind, Renew’d at ev'ry glance on human kind; How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, Search ev’ry state, and canvass ev'ry pray’r. Unnumber’d suppliants crowd Preferment’s gate, Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great ; Delusive Fortune hears th’ incessant call, They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. ry On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, Hate dogs their flight, and insults mocks their end. Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman’s door Pours in the morning worshipper no more: For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, To growing wealth the dedicator flies, From ev’ry room descends the painted face, That hung the bright palladium of the place; And, smok’d in kitchens, or in auctions sold, To better features yields the frame of gold; For now no more we trace in ev'ry line Heroic worth, benevolence divine: The form distorted, justifies the fall, And detestation rids th’ indignant wall. But will not Britian hear the last appeal, Sign her foes’ doom, or guard her fay’rite’s zeal ? Through Freedom’s sons no more remonstrance rings, Degrading nobles and controlling kings; Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, And ask no questions but the price of votes ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. TA With weekly libels and septennial ale, Their wish is full to riot and to rail. In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand; To him the church, the realm, their pow’ rs consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, Turn’d by his nod‘the stream of honour flows, His smile alone security bestows: Still to new heights his restless wishes tow’r, Claim leads to claim, and pow ’r advances pow’, Till conquest unresisted ceas’d to please, And rights submitted left him none to seize. At length his sov’reign frowns—the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate, Where’er he turns, he meets a stranger’s eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glitt’ring plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liv’ried army, and the menial lord. With age, with cares, with maladies oppress’d, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. Grief aids disease, remember’d folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, Shall Wolsey’s wealth, with Wolsey’s end, be thine? Or liv’st thou now, with safer pride content, The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? For, Why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, On weak foundations raise th’ enormous weight ? Why, but to sink beneath misfortune’s blow, With louder ruin to the gulphs below? What gave great Villiers to the assassin’s knife, And fix’d disease on Harley’s closing life? What murder’d Wentworth, and what exil’d Hyde, By kings protected, and to kings allied? What but their wish indulg’d in courts to shine, And pow’r too great to keep, or to resign? When first the college rolls receive his name, The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; lesistless burns the fever of renown, Caught from the strong contagion of the gown: 72 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. O’er Bodley’s dome his future labours spread, and Bacon’s! mansion trembles o’er his head. Are these thy views? Proceed illustrious youth, And Virtue guard thee to the throne of ‘l'ruth! Yet, should thy soul indulge the gen’rous heat Till captive Science yields her last retreat ; Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray, And pour on misty Doubt resistless day; Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain: Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, Nor claim the triumph of a letter’d heart; Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, Nor Melancholy’s phantoms haunt thy shade ; Yet hope nor life from grief or danger free, Nor think the doom of man revers’d for thee: Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from letters, to be wise. There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol. See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just, To buried merit raise the tardy bust, If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, Hear Lydiat’s life, and Galileo’s end." ~ Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows, The glitt’ring eminence exempt from foes; See, when the vulgar ’scapes, despis’d or aw’d, Rebellion’s vengeful talons seize on Laud. From meaner minds though smaller fines content, The plunder’d palace, or sequester’d rent ; Mark’d out by dang’rous parts, he meets the shock, And fatal Learning leads him to the block: Around his tomb let art and genius weep, But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. ' There is a tradition, that the study of friar Bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall when a man greater than Bacon shall pass under it. To prevent so shocking an accident it was pulled down many years since. m See Gentleman’s Magazine, vol, Ixvili. p. 951. 1797. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. | fo The festal blazes, the triumphal show, The ravish’d standard, and the captive foe, The senate’s thanks, the Gazette’s pompous tale, With force resistless o’er the brave prevail. Such bribes the rapid Greek o’er Asia whirl’d, For such the steady Romans shook the world ; For such in distant lands the Britons shine ; And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine ; This pow’r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm, Till Fame supplies the universal charm. Yet Reason frowns on war’s unequal game, Where wasted nations raise a single name ; And mortgag’d states their grandsire’s wreaths regret, From age to age in everlasting debt ; Wreaths which at last the dear- -bought right conyey To rust on medais, or on stones decay. On what foundation stands the warrior’s pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; O’er love, o’er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer’d lord of pleasure and of pain ; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field : Behold surrounding kings their pow’rs combine, And one capitulate, and one resign ; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; «« Think nothing gain’d, “he cries, ‘ till nought remain, On Moscow’s walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky.” The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait ; Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ;— Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa’s day : The vanquish’d hero leaves his broken bands, And shews his miseries in distant lands; Condemn’d a needy supplicant to wait, While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not chance at length her error mend ? Did no subverted empire mark his end ? E 4 74° BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? His fall was destin’d to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral or adorn a tale. . All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, From Persia’s tyrant to Bavaria’s lord. In gay hostility and barb’rous pride, With half mankind embattled at his side, Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, And starves exhausted regions in.his way ; Attendant Flatt’ry counts his myriads o’er, Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more ; Fresh praise is tried till madness tires his mind, The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind ; New pow’rs are claim’d, new pow’rs are still bestow d, Till rude resistance lops the spreading god ; The daring Greeks deride the martial show, And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe ; Th’ insulted sea with humbler thought he gains, A single skiff to speed his flight remains 5 Tl’ incumber’d oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast, Through purple billows and a floating host. The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, Tries the dread summits of Cesarean pow’r, With unexpected legions bursts away, And sees defenceless realms receive his sway ; Short sway! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; From hill to hill the beacon’s rousing blaze Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise ; The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, _ With all the sons of ravage crowd the war ; The baffled prince, in honour’s flatt’ring bloom Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom ; His foes’ derision, and his subjects’ blame, And steals to death from anguish and from shame. Enlarge my life with multitude of days ! In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, That life protracted is protracted woe. ~ Of BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Time hovers o’er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy: In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow’r ; With listless eyes the dotard views the store, Tie views, and wonders that they please no more: Now pail the tasteless meats, and joyless wines, And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : No sound, alas! would touch th’ impervious ear, Though dancing mountains witness’d Orpheus near ; Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow’r attend, Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, Perversely grave, or positively wrong. The still returning tale, and ling’ring jest, Perplex the fawning niece and pamper’d guest, While growing hopes scarce awe the gath’ring sneer, And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; The watchful guests still hint the last offence ; The daughter’s petulance, the son’s expence, Improve his heady rage with treach’rous skill, And mould his passions till they make his will. Unnumber’d maladies his joints invade, Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; But unextinguish’d av’rice still remains, And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. But grant, the virtues of a temp’rate prime Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; An age that melts with unperceiv’d decay, And glides:in modest innocence away ; Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, Whose night congratulating conscience cheers ; The gen’ral fav’rite as the gen’ral friend : Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? Yet ev’n on this her load misfortune flings, To press the weary minutes’ flagging wings ; 76 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. New sorrow rises as the day returns, . A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. Now kindred merit fills the sable bier, Now lacerated friendship claims a tear ; Year chases year, decay pursues decay, Still drops some joy from with’ring life away ; New forms arise, and diff rent views engage, Superfluous lags the vet’ran on the stage, Till pitying Nature signs the last release, And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. But few there are whom hours like these await, Who set unclouded in the gulphs of fate. From Lydia’s monarch should the search descend, By Solon caution’d to regard his end, In life’s last scene what prodigies surprise, Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! From Marlb’rough’s eyes the streams of dotage fiow, And Swift expires a driv’ler and a show. The teeming mother, anxious for her race, Begs for each birth the fortune of a face ; Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring ; And Sedley curs’d the form that pleas’d a king. Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; Whom joys with soft varieties invite, By day the frolic, and the dance by night ; . Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save, Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave? Against your fame with fondness hate combines, The rival batters, and the lover mines. With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls ; Tir’d with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign, And pride and prudence take her seat in vain. In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, The harmless freedom, and the private friend. The guardians yield, by force superior ply’d: To int’rest, prudence ; and to flatt’ry, pride. Here beauty falls betray’d, despis’d, distress’d, And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. rire Where then shall hope and fear their objects find ? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? — Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? Enquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain Which heav’n may hear, nor deem religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to heav’n the measure and the choice. Safe in his pow’r, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r ; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure, whate’er he gives, he gives the best. Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resign’d ; For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; For patience, sov’reign o’er transmuted ill ; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind Nature’s signal of retreat ; These goods for man the laws of heav’n ordain, These goods he grants, who grants the pow’r to gain ; With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. THOUGHTS. Wordsworth. Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device ? Such are thoughts ;—a wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea ; Such is life ;—and death a shadow From the rock eternity ! 78 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. VERSES, COMPOSED FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF ROBERT BURNS § BIRTHDAY, CELEBRATED AT SHEFFIELD, 1820. Montgomery. Wuar bird in beauty, flight, or song, Can with the Bard compare, Who sang as sweet, and soar’d as strong, As ever child of air ? His plume, his note, his form, could Burns For whim or pleasure change ; He was not one, but all by turns, With transmigration strange. The Blackbird, oracle of spring, When flow’d his moral lay ; The Swallow, wheeling on the wing, Capriciously at play : The Humming-bird, from bloom to bloom, Inhaling heavenly balm ; The Raven, in the tempest gloom ; The Halcyon in the calm : In “‘ Auld Kirk Alloway” the Owl At ’witching time of night ; By ‘‘ Bonnie Doon”’ the earliest fowl That carol’d to the light : He was the Wren amidst the grove, When in his homely vein ; At “* Bannockburn” the Bird of Jove, _ With thunder in his train : The Woodlark in his mournful hours ; The Goldfinch in his mirth ; The Thrush, a spendthrift of his pow'rs, Enrapt’ring heaven and earth : BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 419 ‘The Swan in majesty and.grace, Contemplative and still ; But rous’d,—no Falcon in the chace Could, like his satire, kill : The Linnet in simplicity ; In tenderness the Dove ; But, more than all beside, was he The Nightingale in love ! Oh! had he never stcop’d to shame, Nor lent a charm to vice ; How had Devotion lov’d to name That Bird of Paradise. Peace to the dead! in Scotia’s choir Of Minstrels great and small, He springs from his spontaneous fire, The Phoenix of them all ! peril sentences Perey ented nt LIFE, DEATH AND ETERNITY. Anonymous. A sHapow moving by one’s side, That would a substance seem,— That is, yet is not,—though descried— Like skies beneath the stream : A tree that’s ever in the bloom, Whose fruit is never ripe ; A wish for joys that never come,— Such are the hopes of Life. A dark, inevitable night, A blank that will remain ; A waiting for the morning light, When waiting is in vain ; SO BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, A gulph where pathway never led To show the depth beneath ; A thing we know not, yet we dread ,— That dreaded thing is Death. The vaulted void of purple sky That everywhere extends, That stretches from the dazzled eye, In space that never ends : A morning, whose uprisen sun No setting e’er shall see ; A day that comes without a noon,— Such is Eternity. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. Burns. [“‘Itis difficult to decide whether the following piece should be con- sidered as serious or comic. Be this as it may, the poem is one of the happiest and most finished of Burns’s productions. If we snmile at the ‘ bickering brattle’ of this little flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The descriptive part is admirable : the moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly out of the oc- - casion ; and in the conclusion there is a deep melancholy, a senti- ment of doubt and dread, that arises to the sublime.” Currie. ] Wes, sleekit », cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, i Wi? bickering brattle° ; I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle? ! n Sleekit, sleek, sly. ° Bickering brattle, hurry, fury. P Pattle, a plough staff. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. _ Pm truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An’ fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker? in a thrave | ’S a sma’ request : Vil get a blessin’ wi’ the lave’, _ And never miss’t ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’ ! An’ naething, now, to bigs a new ane, O’ foggage green ! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’, Baith snell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary winter comin’ fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro’ thy cell. That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou’s turn’d out fora’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, An’ cranreuch'* cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain : The best laid schemes 0’ mice an’ men, Gang aft a-gly*, 4 Daimen icker, an ear of corn now and then. r Lave, the remainder. s Big, to build. t Cranreuch, the hoar frost. 9 u Agley, wrong. E 8g BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain, For promis’d joy. Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me ! The present only toucheth thee : But, Och! I backward cast my e’e On prospects drear : An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear. We tk SONG. Moore. Wuere is the nymph, whose azure eye Can shine through rapture’s tear ? The sun has sunk, the moon is high, And yet she comes not here ! Was that her footstep on the hill, Her voice upon the gale ? No, ’twas the wind and all is still, Oh, maid of Marlivale! Come to me, love, I’ve wander’d far, ‘Tis past the promis’d hour; Come to me, love, the twilight star Shall guide thee to my bower. TO MARY. Barton. [Bernard Barton, the ‘ Quaker Poet,’ whose elegant and interesting productions have afforded so much gratification to every reader of pure taste and right feelings, was born in the vicinity of London, in BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. $3 1784, and educated at a Quaker seminary. In the year 1806, Mr. Barton took up his residence at Woodbridge, Suffolk, and now holds a situation in the Bank at that place. In 1810 he began to “commit the sin of rhyme,’ and in 1812 published an anonymoas volume, entitled, ‘ Metrical Effusions,’ which was followed in 1818 by a volume of ‘ Poems by an Amateur.’ Encouraged by the very flattering manner in which these i:npressions of his Poems were re- ceived by his friends, he at last ventured to publish in a small vo- lume, ‘ Poems by Bernard Barton,’ which was very favourably no- ticed by the Literary Journals, and has reached a third edition. Little more than a year ago he published ‘Napoleon, and other Poems.’ 7 “ Such has been the literary career of Bernard Barton, [If it have not left behind it the brilliant track of other poetical comets, it has been less erratic in its course ;—and his Parnassian vespers may be said to possess all the mild and soothing beauties of the Evening star. If his Muse have not always reached the sun-ward path of the soaring eagle, it is no extravagant praise to say that she has often emulated the sublimity of his aerial fight. But the great charm thrown around the effusions of the Suffolk bard is that ‘ lu- cid veil’ of morality and religion which ‘ covers but not conceals ;’ that ‘silver net-work’ through which shine his poctic ‘ apples of gold.’” Time’s Telescope, 18236] it is not alone while we live in the light Of Friendship’s kindling glance, That its beams so true, and so tenderly bright, _ Our purest Joys can enhance :-— But that ray shines on through a night of tears, And its light is round us in after years. Nor is it while yet on the listeriing ear The accents of Friendship steal, That we know the extent of the joy so dear, Which its touching tones reveal :— ‘Tis in after-moments of sorrow and pain, Their echo surpasses music’s strain. Though years have roll’d by, dear Mary! since we Have look’d on each other’s face, §4 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Yet thy memory is fondly cherished by me, For my heart is its dwelling-place ; And, if on this earth we should meet no more, It must linger there still until life is o’er. The traveller who journeys the live-long day Through some enchanting vale,— Should he, when the mists of evening are grey, Some neighb’ring mountain scale,— O! will he not stop, and look back to review The delightful retreats he has wander’d through ? So I, who have toiled up life’s steep hill Some steps,—since we parted last, Often pensively pause, and look eagerly still On the few bright spots I have pass’d :— And some of the brightest, dear Mary! to me, Were the lovely ones I enjoyed with thee. 1 know not how soon dark clouds may shade The valley of years gone by ; Or how quickly its happiest haunts may fade In the mists of an evening sky ;— But—till quench’d is the lustre of life’s setting sun, I shall look back at times, as I now have done. PASSIONATE LOVE. Byron. —_——— "T's sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier, By distance mellow’d, o’er the waters sweep ; *Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf; *tis sweet to view on high ‘The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. BRAUTIES OF THE POETS, $5 "Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home; "Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and leok brighter when we come : *Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark, Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth ; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born’s birth, Sweet is revenge—especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. *Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels By blood or ink ; ’tis sweet to put an end To strife; *tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend ; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love !— THE PASSIONS. AN ODE. Collins. { William Collins was born at Chichester, December 25,1720. He was admitted scholar of Winchester College in 1733, where he was educated by Dr. Burton: from thence he removed in 1740 to the S6 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. University of Oxford. About 1744 he came to London, as a li- terary adventurer, where he soon became acquainted with Dr. Johnson, who says, ‘‘ His appearance was decent and manly, his knowledge considerable, his views extensive, his conversation elegant, and his disposition cheerful.” He died in a state of de- rangement, at Chichester, in 1756. It is from his Odes that Collins derives his chief poetical fame ; and, in compensation for the neglect they met with at their first ap- pearance, they are now almost universally regarded by the lovers of poetry, as the first productions of the kind in our language, with respect to vigour of conception, boldness and variety of personifica- ‘tion, and genuine warmth of feeling. Dr. Johnson, whose defec- tive sensibility rendered him an unfavourable and inadequate judge of the higher kinds of poetry, sums up his life of Collins with this sweeping condemnation, “‘ As men are often esteemed who cannot be loved, so the poetry of Collins may sometimes extort praise, when it gives little pleasure ;” but the popularity ofthe following beauti- ful ‘‘ Ode on the Passions” offers a complete contradiction to this unchafitable criticism. | Wuen Music, heavenly maid ! was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell ; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, - Possessed beyond the Muse’s painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch’d her instruments of sound ; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness rul’d the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder’d laid ; Aud back recoil’d, he knew not why, Ev’n at the sound himself had made. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. ee) ~ Next Anger rush’d, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own’d his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair— Low sullen sounds his grief beguil’d ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; "Twas sad by fits, by starts ‘twas wild. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper’d promis’d pleasure, ‘And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong ; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call’d on Echo still through all the song ; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope enchanted smil’d, and wav’d her golden hair: ‘And longer had she sung—but with a frown Revenge impatient rose ; He threw his blood-stain’d sword in thunder down, And with a with’ring look The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of woe; And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; * And thoughsometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mien, While each strain’d ball of sight seem’d bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix’d ; Sad proof of thy distressful state.; Of diffring themes the veering song was mix’d Aad now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate. With eyes uprais’d, as one inspir’d, Pale Melancholy sat retiv’d, 88 BEAUTIES Of THE POETS. And from her wild sequester’d seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour’d through the mellow horn her pensive soul And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join’d the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole : Or o’er some haunted stream, with fond delay Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. j But O! how alter’d was its sprightly tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, ‘ Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known ; The oak-crown’d Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoic’d to hear, And Sport leap’d up, and seiz’d his beechen spear. Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address’d ; But soon he saw the brisk, awak’ning viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov’d the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe’s vale her native maids, Amid the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing : While as his flying fingers kiss’d the strings; Love fram’d with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbouné , And he amid his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid Friend of pleasure, wisdom’s aid, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. $9 Why, goddess! why, to us denied, Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? Asin that lov’d Athenian bower You learn’d an all-commanding power ; Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear’d, Can well recall what then it heard, Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders in that godlike age Fill thy recording sister’s page— *Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age ; Ev’n all at once together found Cecilia’s mingled world of sound. O bid our vain endeavours cease ; Revive the just designs of Greece ; Return in all thy simple state ; Confirm the tales her sons relate. TO ELLEN. Southey. Txoveu Time hath not wreathed My temples with snow, Though age hath not breathed A spell o’er my brow, Yet Care’s wither’d fingers Press on me with pain ; The fleeting pulse lingers, And lingers in vain. The eyes which behold thee, Their brightness is flown ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. The arms which enfold thee Enfeebled are grown : And friendship hath left me, By fortune estrang’d ; All, all is bereft me, — For thou, too, art chang’d ! Yes, dark ills have clouded The dawning in tears ; Adversity shrouded My ripening years : Life’s path, wild and dreary, Draws nigh to its close ;— Heart-broken and weary I sigh for repose. The world shall caress thee When I cease to be ; And suns rise to bless thee Which smile not for me: And hearts shall adore thee, And bend at thy shrine ; But none bow before thee So truly as mine. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, Ben Jonson. UnNpvERNEATH this marble hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother ; Death, ere thou hast slain another, Learn’d, and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 91 THE TRAVELLER ; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY, Goldsmith. {Oliver Goldsmith was born at Roscommon, in Ireland, in the year 1729. In 1744 he was placed in Trinity College, Dublin, where he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts, In 1751 he proceeded to Edinburgh, where he studied medicine under the Professors in that University. Soon afterwards, to indulge his curiosity, he visited the Continent, from whence he returned in 1758. On his return he supported himself by his pen. He died in Londen in 1774. Though the chief excellence of Goldsmith is in prose, yet his poetry isso happily adapted to general understanding, that it is more universally admired. It is not, however, of the highest class : it always pleases with delicacy, and sometimes elevates with gran- deur, but it never astonishes with enthusiastic daring. Ofhis first composition, “ The Traveller,” Dr. Johnson remarked , * that there had not been so fine a poem since the days of Pope.” ‘There is something peculiarly beautiful in what may be called the plot of the poem: the ‘ Traveller” seats himself on Alpine solitudes to moralize on the world beneath him; he takes a mental survey of the character, as well as landscape of different nations, and in such a situation is naturally inspired with serious and pathetic reflections on human nature. “The Traveller’ was inscribed to the Rev. Henry Goldsmith, who, asexpressed in the dedication, ‘‘ despising fame and fortune, retired early to happiness, and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a year.” Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; Or where Campania’s plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanded to the skies ; 92 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests metre. To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair ; Blest be those feasts where mirth and peace abound, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destin’d such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care; Impell’d with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with a view : That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as 1 follow, flies ; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. E’en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And plac’d on high above the storm’s career, Look downward where a hundred realms appear : Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd’s humbler pride. When thus Creation’s charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Yeglittering towns, with wealth andsplendour crown‘d, Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 93 For me your tributary stores combine : Creation’s tenant, all the world is mine. As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’er ; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : ‘Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas’d with each good that Heaven to man supplies ; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the sum of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign’d, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shudd’ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked savage, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Nor less the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind : As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations, makes their blessings even. Nature, a. mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour’s earnest call ; With food as well the peasant is supply’d On Idra’s cliffs as Arno’s shelvy side ; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent ; Wealth, splendour, honour, liberty, content. Yet these each other’s power so strong contest,. That either seems destructive of the rest. 94 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Hence every state, to one lov’d blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the fav’rite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; Till, carried to excess in each domain, This fav rite good begets peculiar pain. But let us view these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies. Here for a while, my proper cares resign’d, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right, where Appennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; Her uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; While oft some temple’s mould’ring top between, With venerable grandeur marks the scene. Could Nature’s bounty satisfy the breast, ‘The sons of Italy were surely blest : Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die: These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil ; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear : Men seem the only growth that dwindle here. Contrasted faults through all their manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; And even in penance planning sins anew, All evils here contaminate the mind, — That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was theirs, not far remov’d the date When Commerce proudly flourish’d through the state ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. At her command the palace learnt to rise, Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies ; - The canvas glow’d, beyond e’en nature warm ; The pregnant quarry teem’d with human form : But, more unsteady than the southern gale, Soon Commerce turn’d on other shores her sail ; While nought remain’d of all that riches gave, But towns unmann’d, and lords without a slave. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind, An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array’d, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : Processions form’d for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil’d ; The sports of children satisfy the child : At sports like these, while foreign arms advance, In passive ease they leave the world to chance. When noble aims have suffer’d long controul, They sink at last, or feebly man the soul ; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes where Cesars once bore sway, Defac’d by time, and tott’ring in decay, Amidst the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wond’ring man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly soothes the mountain’s breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 96 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shade the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent’rous ploughshare to the steep ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of ashed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children’s looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov’d partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays the cleanly platter on the board : And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e’en those hills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a babe when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. These are the charms to barren states assign’d ; Their wants are few, their wishes all confin’d : Yet let them only share the praises due ; If few their wants, their pleasures are but few : Since every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desires and then supplies ; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer Joy ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. oF Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a mouldering fire, Nor quench’d by want, ner fann’d by strong desire ; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter’d, unimprov’d, their manners run; _ And love’s and friendship’s finely-pointed dart Fall blunted frem each indurated heart. . Some sterner virtues o’er the mountain’s breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life’s more cultur’d walks, and charm our way, These, far dispers’d, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas’d with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen’d from the wave the zephyr flew : And haply, though my harsh touch falt’ring still, But mock’d all tune, and marr’d the dancer’s skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, , And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages : dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; And the gay grandsire, skill’d in gestic lore, Has frisk’d beneath the burden of threescore. So bright a life these thoughtless realms display Thus idly busy rolls their world away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or een imaginary worth obtains, FE Or 98 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleased ; they give to: get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly lov’d, or warmly sought,. Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another’s: breast. Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace. ; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; ‘The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom/’d in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm, connected bulwark seems to go ; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an:empire, and usurps the shore : While the pent ocean, rising o’er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; The slow canal, the yellow-blossom’d vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 99 Are here display’d. ‘Their much-lov’d wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance and arts ; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, Even liberty itself is barter’d here. At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, - Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that sleep beneath the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow, How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter’streams than fam’d Hydaspes glide. There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation’s mildest charms are there combin’d, Extremes are only in the master’s mind. Stern o’er each bosom Reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great. Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human-kind pass by : Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion’d, fresh from Nature’s hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagin’d right, above control, While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. ; Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur’d here Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But foster’d even by Freedom ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie, The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All kindred claims that soften life unknown ; Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell’d ; 100 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Ferments arise, imprison’d factions roar, Represt ambition struggles round her shore, Whilst over-wrought the general system feels Its motion stopt, or phrenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As social bonds decay, As duty, love and honour, fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talents sink, and merit weeps unknown ; Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, And monarchs toil, and poets pant for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet think not, thus when Freedom’s ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great, - Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble’s rage, and tyrant’s angry steel ; Thou transitory flower, alike undone By cold contempt, or favour’s fostering sun ; Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure ; For just experience tells, in every soil, That those who think must govern those that toil ; And all that freedom’s highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion’d loads on each. Much on the low; the rest, as rank supplies, Should in columnar diminution rise : While, should one order disproportion’d grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. O then how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, not apt to rise in arms, Except when fast-approaching danger warms ; But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; ‘ BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 101 ach wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; The wealth of climes, -where savage nations roam, | Pillag’d from slaves, to purchase slaves at home ; Fear, pity, Justice, indignation, start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power ; And, thus polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain’s peopled shore, Her useful sons exchang’d for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers bright’ ning as they waste ; Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern Depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter’d hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? ’ Have we not seen, at pleasure’s lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall ; Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay’d, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Fore’d from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main ; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thund’ring sound ? Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways ; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd’rous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England’s glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind : Why have J stray’d from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows ? 102 ' BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, In every government though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! Still to ourselves in every place consign’d, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke’s iron crown, and Damien’s bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith and conscience, all our own. ON A TEAR. Rogers. On that the chemist’s magic art Could crystalize this sacred treasure ! Long sheuld it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure. The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; Then, trembling, left its coral cell— The spring of sensibility ; Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! In thee the rays of virtue shine ; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine. Benign restorer of the soul, - _ Who ever fliest to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control Of love or pity, joy or grief. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 103 ‘The sage’s and the poet’s theme, in every clime, in every age ; Thou charm’st in fancy’s idle dream, In reason’s philosophic page. That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course. REFLECTIONS AT MIDNIGHT. Young. [The “* Night Thoughts” of this author exhibit a wide display of origi- nal poetry, variegated with deep reflections and striking allusions ; a wilderness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and every odour. The excellence of this work is not exactness, but copiousness ; particular Jines are not to be regarded; the power is in the whole, and in the whole there is a magnificence of vast extent and endless diversity. To all the other excellencies of the “ Night Thoughts,” must be added the great and peculiar one, that they contain not only the noblest sen- timents of virtue, and the iinmortality of the soul, but the ‘‘ Chris- with all its interesting , tian Sacrifice,” the “‘divine propitiation,’ circumstances and consolations to a ‘‘ wounded spirit,” solemnly and poetically displayed in such imagery and language, as cannot fail to exalt, animate and sooth the truly pious.] Tue bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from itsloss. To give it then a tongue, Is wiseinman. Asifanangel spoke, — J feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours : Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. It is the signal that demands dispatch ; - How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm’d, and o’er life’s narrow verge 104 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Look down—on what? A fathomless abyss x A dread eternity ! how surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He, who made him such ! Who centred in our make such strange extremes * From diffrent natures marvellously mix'd, Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguish’d link in being’s endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam etherial sully’d and absorb’d ! Though sullied and dishonour’d, still divine § Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust ! Helpless immortal! insect infinite ! A worm ! aGod!—lI tremble at myself, And in myself am lost! At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surpris’d, aghast, And wond’ring at herown. How reason reels ! O what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread ! I Alternately transported and alarm’d ! What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? An angel’s arm can’t snatch me from the grave ; Legions of angels can’t confine me there. *Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in proof : While o’er my limbs sleep’s soft dominion spread, What, though my soul fantastic measures trod. O’er fairy fields ; or mourn’d along the gloom Of pathless woods; or down the craggy steep Hurl’d headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool ; Or scal’d the clitf; or danc’d om hollow winds, With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod ; Active, aérial, tow’ring, unconfin’d, Unfetter’d with her gross companion’s fall. Ev’n silent night proclaims my soul immortal : Ev’n silent night proclaims eternal day. BEAUTIES OF THE POLTS., 105 For human weal, heav’n husbands all events, Dull sleep instructs,-nor sport vain dreams in vain. Why then their loss deplore, that are not lost ? Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around, In infidel distress? Are angels there? Slumbers, rak’d up in dust, etherial fire ? They live ! they greatly live a life on earth Unkindled, unconceiv’d ; and from an eye Of tenderness, let heav’nly pity fall On me, more justly number’d with the dead. This is the desart, this the solitude : How populous, how vital, is the grave ! This is creation’s melancholy vault, The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; The land of apparitions, empty shades ! All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond Is substance ; the reverse is folly’s creed : - How solid all, where change shall be no more ! This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule. Life’s theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free. From real life, but little more remote Is he, not yet a candidate for light, The future embryo, slumb’ring in his sire. Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell, Yon ambient, azure shell, and spring to life, The life of gods: O transport ! and of mam! Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts : Inters celestial-hopes without one sigh. Pris’ner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, Here pinions allshis wishes ; wing’d by heav’n To fly at infinite; and reach it there, Where seraphs gather immortality, On Life’s fair ‘Tree, fast by the throne of God. What golden joys ambrosial clust’ring glow, In His full beam, and ripen for the just, Where momentary ages are no more! 3 Where time, and pain, and chance, and death pucal And is it in the flight of threescore years, F 2 _106 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. To push eternity from human thought, And smother souls immortal in the dust? A soul immortal, spending all her fires, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Thrown into tumult, raptur’d, or alarm’d, At ought this scene can threaten, or indulge, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown:a fly. or duit and ot t THE VANITY. OF FAME. H. Moore. As vapours from the marsh’s miry bed Ascend, and, gathering on the mountain head, Spread their long train in splendid pomp on high ; Now o’er the vales in awful grandeur Jour, Now flashing, thundering down the trembling sky, Rive the rough oak, or dash the’»aspiring tower ; Then melting down in rain Drop to their base original again ; Thus earth-born heroes, the proud sons of praise, Awhile on Fortune’s airy summit blaze, The world’s fair peace confound, And deal dismay and’death and ruin round, Then back to earth these idols of an hour Sink on a sudden, and are known no mere. Where is each boastedfavourite of Kame, Whose wide expanded name Fill’d the loud echoes of the world around, While shore to shore return’d the lengthen’d sound ? The warriors where, who, in triumphal pride, With weeping Freedom ‘to the chariot tied, To Glory’s Capitolian temple rode? In undistinguish’d dust together trod, Victors and vanquish’d mingle in the grave ; Worms prey upon the mouldering god, Nor know a Cesar from his slave ; ~ BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS, LO > in empty air their mighty deeds exhale, A schoolboy’s wonder, or an evening tale. In vain with various arts they strive To keep their little names alive ; Bid to the skies the’ ambitious tower ascend 3 The cirque its vast majestic length extend ; Bid ares of triumph swell their graceful round ; Or mausoleums load the’ encumber’d ground ; Or sculpture speak in animated stone Of vanquish’d monarchs tumbled from the throne ; The rolling tide of years, Rushing with strong and steady current, bears The pompous piles with all their fame away, ~ To black Oblivion’s sea ; Deep in whose dread abyss the glory lies Of empires, ages, never more to rise ! Where’s now imperial Rome, Who erst to subject kings denounced their doom, And shook the sceptre o’er a trembling world ? From her proud height by force barbarian hurl’d! Now, on some broken capital reclined, The sage of classic mind Her awful relics views with pitying eye, And o’er departed grandeur heaves a sigh ; Or fancies, wandering in his moonlight walk The prostrate fanes, and mouldering domes among. He sees the mighty ghosts of heroes stalk In melancholy majesty along ; Or pensive hover o’er the ruinsround, - Their pallid brows with faded laurel bound ; While Cato’s shade seems scornful to survey A race of slaves, and-sternly strides away. Where old Euphrates winds his storied flcod, The curious traveller explores Jn vain The barren shores and solitary plain, Where erst majestic Babel’s turret stood ! All vanish’d from the view her proud abodes, Her walls, and brazen gates, and palaces of gous ! A shapeless heap o’erspreads the dreary space, Of mingled piles an undistinguish’d mass : 10S BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. There the wild tenants of the desert dwell ; _The serpent’s hiss is heard, the dragon’s yell ! t And doleful howlings o’er the waste affright And drive afar the wanderers of the night. Yet, ’tis Divinity’s implanted fire Which bids the soul to glorious heights aspire ; Enlarge her wishes, and extend her sight Beyond this little life’s contracted round, And wing her eagle flight To grandeur, fame, and bliss beyond a bound. Ambition’s ardent hopes, and golden dreams, Her towering madness, and her wild extremes Unfold this sacred truth to Reason’s eye, That ‘Man was made for Immortality.’ Yes, friend! let noble deeds and noble aims To distant ages consecrate our names, That when these tenements of crumbling clay Are dropp’d to dust away, Some worthy monument may still declare To future times, ‘ We were !’ Not such as mad Ambition’s votaries raise Upon the driving sand of vulgar praise ; But with its firm foundation laid _ On Virtue’s adamantine rock, That to the skies shall lift its towering head Superior to the surge’s shock. Plann’d like a Memphian pyramid sublime, Rising majestic on its ample base, | - By just degrees, and with a daring grace, Erect, unmoved amid the storms of time! Of time ! no, that’s a period too confined — To fill the’ nboundea mind, 7 Which over the barrier leaps of added years, Of ages, eras, and revolving spheres, And Tenge: the flight of numbers still behind. When the loud ielamonts dreadful. roll Shall rend the globe from pole to pole ; When worlds and systems sink in fire, | And Nature, Time, and Death expire ; alot BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 109 In the bright records of the sky Shall virtue see her honours shine ; Shall see them blazing round the sacred shrine Of bless'd Eternity. ON THE LIFE OF MAN. Beaumoit! Lrxe to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood,— E’en such is man—whose borrow d light Is straight call’d in and paid to-night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entomb’d in autumn lies, The dew’s dried up, the star is shot, The flight is pass’d—and man forgot. MUSIC. Shakspeare. —Tuererrore the poet | Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature : The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted. 110 BEAUTIRS OF THE POETS: THE MEETING. Clare. [John Clare was born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, Northampe tonshire, July 13, 1793 ; where he has always lived with his pa- rents, who are in extreme poverty. His father was a farmer’s la- bourer, till the rheumatism rendered him unable to work: he is now a helpless cripple, and receives an allowance from the parish. “‘ While such was the destitute condition of his parents, it may seem extraordinary that Clare should have found the means to ac- quire any learning whatever; but by extra work as a plough-boy, and by helping his father morning and evening at threshing, he earned the money which paid for his education. From the labour of eight weeks he generally acquired as many pence as would pay a month’s schooling; and thus in the course of three years he re- ceived at different times, so much instryction that he could read very well in the Bible. “It is now thirteen years since Clare composed his first poem ; in all that time he has gone on secretly cultivating his taste and ta- lent for poetry, without one word of encouragement, or the most distant prospect of reward. «Tt was an accident which led to the publication of his poems. In December, 1818, Mr. Edward Drury, bookseller, of Stamford, met by chance with a Sonnet to the Setting Sun, written on a piece of paper in which a letter had been wrapped up, and signed J. C. Having ascertained the name and residence of the writer, he went to Helpstone, where he saw some other poems, with which he was nruch pleased. At his request, Clare made a collection of the pieces he had written, and added some others to them. They were then sent to London, and the publishers selected those which formed the first edition.”—Life prefixed to Clare’s Poems.] HERE-we meet too soon to part, Here to leave will raise a smart, Here I'll press thee to my heart, Where none have place above thee ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Here I vow to love thee well, And could words unseal the spell, Had but language strength to tell, I’d say how much I iove thee. Here, the rose that decks thy door, Here, the thorn that spreads thy bow’r, Here, the willow on the moor, The birds at rest above thee, Had they light of life to see, Sense of soul like thee and me, Soon might each a witness be How doatingly I love thee. By the night sky’s purple ether, And by even’s sweetest weather, That oft has blest us both together, The moon that shines above thee, And shews thy beauteous cheek so blooming’, And by pale age’s winter coming, The charms, and casualties of woman, I will for ever love thee, THE WISH. Merrick. How short is life’s uncertain space ! Alas ! how quickly done! How swift the wild precarious chase ! And yet how difficult the race ! How very hard to run 4 Youth stops at first its wilful ears To Wisdom’s prudent voice ; Till now arrived to riper years, Experienced Age worn out with cares Repents its earlier choice. y | 112 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. What though its prospects now appear So pleasing and refined ; Yet groundless hope and anxious fear By turns the busy.moments share, And prey upon the mind. Since then false joys our fancy cheat _ With hopes of real bliss ; Ye guardian powers that rule my fate, The only wish that I create Ts all comprised in this: May I through life’s uncertain tide Be still from pain exempt ; May all my wants be still supplied, My state too low to’ admit of pride, And yet above contempt. But should your Providence divine A greater bliss intend, May all those blessings you design (If e’er those blessings shall be mine) Be centred in a friend. ANNIHILATION. Milton. To be no more: sad cure; for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity ; To perish rather, swallow’d up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense and motion ! BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 113 _ A DIRGE.~ Chatterton. {lf we reflect that the whole of this Poet’s career closed before he had completed his eighteenth year, we must surely allow that he was one of the most extraordinary young men of modern times, Lord Orford, speaking of this Poet, says, ‘* Nothing in Chatterton can be separated from Chatterton. His noblest flight, his sweetest strains, his grossest ribaldry, and his most common-place imitations of the productions of magazines, were all the effervescence of the same ungovernable impulse, which, cameleon-like, imbibed the colours of all it looked on. It was Ossian—or a Saxon monk—or Gray—or Smollett—or Junius,—and if it failed most in what it most affected to be, a poet of the fifteenth century, it was because it could not imitate what had not existed.” ] O! sine unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me, Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his skin as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below : My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the brier’d dell below ; Hark !. the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. 114 BEAUTIES OF fHE POETS. See ! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true-love’s shroud ; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud : My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, “All under the willow tree. Here, upon my true-love’s grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre *, ‘ _Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart’s blood all away ; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day : My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Water-witches, crown’d with reytesy, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die—I come—my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. x Gre, grow. ¥ Reytes, water-fags, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. YOUTHFUL RECOLLECTIONS. Cowper. Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the playplace of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carv’d subsisting still ; The bench on which we sat while deep employ‘d, is Though mangled, lack’d, and hew’d, not yet destroy’d ; The littie ones, unbutton’d, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot ; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw ; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dext’rous pat ; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost t’ obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. LADY OF THE LAKE. Scott. Never did Grecian chisel trace A nymph, a naiad, or a grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face !— What, though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly ting’d her cheek with brown ; The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dy’d her glowing hue so bright, Serv’d, too, in hastier swell, to show . Short glimpses of a breast of snow. What, though no rule of courtly grace To measur’d mood had train’d her pace ; 116 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. A foot more light, a step more true, ~ Ne’er from the heath-flower dash’d the dew; f’en the slight hare-bell rais’d its Head, Elastic from her airy tread. What, though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue ; Those silver sounds, so soft, so clear, The list’ner held his breath to hear. A chieftain’s daughter seem’d the maid ; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betray’d. And seldom was-a snood amid Such wild luxurious ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven’s wing ; And seldom o’er a breast so fair Mantled a plaid with modest care ; And never brooch the folds combin’d Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen’s eye ; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the banks in shapes more true, Than ev'ry free-born glance confess’d The guileless movements of her breast ; Whether joy dane’d in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claim’d a sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion pour’d a prayer, Or tale of injury call’d forth, The indignant spirit of the north. One only passion, unreveal’d, With maiden pride the maid conceal’d, Yet not less purely felt the flame ; O need IJ tell that passion’s name? BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS. RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. Moir. How sweet it is in twilight shade, To tread the scenes of earliest youth, When all that then our bosoms sway’d, Was joy, and innocence, and truth. The trees—the stream—the thrush’s song— Recal the visions which had fled ; And recollections, absent long, Return, and dwell upon the dead! The landscape glows with beauty still ; But ah! as o’er the scene we range, The steadfast grove, and changeless rill, , Seem to have undergone a change ; And though of all the earth, I ween, They, in our eyes, most fair remain, Yet nonght, ’mid all so sweet, is seen So bright and beautiful as then! With them the woful change is not— *Tis recollection looks behind To feelings not to be forgot— Engraven on the youthful mind. Who shar’d those feelings, now, alas! Within the church-yard silent lie ; And nought remains, save forms that pass The mirror of the memory. Or such as, still endued with life, Tread this wide theatre below, Distance—pursuits—and stir, and strife, Between us endless barriers throw. Now spacious lands, and mountains tall, Between us lie, and billows curl’d; And though one school contain’d us all, Our tombs are scatter’d o’er the world. 118 BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS. The pleasures we in childhood felt Are duller grown—less bold—less bright— And all their fairer portions melt, Like clouds before the mental sight. The change is not in them ; the mind Is tainted now that then was pure ; And such sweet bliss is left behind As penitence can ne’er procure. Who hath not felt a nameless thrill, When friends of earlier days are met ? And rising in the mind, at will, Scenes that we never can forget ? Yet the afflicting thought recurs, That all those golden days are o’er ; And sorrow in the bosom stirs, To think they shall return no more. Behind us lies a lovely field, Before us lies a dreary waste ; We vainly wish its soil to yield The sweets we could no longer taste ! Thence, sick’ning at the thought we turn, And to our griefs and follies fly ; In solitude and silence mourn, And, pond’ring, heave the pensive sigh ! THE EVENING STAR. T. Campbell. Gem of the crimson-coloured even, Companion of retiring day, Why, at the closing gates of heaven, Beloved star, dost thou delay ? So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows, So due thy plighted step returns, To chambers brighter than the rose. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 119 A NIGHT PIECHK ON DEATH. Parnell. {Thomas Parnell was born.im Dublin, in 1679, and was at the age of thirteen admitted into the College, where, in.1700, he became Mas- ter of Arts. He was the associate of Swift, Pope, Gay, atid Arbuth- not. By means of Swift he obtained valuable church. preferment. He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, in July, 1717. “¢ The compass of Parnell’s- poetry is not extensive, but its tone is peculiarly delightful ; not from mere correctness of expression, to which some eritics have stinted its praises, but from the graceful and reserved seusibility that accompanied his polished phraseology. The curiosa felicitas, the studied happiness of his diction, does not spoil its simplicity. His poetry is like a flower that has been trained and planted by the skill ofthe gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air.” T, Camp- - bell. | By the biue taper’s trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and. the sages o’er : Their books from wisdom widely stray; Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom’s surely taught below. How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire : The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. 120 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all the solemn heaps of fate ; And think, as softly sad you tread Above the venerable dead, Time was, like thee they life possest, And time shall be that thou shalt rest. Those graves with bending osier bound, ‘That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose Where Toil and Poverty repose. The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel’s slender help to fame, (Which ere our set of friends decay, Their frequent steps may wear away,) A middle race of mortals own, Men half ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, These (all the poor remains of state) Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; Who, while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give. Ha! while 1 gaze, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades ; All slow, and wan, and wrapt with shrouds, They rise in visionary crowds, And all with sober accent cry, Think, mortal what it is to die. Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin ; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Ye tolling clocks, no time resound O’er the long lake and midnight ground ;) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones. When men my scythe and darts supply, How great a King of Fears am I! BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 121 They view me like the last of things, They make, and then they dread my stings. Fools ! if you less provoked your fears, No more my spectre-form appears : Death’s but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God ; A port of calms, a state of ease From the rough rage of swelling seas. Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearses, covered steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o’er the ’scutcheons of the dead ? Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the soul these forms of woe ; As men who long in prison dwell, With lamps that glimmer round the cell, Whene’er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to meet the glittering sun ; - Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious souls at parting hence. On earth, and in the body plac’d, A few and evil years they waste : But when their chains they cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide, _ Clap the glad wing, and tower away, And mingle with the blaze of day. DEATH. Byron, He who hath bent him o’er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before decay’s effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) : G 6 122 BEAUT INS OF THE POETS. And mark’d the mild angelie air, The rapture of repose that’s there, The fix’d yet tender traits that streak The languor of the piacid cheek, And—but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And, but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction’s apathy Appals the gazing mourner’s heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant’s power ; So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d, The first, last look by death reveal’d ! THE EVENING CLOUD. Wilson. A cLoup lay cradled near the setting sin, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on, O’er the still radiance of the lake below : ‘Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given: And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 123 HYMN ON SOLITUDE. Thomson. [James Thomson, the son of a minister of the Church of Scotland, was born September 7, 1700, at Ednam, in the shire of Roxburgh: he was educated at Jedburgh and Edinburgh, being intended by his friends for the ministry; but an early turn for poetry led him to other objects. In 1725 he went to London ina needy condition ; where, however, he soon attracted notice by the publication of his “* Winter,” and was patronized by the Lord Chancellor Talbot, with whose son he soon afterwards visited the Continent. On the death of the Chancellor he was patronized by Frederic, Prince of Wales, and afterwards by Mr. Lyttleton. He died August 27, 1748.] Hatin, mildly-pleasing Solitude, Companion of the wise and good : But from whose holy piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fiy. Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper’d talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts. A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please. Now-_wrapt in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem ; — Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky. A shepherd; next you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain. A lover now, with all the grace Of that sweet passion in your face : ‘Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume The gentle-looking Harrrory’s bloom, As, with her Musipora, she (Her Musipora fond of thee) Amid the long withdrawing vale, Awakes the rival’d nightingale. Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born ; 124 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. And while meridian fervors beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims. away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine. Descending angels bless thy train, The Virtues of the sage and swain ; Plain Innocence, in white array’d, Before thee lifts her fearless head : Religion’s beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine : About thee sports sweet Liberty ; And rapt Urania sings to thee. Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell ! And in thy deep recesses dwell. Perhaps from Norwood’s oak-clad hill, When Meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London’s spiry turrets rise ; Think of its crimes, its cares, and pain, Then,shield me in the woods again, TO THE BUTTERFLY. Rogers. Cuitp of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov’st in fields of light, And where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold : There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent extasy: Yet wert thou once a worm—a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man—soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 125 EASTERN BEAUTY. Moore. TueEre’s a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day’s light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty—oh! nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss ; But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of heaveu in his dreams ! When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, That charm of all others was born with her face ; And when angry,—for ev’n in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes— The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken : New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken, If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealing From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! Then her mirth—oh ! ’twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst, like the wild bird in spring ; Illum’d by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages. While her laugh, full of life, without any controul But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek or eyes, for she brightened all over,— Like any fair Jake that the breeze is upon, When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 126 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. ON FREEDOM. Cowper. [‘‘ The nature of Cowper’s works makes us peculiarly identify the poet and the man in perusing them. As an individual, he was retired and weaned from the vanities of the world ; and, asan original wri- ter, he left the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and. pas- sion, for those of real life and simple nature, and for the develop- ment of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral and religious truth. His language has such a masculine idiomatic strength, and his manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into negligence, bas so much plain and familiar freedom, "that we read no poetry with a deeper conviction of its sentiments having come from the author’s - heart, and of the enthusiasm in whatever he describes having been unfeigned and unexaggerated. He impresses us with the idea of a, being, whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an unworldly degree of purity and simplicity. He was advanced in years before he became an author 3 but his compositions display atenderness of feeling so youthfully preserved, and even a vein of humour so far from being extinguished by his ascetic habits, that we can scarcely regret his not having written them at an earlier period of life: for he blends the determination of age with an exquisite and ingenuous sensibility ; and though he sports very much with his subjects, yet, when he is in earnest, there isa gravity of long-felt conviction in his sentiments, which gives an uncommon ripeness of character to his poetry.” TT. Campbeil.] Wuoss ieedom ig by suff rance, and at will Of a superior, he is never free. Who lives, and is not weary of a life Expos’d to manacles, deserves them well. The state that strives for liberty, though foil’d, And fore’d to abandon what she bravely sought, Deserves at least applause for her attempt, And pity for her loss. But that’s a cause Not often unsuccessful ; pow’r usurp’d Zs weakness when oppos’d: conscious of wrong, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 127 “Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. But slaves, that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the-contest calls for; spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts ; The purest presage of the good they seek. "Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow’r Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil: hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road to science; blinds The eyesight of Discov’ry ; and begets - In those that suffer it a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man’s noble form. “Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez’d By public exigence, till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free ; My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, ~ Replete with vapours, and disposes much All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadult’rate manners are less soft And plausible than social life requires, - And thou hast need of discipline and art, To give thee what politer France receives From Nature’s bounty—that humane address And sweetness, without which no pleasure 13 In converse, either starv’d by eold reserve, Or fiush’d with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl : Yet being free I love thee: for the sake Of that one feature can be well content, Disgrac’d as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To seek no sublunary rest beside. But once enslav’d farewell! I could endure Chains nowhere patiently ; and chains at home, Where 1 am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughness in the grain Of British natures, wanting its excuse 128 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And shock me. I should then with double pain Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime ; And, if I must bewail the blessing lost, For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, I would at least bewail it under skies Milder, among a people less austere ; In scenes, which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. TO-MORROW. Cotton. To-morrow, didst thou say ? Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. Go to—1 will not hear of it—to-morrow ! *Tis a sharper who. stakes his penury Against thy plenty—who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes,-and promises, The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor !—To-morrow! It is a period nowhere to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless perchance in the fool’s calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society With those that own it. No, my Horatio, Tis fancy’s child, and folly is its father : Wrought on such stuff'as dreams are; and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening. But soft, my friends, arrest the present moments ; For be assur’d they all are arrant tell-tales ; And tho’ their flight be silent, and their paths trackless As the wing’d couriers of the air, They post to Heaven, and there record their folly—— 2 Because, tho’ station’d on the important watch, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 129 Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, Didst let them pass unnotic’d, unimprov d. And know, for that thou slumber’st on the guard, Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar For every fugitive: and when thou thus Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal Of hoodwink’d justice, who shall tell thy audit ? Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings ; Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life’s fountain. Oh ! let it not elude thy grasp, but, like The good old patriarch upon record, Hold the fleet-angel fast until he bless thee. MERCY. Shakspeare. Tue quality of mercy is not strain’d ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven __ Upon the place beneath ;..it is twice bless’d ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: "Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes ‘The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptr’d sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, | It isan attribute of God himself ; _ And earthly power doth then show likest God’s, _ When mercy seasons justice. Q as 130 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, AN ESSAY ON MAN. Pope. {The “‘ Essay on Man” is as close a piece of argument, admitting its principles, as, perhaps, can be found in verse. The author has not wandered into any useless digressions, has employed no fictions, no tale or story ; and has relied chiefly on the style of his: poetry for the purpose of interesting his readers. His style is concise and fi- gurative, forcible and elegant; and he has many metaphors ‘and images artfully interspersed in the driest-passages which stood most in need of such ornament. If any beauty in this Essay be uncom- monly transcendant and peculiar, it is, brevity of diction; it is hardly to be imagined how much sense, how much thinking, how much observation on human life, is condensed together in a small compass. On its first publication Pope did not own it, and it was given by the publicto Lord Paget, Dr. Young, Dr. Desaguliers, and others; even Swift seems to have been deceived. The subject of this Essay is a vindication of Providence, in which the poet proposes to prove, that of all possible systems, Infinite Wisdom has formed the best; and that the seeming defects and blemishes in the universe conspire to its general beauty, Several passages in this poem, it must be confessed, are so expressed as to appear favourable to fatalism and necessity; and yet it would be an injustice to accuse our author of libertinism and irreligion, when we are told that in his last illness, he expressed himself satisfied of the immortality of the soul, and wrote so fervent and elevated a piece of devotion as the “ Universal Prayer.’’] EPISTLE I. Of the Nature and State of Man with respect to the Universe. THE ARGUMENT. Of Man in the abstract.—TI. That we can judge only with regard to our own system, being ignorant of the relations of systems and things.—II. That Man is not to be deemed imperfect, but a being suited to his place and rank in the creation, agreeable to the gene- BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 18] val order of things, and conformable to ends and relations io him unknown.—III. That it is partly upon his ignorance of future events, and partly upon the hope ofa future state, that all his hap- piness in the present depends.—IV. The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more perfection, the cause of Man’s errorand misery. The impiety of putting himself in the place of God, and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or imper- fection, juStice or injustice, of his dispensations.—V. The absurdity of conceiting himself the final cause of the creation, or expecting that perfection in the moral world which is not in the natural.—V I. The unreasonableness of his complaints against Providence, while, on the one hand, he demands the perfections of the angels, and on the other, the bodily qualifications of the brutes: though to possess any of the sensitive faculties in a higher degree would render him miserable.—VII. That throughout the whole visible world an uni- versal order and gradation in the sensual and mental faculties is ‘observed, which causes a subordination of creature to creature, and of all creatures to Man. The gradations of sense, instinct, thought, reflection, reason; that reason alone countervails all the other fa- culties. —VIIE. How much farther this order and subordination of living creatures may extend above and below us; were any part of which broken, not that part only, but the whole connected creation, must be destroyed.—IX. The extravagance, madness and pride of such a desire.—X. Theccensequence of all, the absolute submission due to Providence, both as to our present and future state. Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate free o’er all this scene of Man ; A mighty maze! but not without a plan ; , A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot ; Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield ; The latent tracks, the giddy heights explore, Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ; Eye nature’s walk, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners, living as they rise ; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, But vindicate the ways of God to Man. I. Say first, of God above, or Man below, What can we reason but from what we know ? Of Man, what see we but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer ? 132 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Thro’ worlds unnumber’d, tho’ the God be known, ‘Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He who thro’ vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, — What other planets circle other suns, What vary’d being’ peoples every star, May tell why heav’n has made us as we are : But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, - The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look’d thro’? or can a part contain, the whole ? Is the great chain that draws all to agree, And drawn, supports, upheld by God and thee? ‘JI. Presumptuous man! thereason would’st thou find, Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind ? First, if thou can’st the harder reason guess, Why form’d no weaker, blinder, and no less ; Ask of thy mother Eve why oaks are made Taller and stronger than the weeds they shade ; Or ask of yonder argent fields above Why Jove’s satellites are less than Jove? Of systems possible, if ’tis confest That wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must fall, or not coherent be, And all that rises rise in due degree ; Then in the scale of reas’ning life, ’tis plain, There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man ; And all the question (wrangle e’er so long) Is only this, if God has plac’d him wrong ? Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, tho’ labour’d on with pain, | A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain : In God's, one single can its end produce, . Yet serves to second too some other use : So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown : Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal : ‘Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o’er the plains ; oe, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 133 When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s god ; Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions,’ passions,’ beings,’ use and end ; Why doing, suff'ring, check’d, impell’d ; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not Man’s imperfect, Heav’n in fault ; Say rather, Man’s as perfect as he ought ; His knowledge measur’d to his state and place, His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter soon or late, or here or there? The bless’d to-day is as completely so As who began a thousand vears ago. III. Heav’n from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescrib’d, their present state : From brutes what men, from men what spirits know : Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleas’d to. the last, he crops the flow’ry food, And licks the hand just rais’d to shed his blood. Oh! blindness to the future! kindly giv’n, That each may fill the circle mark’d by Heav’n ; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then, with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore. What future bliss he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never is, but always to be, blest. ‘The soul (uneasy and confin’d) from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. » Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor’d mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the Solar Walk or Milky Way ; Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv’n, Behind some cloud-topt hill, a humbler heav’n ; 134 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Some safer world in depth of woods embrac’d, Some happier island in the wat’ry waste ; Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be content’s his natural desire : He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire ; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; Call imperfection What thou fancy’st such ; Say, here he gives too little, there too much ; Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, if Man’s unhappy, God’s unjust ; If man alone engross not Heav’n’s high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there ; Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Rejudge his justice, be the god of God ! In pride, in reas’ning pride, our error lies ; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the bless’d abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, Aspiring to-be angels, men rebel : And who but wishes to invert the laws Of Order, sins against the’ Eternal Cause. V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ‘‘’Tis for mine: «© For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow’r, «© Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev’ry flow’r ; «* Annual for me the grape, the rose renew «© The juice nectarious, and the balmy dew ; «* For me the mine a thousand treasures bring’s ; ‘«* For me health gushes from a theusand springs : *« Seas roll-to waft me, suns to light me rise ; «© My footstool’s earth, my canopy the skies.” But errs not Nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweej Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? ‘*“ No,” ’tis reply’d; ‘* the First Almighty Cause ‘© Acts not by partial, but by gen’ral laws ; BEAUTIES OF THE FOETS. 135 «* The’ exceptions few; some change since all began ; «© And what created perfect ”’—Why then Man? If the great end be human happiness, Then Nature deviates ; and can Man do less ? As much that end a consiant course requires Of show’rs and sunshines as of Man’s desires ; As much eternal springs, and cloudless skies, As Men for ever temp’rate, firm and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not heav’n’s design, Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline ? Who knows but he whose hand the light’ning forms, Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Cesar’s mind, Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind ? From pride, from pride, our very reas ning springs, Account for moral as for nat’ral things : Why charge we Heav’n in those, in these acquit ? In both, to reason right, is to submit. Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue, here ; That never air or ocean felt the wind, . That never passion discompos’d the mind ; But all subsists by elemental strife ; And passions are the elements of life. The gen’ral order, since the world began, Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man. VI. What would this Man? Now upward willhe soar, And little less than angel, would be more ; Now, looking downward, just as griev’d appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all ereatures if he call Say what their use had he the pow’rs. of all ? Nature to these, without profusion kind, The proper organs, proper pow’'rs assign ’d ; Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force ; _ All in exact proportion to the state ; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own : Is Heav’n unkind to Man, and Man alone? Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleas’d with nothing if not bless’d with all ? 136 ' “BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. ~~ The bliss of Man (could pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind ; No pow’rs of body or of soul to share But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye ? For this plain reason, Man is not a fly. Say, for what use were finer optics given, T’ inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav’n ? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at ev’ry pore? Or, quick effluvia darting thro’ the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? If Nature thunder‘d in his op’ning ears, And stunn’d him with the music of the spheres How would he wish that Heav’n had left him still The whisp’ring zephyr, and the purling rill! Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies ? VII. Far as creation’s ample range extends The scale of sensual, mental pow’rs ascends: Mark how it mounts to Man’s imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass : What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme The mole’s dim curtain and the lynx's beam ? Of smell, the headlong lioness between And hound sagacious on the tainted green ? ’ Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood To that which warbles thro’ the vernal wood ? The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line : In the nice bee what sense so subtly true, From pois’ning herbs extracts the healing dew ! How instinct varies in the grov ling swine, Compar'd, half reas’ning elephant, with thine ! "Ywixt that and reason what a nice barrier ! Yor ever sep’rate, yet for ever near ! Remembrance and reflection how ally’d ; What thin partitions sense from thought divide ! And middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass the’ insuperable line ! Without this just gradation could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee ? BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 13 The pow’rs of all subdu’d by thee alone, Is not thy reason all these pow’rs in one? VIII. See thro’ this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below ! Vast chain of being ! which from God began, Nature’s ethereal, human, angel, Man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee ; From thee to nothing.—QOn superior pow’rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; . Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale’s destroy d ; From Nature’s chain whatever link you strike, “Tenth, or ten-thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And if each system in gradation roll, Alike essential to the’ amazing whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole, must fall. Let earth, unbalanc’d, from her orbit fly, Pjanets and suns run lawless thro’ the sky ; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl’d, Being on being wreck’d, and world on world ; Heav’n’s whole foundations to their centre nod, And nature tremble to the throne of God. All this dread order break—for whom ? for thee ? Vile worm !—oh, madness! pride! impiety! TX. What if the foot, ordain’d the dust to tread, Or hand to toil, aspir’d to be the head ? What if the head, the eye, or ear, repin’d To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another in this gen’ral frame ; Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing Mind of All ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; That chang’d thro’ all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth as in the’ ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 138 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt Seraph that adorns and burns; __ To him no high, no low, no great, no small : He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. X. Cease then, nor Order Imperfection name ; Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree” Of blindness, weakness, Heav’n bestows on thee. Submit—in this or any other sphere, Secure to be as bless’d as thou canst bear ; Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow’r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art unknown to thee ; All chance direction, which thou canst not see ; All discord, harmony not understood ; All partial evil, universal good : And spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite, One truth is clear—Whatever is, is right. EPISTLE II. Of the Nature and State of Man with respect to Himself as an Individual. THE ARGUMENT. I, The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself : his middle nature; his powers and frailties. | The limits of his ca- pacity.—LII. The two principles of Man, self-love and reason, both necessary. Self-love the stronger, andwhy. ‘Their end the same. ~-ITI. The passions, and their use. The predominant passion, and “its force, Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes. Its providential use in fixing our principle, and ascertaining our virtue. —IV. Virtue and vice joined in our mixed nature ; the limits near, yet the things separate and evident 5 what is the office of reason. -~—V. How odious vice in itseli, and how we deceive ourselves into it—VI. That, however, the ends of Providence and general good BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 139 are answered in our passions and imperfections. How useiully these are distributed to all orders of Men. How useful they are to society; and to individuals; in every state, and every age, of life. I. Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is Man. Plac’d on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise and rudely great ; With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic’s pride, He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest ; In doubt to deem himself a god or beast ; In doubt his mind or body to prefer, Born but to die, and reas’ning but to err : Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much: Chaos of thought and passion, all confus’d ; Still by himself abus’d or disabus’d ; Created half to rise and half to fall ; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all ; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’ d; The glory, jest, and riddle of the world ! Go, wondrous creature! mount where science euides ; ; Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides : Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, Correct old Time, and regulate the sun ; Go, soar with Plato to the empyreal sphere, To the first good, first perfect, and first fair ; Or tread the mazy round his foll’wers trod, And, quitting sense, call imitating God ; As Eastern priests in giddy circles run, And turn their heads to imitate the sun ; Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule— Then drop into thyself and be a fool ! Superior beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law, Admir’d such wisdom in an earthly shape, And shew’d a Newton as we shew an ape. Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, Describe or fix one movement of his mind ? Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, Explain his own beginning or his end ? 140 REAUTIES OF THE POETS. Alas! what wonder ! man’s superior part Uncheck’d may rise, and climb from art to art ; But when his own great work is but begun, What reason weaves, by passion is undone. Trace Science then, with Modesty thy guide ; First strip off all her equipage of pride ; Deduct what is but vanity or dress, Or learning’s luxury, or idleness ; Or tricks to shew the stretch of human brain, Mere curious pleasure or ingenious pain ; Expunge the whole, or lop the’ excrescent parts Of all our vicious self-created arts ; Then see how littie the remaining sum, Which serv’d the past, and must the time to come. II. Two principles in human nature reign, Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain ; Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, Each works its end, to move or govern all, And to their proper operation still Ascribe all good ; to their improper, ill. Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul ; Reason’s comparing balance rules the whole. Man but for that no action could attend, And but for this were active to no end ; Fix’d like a plant on his peculiar spot, — To draw nutrition, propagate, and rct ; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, ~ Destroying others, by himself destroy’d. -Most strength the moving principle requires ; - Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. Sedate and quiet the comparing lies, Form’d but to check, delib’rate, and advise. Self-love, still stronger as its object’s nigh, Reason’s at distance, and in prospect lie : That sees immediate good by present sense ; Reason, the future and the consequence. Thicker than arguments temptations throng ; At best. more watchful this, but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to reason still attend, Attention, habit and experience gains ; Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 14] Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, More studious to divide than to unite ; And grace and virtue, strength and reason, split, With all the rash dexterity of wit. Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. Self-love and reason to one end aspire, Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire ; But greedy that, its object would devour, This taste the honey, and not wound the flow’r : Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil or‘our greatest good. III. Modes of self-love the passions we may call ; ’Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all: But since not every good we can divide, And reason bids us for our own provide, Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair, List under Reason, and deserve her care ; Those that imparted court a nobler aim, Exalt their kind, and take some virtue’s name, In lazy apathy let Stoics boast Their virtue fix’d ; ’tis fix’d as in a frost ; Contracted all, retiring to the breast ; But strength of mind is exercise, not rest ; The rising tempest puts in act the soul ; Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the bark, but passion is the gale ; Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. Passions, like elements, though born to fight, Yet mix’d and soften’d in his work unite : These *tis enough to temper and employ ; But what composes man can man destroy. Suffice that reason keep to Nature’s road ; Subject, compound them, follow her and God. Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure’s smiling train ; Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain. These mix’d with art, and to due bounds confin’d, Make and maintain the balance of the mind ; The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all the strength and colour of our life. 142 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes, And, when in act they cease, in prospect rise ; Present to grasp, and future still to find, The whole employ of body and of mind. All spread their charms, but charm not all alike ; On diff rent senses diffrent objects strike : Hence diff’rent passions more or less inflame, As strong or weak the organs of the frame; And hence one master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest. As man, perhaps, the moment of his birth, Receives the lurking principle of death, The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with hisgrowth and strengthens with his strength ; So, cast and mingled with his very frame, The mind’s disease its ruling passion came ; Each vital humour which should feed the whole Soon flows to this, in body and in soul : Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head, As the mind opens and its functions spread, Imagination plies her dang’rous art, And pours it all upon the peceant part. Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse ; Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse ; Reason itself but gives it edge and pow’r, As heav’n’s blest beam turns vinegar more sour. We, wretched subjects, though to lawful sway, In this weak queen, some fav’rite still obey : Ah! if shelend not arms as well as rules, What can she more than tell us we are fools ? Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend ; A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend ; Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade ‘The choice we make, or justify it made ; Proud of an easy conquest all along, She but removes weak passions for the strong : So, when small humours gather to a gout, The doctor fancies he has driv’n them out. Yes, Nature’s road must ever be:preferr'd ; Reason is here no guide, but still a guard : ’Tis her’s to rectify, not overthrow, And treat this passion more as friend than foe : BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. A mightier Pow’r the strong direction sends, And sev’ral men impels to sev’ral ends : Like varying winds, by other passions tost, This drives them constant to a certain coast. Let pow’r or knowledge, gold or glory, please, Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease, Through life ‘tis follow’d, ev’n at life’s expense, The merchant’s toil, the sage’s indolence, ‘The monk’s humility, the hero’s pride ; All, all alike find Reason on their side. The’ eternal Art, educing good from ill, Grafts on this passion our best principle : Tis thus the Mercury of man is'fix’d, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix’d ; The dross cements what else were too refin’d, And in one int’rest body acts with mind. As fruits, ungrateful to the planter’s care, On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear, The surest virtues thus from passions shoot, Wild Nature’s vigour working at the root. What crops of -wit and honesty appear From spleen, from obstinacy, hate or fear ! See anger, zeal and fortitude supply ; Ev’n av’rice, prudence, sloth, philosophy ! Lust, through some certain strainers well refin’d, Is gentle love, and charms all womankind ; Envy, to which the’ ignoble mind’s a slave, Ts emulation in the learn’d or brave ; Nor virtue, male or female, can we name, But what will grow on pride or grow on shame. Thus Nature gave us (let it check our pride) The virtue nearest to our vice ally’d: - Reason the bias turns to good fyom ill, And Nero reigns a Titus if he w ill. The fiery soul abhorr’d in Catiline, In Decius charms, in Curtius is div ine: The same ambition can destroy or save, And make a patriot as it makes a knave. IV. This light and darkness in our chaos join’d, What shall divide? The God within the mind. Extremes in nature equal ends produce ; In man they join to some mysterious use ; 145 144 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Though each by turns the other’s bounds invade, As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade, And oft so mix, the diff’rence is too nice Where ends the virtue or begins the vice. Fools! who from hence into the notion fall, That vice or virtue there is none at all. If white and black blend, soften and unite A thousand ways, is there no black or white? Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain ; Tis to mistake them costs the time and pain. V. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen ; Yet, seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. ‘But where the extreme of vice, was ne’er agreed : Ask where's the north? At York, ’tis on the Tweed ; In Scotland, at the Orcades ; and there At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where. No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he : Ev’n those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage, or never own ; What happier natures shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right. Virtuous and vicious evry man must be, Few in the extreme, but all in the degree: The rogue and fool, by fits is fair and wise, And ev’n the best, by fits, what they despise. *Tis but by parts we follow good or ill; For, vice or virtue, self directs it still ; Each individual seeks a sev’ral goal ; But Heav’n’s great view is one, and that the whole: . That counterworks each folly and caprice : That disappoints the’ effect of ev’ry vice ; That, happy frailties to all ranks applied, Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride ; Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, To kings presumption, and to crowds belief: That virtue’s ends from vanity can raise, Which seeks no int’rest, no reward. but praise ; And builds on wants, and on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 145 Heav’n forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, . Till one man’s weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common int’rest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here ; Yet from the same we learn in its decline, Those joys, those loves, those int’rests to resign ; Taught, half by reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death, and calmly pass away. Whate’er the passion, knowledge, fame or pelf, Not one will change his neighbour with himself. The learn’d is happy Nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more ; The rich is happy in the plenty giv’n, The poor contents him with the care of heav’n. See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic aking ; The starving chymist, in his golden views Supremely blest, the poet in his Muse. See some strange comfort ev’ry state attend, And pride, bestow’d on all, 2a common friend : See some fit passion ev’ry age supply, Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law, Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw : Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite : Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and pray’r-books are the toys of age : Pleas’d with this bauble still, as that before, Till tir’d he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er. Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays, Those painted clouds that beautify our days ; Each want of happiness by hope supplied, And each vacuity of sense by pride : These build as fast as knowledge can destroy ; In Folly’s cup still laughs the bubble Joy ; One prospect lost another still we gain, And not a vanity is giv’n in vain : 146 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Ev’n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, The scale to measure others’ wants by thine. See! and confess, one comfort still must rise ; “Tis this—though Man’s a fool, yet God is wise. EPISTLE III. Of the Nature and State of Man with respect to Society. THE ARGUMENT. I. The whole universe one system of society. Nothing made wholly for itself, nor yet wholly for another. The happiness of animals mutual.—-II. Reason or instinct operate alike to the good of each individual. Reason or instinct operate also to society in all ani- mals.—III. How far society is carried by instinct. How much farther by reason.—IV. Of that which is called the State of Na- ture. Reason instructed by instinct in the invention of arts, and in the forms of society—V. Origin of political societies. Origin of monarchy. Patriarchal government.—VI. Origin of true religion and government from the same principle oflove. Origin of super- stition and tyranny from the same principle of fear. ‘The influence of- self-love operating to the social and public good, Restoration of true religion and government on their first principle. Mixed government. Various forms of each, and the true end of all. Here then we rest: “‘ The Universal Cause «« Acts to one end,.but acts by various laws.” In all the madness of superfluous health, The trim of pride, the impudence of wealth, Let this great truth be present night and day, _ But most be present if we preach or pray. J. Look round our world, behold the chain of love Combining all below and all above. See plastic Nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place Form’d and impelld its neighbour to embrace. See matter next, with various life endued, Press to one centre still, the gen’ral good : a BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 147 See dying vegetables life sustain, See life dissolving vegetate again. All forms that perish other forms supply, (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die) Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Nothing is foreign: parts relate to whole ; One ali-extending, all-preserving soul Connects each being, greatest with the least, Made beast in aid of Man, and man of beast ; All serv’d, all serving: nothing stands alone ; The chain holds on, and where it ends unknown. Has God, thou fool! work’d solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as kindly spreads the flow’ry lawn : Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride, Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? _ The birds of heav’n shall vindicate their grain, Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. The hog that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all. Know, Nature’s children, all divide her care ; The fur that warms a monarch warm’d a bear. While man exclaims, “ See all things for my use !” “* See Man for mine !” replies a pamper’d goose. And just as short of reason he must fall, Who thinks all made for one, not one ite all. Grant that the pow’rful still the weak control ; Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole ; Nature that tyrant checks ; he only knows, And helps another creature’s wants and woes. Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, ‘Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove ? Admires the jay the insect’s gilded wings? Or hears the hawk, when Philomela sings ? 148 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Man cares for all; to birds he gives his woods, To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods : For some his int’rest prompts him to provide, For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride : All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy The’ extensive blessing of his luxury. That very life his learned hunger craves, He saves from famine, and the savage saves ; Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast, And, till he ends the being, makes it blest ; Which sees no more the stroke, nor feels the pain, Than favour’d Man by touch ethereal slain. The creature had his feast of life before ; Thou, too, must perish when thy feast is o’er ! To each unthinking being, Heav’n a friend,, Gives not the useless knowledge of its end ! To Man imparts it, but with such a view As, while he dreads it, makes him hope it too: The hour conceal’d, and so remote the fear, Death still draws nearer, never seeming near. Great standing miracle! that Heav’n assign’d Its only thinking thing this turn of mind. II. Whether with reason or with instinct blest, Know, all enjoy that pow’r which suits them best : To bliss alike by that direction tend, And find the means proportion’d to their end. Say, where full instinct is the’ unerring guide, What pope or council can they need beside ? Reason, however able, cool at best, Cares not for service, or but serves when prest ; Stays till we call, and then not often near ; But honest instinct comes a volunteer, Sure never to o’ershoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short is human wit ; Sure by quick Nature happiness to gain, Which heavier reason labours at in vain. This, too, serves always, reason never long ; One must go right, the other may go wrong. See then the acting and comparing pow’rs One in their nature, which are two in ours ; And reason raise 0'er instinct as you can, In this ’tis God directs, in that ’tis Man. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 149 Who taught the nations of the field and wood © ‘To shun their poison, and to choose their food? ; ° Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, | Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand ? Who made the spider parallels design, Sure as Demoivre, without rule or line? Who bid the stork, Columbus like, explore Heav’ns not his own, and worlds unknown before ? Who calls the council, states the certain day, - Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way? III. God, in the nature of each being, founds Its proper bliss, and sets its proper bounds : But as he fram’d a whole, the whole to bless, On mutual wants built mutual happiness ; So from the first, eternal Order ran, And creature link’d to creature, Man to Man. Whate’er of life all-quick’ning ether keeps, Or breathes through air, or shoots beneath the deeps, Or pours profuse on earth, one nature feeds The vital flame, and swells the genial seeds. Not Man ‘alone,.but all that roam the wood, Or wing the sky, or roll along the flood, Each loves itself but not itself alone ; Each sex desires alike, till two are one. Nor ends the pleasure with the fierce embrace ; They love themselves a third time in their race. Thus beast and bird their common charge attend, The mothers nurse it, and the sires defend ; The young dismiss’d-to wander earth or air, There stops the instinct, and there ends the care ; The link dissolves, each seeks a fresh embrace, Another love succeeds, another race. A longer care Man’s helpless kind demands ; _ That longer care contracts more lasting bands ; Reflection, reason, still the ties improve, At once extend the int’rest and the love ; With choice we fix, with sympathy we burn ; Each virtue in each passion takes its turn ; And still new needs, new helps, new habits rise, That graft benevolence on charities. Still as one brood, and as another rose, These nat’ral love maintain, habitual those, 150 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. The last, scarce ripen’d into perfect Man, Saw helpless him from whom their life began : Mem’ry and forecast just returns engage, That pointed back to youth, this on to age ; While pleasure, gratitude and hope, combin’d, Still spread the int’rest, and preserv’d the kind. IV. Nor think in Nature’s state they blindly trod : The state of Nature was the reign of God : Self-love and social at her birth began, Union the bond of all things, and of Man. Pride then was not, nor arts, that pride to aid ; Man walk’d with beast, joint tenant of the shade ; The same his table and the same his bed ; No murder cloth’d him, and no murder fed ; In the same temple, the resounding wood, All vocal beings hymn’d their equal God : The shrine with gore unstain’d, with gold undrest, Unbrib’d, unbloody, stood the blameless priest : Heav’n’s attribute was universal care, And Man’s prerogative to rule, but spare. Ah! how unlike the Man of times to come! Of half that live the butcher and the tomb: Who, foe to nature, hears the gen’ral groan, Murders their species, and betrays his own. But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev’ry death its own avenger breeds ; The fury-passions from that blood began, And turn’d on Man a fiercer savage—Man. See him from Nature rising slow to art ! To copy mstinct then was Réason’s part : Thus then to Man the voice of Nature spake— “¢ Go, from the creatures thy instruction take : ** Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield ; ‘* Learn from the beasts the physic of the field ; « Thy arts of building from the bee receive ; ** Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave ; «* Learn of the little nautilus to sail, ‘« Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. “* Here, too, all forms of social union find, <* And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind : «* Here subterranean works and cities see ; «« There towns aérial on the waving tree. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 15] ** Learn each small people’s genius, policies, “© The ant’s republic, and the realm of bees ; “¢ How those in common all their wealth bestow, ** And anarchy without confusion know : “« And these for ever, though a monarch reign, “ Their sep’rate cells and properties maintain. ** Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state, “« Laws wise as Nature, and as fix’d as Fate. “« In vain thy reason finer webs shall draw, ‘* Entangle Justice in her net of law, ** And right, too rigid, harden into wrong, ‘* Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. “* Yet go! and thus o’er all the creatures sway, ‘** Thus let the wiser make the rest obey ; ** And for those arts mere instinct could afford, ‘“* Be crown’d as monarchs, or as gods ador’d.” .V. Great Nature spoke? observant Man obey’d ; Cities were built, societies were made : Here rose one little state: another near Grew by like means, and join’d through love or fear. Did here the trees: with ruddier burdens bend, And there the streams in purer rills descend ? What war could ravish, commerce could bestow, And he return’d a friend who came a foe. Converse and love mankind might strongly draw, When love was liberty, and Nature law. . Thus states were form’d, the name of king unknown, Till common int’rest plac’d the sway in one. "Twas virtue only, (or in arts or arms Diffusing blessings, or averting harms) The same which in a sire the sons obey’d, A prince the father of the people made. VI. Tillthen, by Nature crown’d, each patriarch sate, | King, priest and parent of his growing state ; On him, their second Providence, they hung ; Their law his eye, their oracle his tongue. He from the wand’ring furrow call’d the food, Taught to command the fire, control the flood, Draw forth the monsters of the’ abyss profound, Or fetch the aérial eagle to the ground ; Till drooping, siek’ning, dying, they began, ‘Whom they rever’d as God, to mourn as Man: 152 BEAUTIRFS OF THE POETS. Then, looking up from sire to sire, explor'd One great first Father, and that first ador’d : Or plain tradition, that this All begun, ' Convey’d unbroken faith from sire to son ; The Worker from the work distinct was known, And simple reason never sought but one. Ere wit oblique had broke that steady light, Man, like his Maker, saw that all was right ; To virtue in the paths of pleasure trod, And own’d a Father when he own’d a God. Love all the faith and all the’ allegiance then ; For Nature knew no right divine in Men, No ill could fear in God ; and understood A sov’reign being but a sov’reign good. True faith, true policy, united ran ; That was but love of God and this of Man. Who first taught souls enslav’d, and realms undone, The’ enormous faith of many made for one ; That proud exception to all Nature’s laws, To’ invert the world, and counterwork its cause ? Force first made conquest, and that conquest law, .- Till Superstition taught the tyrant awe, Then shar’d the tyranny, then lent it aid, And gods of conquw’rors, slaves of subjects made : She, ’midst the lightning’s blaze and thunder’s sound, When rock’d the mountains, and when groan'd the ground, She taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray, To pow'r unseen, and mightier far than they ; She from the rending earth and bursting skies Saw gods descend, and fiends infernal rise ; ‘Here fix’d the dreadful, there the blest abodes ; Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods ; Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, Whose attributes were rage, revenge or lust; Such as the souls of cowards might conceive, And, form’d like tyrants, tyrants would believe. Zeal then, not charity, became the guide, And hell was built on spite, and heav’n on pride: Then sacred seem’d the’ ethereal vault no more ; Altars grew marble then, and reek’d with gore : BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS. 153 Then first the Flamen tasted living food, Next his grim idol smear’d with human blood ; With heav’n’s own thunders shook the world below, And play’d the god an engine on his foe. So drives self-love, thro’ just, and thro’ unjust, To one man’s pow’r, ambition, lucre, lust : The same self-love in all becomes the cause Of what restrains him, government and laws. For, what one likes, if others like as well, What serves one will, when many wills rebel? How shall he keep, what, sleeping or awake, A weaker may surprise, « stronger take ? His safety must his liberty restrain ; All join to guard what each desires to gain. Fore’d into virtue, thus by self-defence, Ev’n kings learn’d justice and benevolence : Self-love forsook the path it first pursu’d, And found the private in the public good. *T was then the studious head or gen’rous mind, _-Foll’wer of God, or friend of human kind, Poet or patriot, rose but to restore The faith and moral, Nature gave before ; Relum’d her ancient light, not kindled new, If not God’s image, yet his shadow drew ; Taught pow’rs due use to people and to kings, Taught not to slack nor strain its tender strings, The less or greater set so justly true, That touching one must strike the other too ; Till jarring int’rests of themselves create The’ according music of a well-mix’d state. Such is the world’s great harmony, that spring's From order, union, full consent of things ; Where small and great, where weak and mighty, made To serve, not suffer ; strengthen, not invade ; More powerful each as needful to the rest, And in proportion as he blesses, blest ; Draw to one point, and to one centre bring Beast, man or angel, servant, lord or king. For forms of government let fools contest ; Whate’er is best administer’d is best : For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; His can’t be wrong whose life is in the right. rs ie \ 154 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. In faith and hope the world will disagree, But all mankind’s concern’d in charity : All must be false that thwart this one great end ; And all of God that bless mankind, or mend. Man, like the gen’rous vine, stpported lives ; The strength he gains is from the’ embrace he gives. On their own axis as the planets run, Yet make at once their circle round the sun ; So two consistent- motions act the soul, ~ And one regards itself, and one the whole. Thus God and Nature link’d the gen’ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same. EPISTLE IV. Z Of the Nature and State of Man with respect to Happiness. THE ARGUMENT. I, False notions of happiness, philosophical and popular, answered. —IT. It is the end of all Men, and attainable by all. God in- tends happiness to be equal ; and, to be so, it must be social, since all particular happiness depends on general, and since he governs by general, not particular Jaws. As it is necessary for order, and the peace and welfare of society, that external goods should be un- equal, happiness is not made to consistinthese. But notwithstand- ing that inequality, the balance of happiness among mankind is kept even by Providence, by the two passions of hope and fear.— III. What the happiness of individuals is, as far as is consistent with the constitution of this world: and that the good Man has here the advantage. ‘The error of imputing to virtue what are only the calamities of nature, or of fortune.—1V. Thefolly of expecting that God should alter his general laws in favour of particulars.— Ve That we are not judges who are good; but that whoever they are, they must be happiest.—VI. That external goods are not the proper re- wards, but often inconsistent with, or destructive of, virtue. Thaf even these can make no man happy without virtue ; instanced in riches, honours, nobility, greatness, fame, superior talents, with pictures of human infelicity in men, possessed of them al],—VII. That virtue only constitates a happiness whose object is universal, and whose prospect is eternal. That the perfection of virtue and happiness consists in a conformity to the order of Providence here, and a resignation to it here and hereafter. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 155 Ou, happiness ! our being’s end and aim ! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate’er thy name : That something still which prompts the’ eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die ; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O’erlook’d, seen double, by the fool and wise. Plant of celestial seed! if dropp’d below, Say in what mortal soil thou deign’st to grow ? Fair op’ning to some court’s propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine ? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap’d in iron harvests of the field ? Where grows ?—where growsit not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not ‘the soil ; Fix’d to no spot is happiness sincere ; Tis no where to be found, or ev’rywhere : Tis never to be bought, but always free, And fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee. Ask of the learn’d the way? the learn’d are blind : This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind ; Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these ; Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; Some, swell’d to gods, confess-ev’n virtue vain ! Or, indolent, to each extreme they fall, To trust in ev’ry thing,-or doubt of all. Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness ? Take Nature’s path, and mad Opinion’s leave ; All states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; There needs but thinking right and meaning well ; And mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense and common ease. Remember, Man, ‘‘the Universal Cause ** Acts not by partial, but by gen’ral laws ;” And makes what happiness we justly call Subsist not in the good of one, but all. There’s not a blessing individuals find, But some way leans and hearkens to the kind. No bandit fierce, ‘no’ tyrant mad with pride, No cavern’d hermit, rests self-satisfied. 156 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend, Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend : Abstract’ what others feel, what others think, All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink ; Each has his share; and who would more obtain, Shall find the pleasure pays not half the pain. Order is heav’n’s first law ; and, this confest, Some are and must be greater than the rest ; More rich, more wise: but who infers from hence That such are happier, shocks all common sense. Heav’n.to mankind impartial we confess, If all are equal in their happiness : But mutual wants this happiness increase ; All nature’s diffrence keeps all nature’s peace. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing : Bliss is the same, in subject or in king. In whom obtain defence, or who defend, In him who is, or him who finds a HEE Heav’n breathes through ev ry member of the whole, One common blessing, as one common soul. But fortune’s gifts, if each alike possess’d, And each were equal, must not all contest ? If then to all men happiness was meant, God in externals could not place content, Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, And these be happy call’d, unhappy those ; But heav’n’s just balance equal will appear, While those are plac’d in hope, and these in fear : Not present good or ill the joy or curse, But future views of better or of worse. Oh sons of earth ! attempt ye still to rise, By mountains pil’d on mountains, to the skies ? Heav’n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Know, all the good that individuals find, Of God and nature meant to mere mankind, Reason’s whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words—health, peace and competence. But health consists with temperance alone ; And peace, oh, virtue! peace is all thy own. The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain ; But these less taste them as they. worse obtain. - BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. PES Say,.in pursuit of profit or delight, Who risk the most, that take wrong means, or right ? Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst, Which meets contempt, or which compassion, first ? Count all the’ advantage prosp’rous vice attains, "Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains : And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want, which is to pass for good. Oh! blind to truth, and God’s whole scheme below, Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe ! Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest. But fools the good alone unhappy call, For ills or accidents that chance to all. See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! See godlike’Turenne prostrate on the dust ! See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife ! Was this their virtue, or contempt of life ? Say, was it virtue, more though heav’n ne’er gave, Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave ? Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire ? Why drew Marseilles’ good bishop purer breath, When nature sicken’d, and each gale was death ? Or why so long (in life if long can be) Lent heav’n a parent to the poor and me? What makes all physical or moral ill? There deviates nature, and here wanders will. God sends not ill; if rightly understood, ‘Or partial ill is universal good, Or change admits, or Nature lets it fall; Short and but rare, till Man improwd it all. We just as wisely might of heav’n complain, That righteous Abel was destroy’d by Cain, As that the virtuous son is ill at ease When his lewd father gave the dire disease. ; Think we, like some weak prince, the’ Eternal Cause Prone for his fav’rites to reverse his laws ? Shall burning Etna, ifasage requires, Forget to thunder, and recal her fires ? On air orsea new motions be imprest, Oh! blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast ? ne 158 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. When the loose mountain trembles from on high, Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, For Chartres’ head reserve the hanging wall ? But still this world (so fitted for the knave) Contents us not.—A better shall we have? A kingdom of the just then let it be ; : But first consider how those just agree. The good must merit God’s peculiar care ; But who but God can tell us who they are ? One thinks on Calvin heav’n’s own spirit fell ; Another deems him instrument of hell : If Calvin feel heav’n’s blessing or its rod, This cries, there is, and that, there is no God. What shocks one part will edify the rest ; Nor with one system can they all be blest. The very best will variously incline, And what rewards your virtue punish mine. Whatever is, is right.—This world, ’tis true, Was made for Ceesar—but for Titus too: And which more blest ? who chain’d his country, say, Or he whose virtue sigh’d to lose a day ? «© But sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.”’ What then? is the reward of virtue bread ? That vice may merit ; *tis the price of toil ; The knave deserves it when he tills the soil. The knave deserves it when he tempts the main, Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. The good man may be weak, be indolent ; Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. But grant him riches, your demand is o’er ? « No—shall the good want health, the good want pow’r ?”’ Add health and pow’r, and ev’ry earthly thing ; *¢ Why bounded pow’r? why private? why no king ?” Nay, why external for internal giv’n : Why is not man a god, and earth a heav’n ? Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive God gives enough while he has more to give : Immense the pow'r, immense were the demand ; Say, at what part of Nature will they stand ? What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, The soul’s calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 1o9 Is virtue’s prize. A better would you fix ? Then give Humility a coach and six, Justice a conq’ror’s sword, or Truth a gown, Or Public Spirit its great cure, a.crown ! Weak, foolish man! will Heav’n reward us there, With the same trash mad mortals wish for. here ? The Boy and Man an individual makes, Yet sigh’st thou now for apples or for cakes ? Go, like the Indian, in another life Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife; As well as dream such trifles are assign’d, As toys and empires for a godlike mind : Rewards that either would to virtue bring, No joy, or be destructive of the thing, How oft by these at sixty are undone The virtues of a saint at twenty-one ! To whom can riches give repute or trust, Content or pleasure, but the good and just ? Judges and senates have been bought for gold ; Esteem and love were never to be sold. Oh, fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, The lover, and the love of human-kind, Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. Honour and shame from no condition rise : _ Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small diffrence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; The cobler apron’d, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown’d. ‘‘ What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl ?” I’}l tell you, friend, a wise man and a fool. You'll find if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; . The rest is all but leather, or prunello. Stuck o’er with titles, or hung round with strings, That thou mayst ke by kings, or whores of kings, Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece: But by your father’s worth, if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. 160 REAUTIES OF THE POETS. Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood, Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go! and pretend your family is young, Nor own your fathers have been fools so long’. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. Look next on greatness ; say where greatness lies ; «‘ Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?” Herves are much the same, the point’s agreed, From Macedonia’s madman to the Swede; The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find Or make an enemy of all mankind! Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise ; All fly slow things with circumspective eyes : Men in their loose, unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat, ‘Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great ; ; Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates ; that man is great indeed. What’s fame ? a fancy’d life in others’ breath ; A thing beyond us ev’n before our death : Just what you hear you have, and what’s unknown The same (my Lord) if Tully’s, or your own. All that we feel of it begins and ends In the small circle of our foes or friends ; To all beside as much an empty shade, An Eugene living, as a Cesar dead : Alike, or when or where they shone or shine, Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine. A wit’s a feather, and a chief a rod ; An honest Man’s the noblest work of God. Fame but from death a villain’s name can save, As Justice tears his body from the grave ; When what to’ oblivion better were resign’d Is hung on high to poison half mankind. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 161 All fame is foreign but of true desert ; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart’: One self-approving hour whole years outweighs, Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas ; And more true joy Marcellus exil’d feels, Than Cesar with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies ? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? Tis but to know how little can be known, To see all others’ faults, and feel our own ? Condemn’d in business or in arts to drudge, Without a second, or without a judge. Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land ? All fear, none aid you, and few understand. Painful pre-eminence! yourself to’ view Above life’s weakness, and its comforts too. Bring then these blessings to a strict account ; Make fair deductions ; see to what they ’amount ; How much of other each is sure to cost; How each for other oft is wholly lost ; How inconsistent greater goods with these : How sometimes life is risk’d, and always ease ; Think, and if still the things thy envy call, Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall ? To sigh for ribbands, if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy! Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life ? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus’ wife! If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin’d, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind ! Or, ravish’d with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell damn’d to everlasting fame ! If all united thy ambition call, From ancient story learn to scorn them all : There in the rich, the honour’d, fam’d, and great, See the false scale of happiness complete ! In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, How happy those to ruin, these betray. Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows, From dirt and sea-weed, as proud Venice rose ; In each how guilt and greatness equal ran, And all that rais’d the hero sunk the man : 168 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Now Hurope’s laurels en their brows behold, But stain’d with blood, or ill-exchang’d for gold. Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease, Or infamous for plunder’d provinces. Oh, wealth ill-fated ! which no act of fame Ker taught to shine, or sanctified from shame ! What greater bliss attends their close of life ? Some greedy minion, or imperious wife, The trophy’d arches, storied halls invade, And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray. Compute the morn and evening to the day: The whole amount of that enormous fame ! A tale that blends their glory with their shame ! Know then this truth, (enough for man to know) “* Virtue alone is happiness below.” ‘The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill ; Where only merit constant pay receives, Is bless’d in what it takes, and what it gives ; The joy unequall’d if its end it gain, And if it lose, attended with no pain : Without satiety, though e’er so bless’d, And but more relish’d as the more distress’d : The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears, Less pleasing far than virtue’s very tears : Good from each object, from each place, acquir’d, For ever exercis’d, yet never tir’d ; Never elated, while one man’s oppress’d; Never dejected, while another's bless’d ; And where no wants, no wishes can remain, Since but to wish more virtue is to gain. See the sole bliss heav’n could on all bestow ! Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know, Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, The bad must miss, the good untaught will find ; Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature up to nature’s God ; Pursues that chain which links the’ immense design, Joins heav’n and earth, and mortal and divine : Sees that no being any bliss can know, But touches some above, and some below ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 163 Learns from this union of the rising whole, The first, last purpose of the human soul ; And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, All end in love of God, and love of Man. For him alone hope leads from goal to goal, And opens still, and opens on his soul ; Till lengthen’d on to faith, and unconfin’d, It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. He sees why nature plants in man alone ~ Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown : (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind Are giv’n in vain, but what they seek they find) Wise is her present: she connects in this His greatest virtue, with his greatest bliss ; At once his own bright prospect to be blest, And strongest motive to assist the rest. Self-love, thus push’d to social, to divine, Gives thee to make thy neighbour’s blessing thine. Is this too little for the boundless heart? Extend it, let thy enemies have part : Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense, In one close system of benevolence : Happier as kinder, in whate’er degree, And height of bliss but height of charity. God loves from whole to parts; but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; The centre mov’d, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads ; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ; His country next, and next all human race : Wide, and more wide, the’ o ’erflowings of the mind ‘Fake ev'ry creature in of ev'ry kind: , Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, And heav’n beholds its image in his breast. Come then, my friend! my Sem ' come along ; Oh, master of the poet and the song ! And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, To Man’s low passions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; ¢ 164 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Form'd by.thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please. Oh! while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend ‘Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ? That, urg’d by thee, I turn’d the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart ; For wit’s false mirror held up nature’s light, Shew’d erring pride whatever is, is right ; That reason, passion, answer one great aim; That true self-love and social are the same ; That virtue only makes our bliss below, And all our knowledge is ourselves to know. DESCRIPTION OF ROWENA. Milman. Crasep the bold strain, then deep the Saxon drain’d The ruddy cup, and savage joy uncouth Lit his blue gleaming eyes: nor sate unmoved The Briton chiefs; fierce thoughts began to rise, Of ancient wars and high ancestral fame. Sudden came floating through the hall an air So strangely sweet, the o’erwrought sense scarce felt Its rich excess of pleasure ; softer sounds Melt never on the enchanted midnight cool, By haunted spring, where elfin dancers trace Green circlets on the moonlight dews ; nor lull Becalmed mariner from rocks, where basks At summer noon the seamaid ; he his oar BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 165 Breathless suspends, and motionless his bark Sleeps on the sleeping waters. Now the notes So gently died away, the silence seem’'d Melodious ; merry now and light and blithe They danced on air: anon came tripping forth In frolic grace a maiden troop, their locks Flower-wreath’d, their snowy robes from clasped zone Fell careless drooping, quick their glittering feet Glanced o’er the pavement. ‘Then the pomp of sound Swell’d up and mounted ; as the stately swan, Her milkwhite neck embower'd in arching spray, Queens it along the waters, entered in The lofty hall a shape so fair, it lull’d The music into silence, yet itself Pour’d out, prolonging the soft extasy, The trembling and the touching of sweet sound. Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth And swimming majesty of step and tread, The symmetry of form and feature, set The soul afloat, even like delicious airs Of fiute or harp: as though she trod from earth, And round her wore an emanating cloud Of harmony, the lady moved. Too proud For less than absolute command, too soft For aught but gentle amorous thought: her hair Cluster’d as from an orb of gold cast out A dazzling and o’erpowering radiance; save Here and there on her snowy neck reposed In a soothed brilliance some thin wandering tress. The azure flashing of her eye was fringed ° With virgin meekness, and her tread, that seem’d Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it As the light dew shower on a tuft of flowers. The soul within seem’d feasting on high thoughts, That to the outward form and feature'gave A loveliness of scorn, scorn that to feel Was bliss, was sweet indulgence. Fast sank back Those her fair harbingers, their modest eyes Downcast, and drooping low their slender necks In graceful reverence ; she, by wondering gaze Unmoved, and stifled murmurs of applause, Nor yet unconscious, slowly won her way 166 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. ‘To where the king amid the festal pomp Sate loftiest ; as she raised a fair chased cup, Something of sweet confusion overspread Her features; something tremulous broke in On her half-failing accents, as she said, ‘ Health to the king !’—the sparkling wine laugh’d up, As eager "twere to touch so fair a lip. A moment, and the apparition bright Had parted; as before, the sound of harps Was wantoning about the festive hall. HOME. Montgomery. ‘THERE is a land of every land the pride Belov’d by heaven o’er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutor’d age, and love-exalted youth : The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so beautiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; - In every clime the magnet of his soul, Youch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of heaven’s peculiar grace, The heritage of nature’s noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride ; While in his soften’d looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend : Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 167 Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? Art thou a man ?—a patriot ?—look around ; O thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home. O’er China’s garden-fields, and peopl’d floods ; In California’s pathless world of woods ; Round Andes’ heights, where Winter from his throne Looks down in scorn upon the summer zone ; By the gay borders of Bermuda’s isles, Where spring with everlasting verdure smiles ; On pure Madeira’s vine-rob’d hill of health ; In Java’s swamp of pestilence and wealth; Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackalls drink ; Midst weeping willows on Euphrates’ brink ; On Carmel’s crest ; by Jordan’s rev’rend stream, Where Canaan’s glories vanish’d like a dream ; Where Greece, a spectre haunts her heroes’ graves, And Rome’s vast ruins darken Tiber’s waves ; Where broken-hearted: Switzerland bewails Her subject mountains and dishonoured vales ; Where Albion’s rocks exult amidst the sea, Around the beauteous isle of Liberty ; Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Belov’d by heaven o’er all the world beside ; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 5 I / TRUTH OF THE SCRIPTURES. Dryden. How but from God, could men unskill’d in arts, In different ages born, in different parts, Weave such agreeing truths, or how, or why, Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie ? - Unask’d their pains, ungrateful their advice, Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price ! 16S BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. Burns. [The best poems of Burns possess a vigour of imagination, a warmth of feeling, a happy simplicity and force of ex pression that render them irresistibly engaging. It is difficult to determine whether he excels most in the sublime, the tender, or the humourous, Infact, in all these modes he drew his ideas immediately from nature, and animated them with the fire of genius. The “ Cotter’s Saturday Night” is a nobleand pathetic picture of human manners, mingled with a fine religious awe. It comes over the mind like a slow and solemn strain of music. The soul of the poet aspires from this scene of low-thoughted care, and reposes, in trembling hope, on ‘“¢ the bosom of its Father and its God.” } Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the poor.—Gray. My lov’d, my honour'’d, much respected friend, No mercenary bard his homage pays: With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What AIKEN in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough ”; The short’ning winter-day is neara close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black’ning trains 0’ craws to their repose : 2 Sough, blast. “BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 169 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, Aud weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an agéd tree ; The’ expectant wee-things*, toddlin, stacher” thro’ To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee. His wee bit ingle¢, blinkin’¢ bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary carking cares beguile, An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil. Belyvee the elder bairnst come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun’, Some ca’* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie" rin A canna errand to a neebor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu’ bloom, love sparklin’ in her e’e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a bra’ new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet, An’ each for other’s welfare kindly spiers’ : The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet ; Each tells the uncos* that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her shears, Gars! auld claes™ look amaist as weel’s the new ; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. a Wee-things, little ones. b Toddlin, stacher, tottering, to walk like a child. ¢ Ingle, fire. a Blinkin, shining. ¢& Belyve, by and by. € Bairns, children, $ Ca’, to drive. h Tentie rin, heedful run. i Spiers, inquires. k Uncos, news. |! Gars, makes. m Auld claes, old clothes. I ; S 170 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command, The younkers a’ are warned to obey ; * An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent® hand, ‘ An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play: ‘An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! _ © An’ mind your duty, duly morn an’ night ! * Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, ‘ Implore his counsel and assisting might : ‘ They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright '’ But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek ; Wi’ heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins® is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, its nae wild worthless rake. Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him bene ; A strappan youth ; he taks the mother’s e’e ; Blithe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en ; The father cracks‘ of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy ; But blate and laithfu’", scarce can weel behave ; The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfw’ an’ sae grave ; Weel pleas’d tothink her bairn’s respected likethe lave’. O happy love! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I’ve paced much this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare— ‘ If Heav’n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, -» Eydent, diligent. © Hafflins, partly, » Ben, into the spence or parlour. 4 Cracks, converses. © Blate, laith{w, bashful, sheepish. * Lave, the rest. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. _ 171 ‘ One cordial in this melancholy vale, ‘ "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, ‘ In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale, ‘ Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.’ is there, in human form, that bears a heart— A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet J jenny” s unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth ! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, | Points to the parents fondling o’er their child ! Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome‘ parritch*, chief 0’ Scotia’s food : The soupe! their only Hawkie’ does afford, That ’yont* the hallan® snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d°¢ eobbuck? fells, An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s‘ it guid® ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How ’twas a towmond auld®, sin’ lint was 1’ the bell’. The cheerfu’ supper done, wi serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace, The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride : His bonnet roy eutly is laid aside, His lyart* haffets' wearing thin an’ bare : Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales™ a portion with judicious care ; And ‘ Let us wership God!’ he says, with solemn air. ‘ Halesome, wholesome. x Parritch, oatmeal pudding. y Soupe, a small quantity of lawl thing liquid. 2 Hawkie,acow, « ’Yont, beyond. b Hallan, partition wall in a cottage. © Weel- ‘hain’ d, well-spared. 4 Kebbuck, cheese. © Fell, biting, f Ca’s, calls, $ Guid, edod, A Tiumnond auld, atwelvemonth old. i Sin’ lint, &c., since flax was in flower. k Lyart, grey. ' Haffets, temples. m }Vailes, chooses, 172, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. ‘They chaunt their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps Dundee’s wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name: Or noble Elgin beets the heav’n-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays : Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; . Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heav’n’s‘avenging ire ; Or, Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. * Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed : How He, who bore in heaven the second name, - Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d hy heav’n’s command, Then kneeling down, to Heaven’s Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope ‘ springs exulting on triumphant wing,’ That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. » rs Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow’r incens’d the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul ; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to heaven the warm request That He who.stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, « An honest man’s the noblest work of God .’ And certes, in fair virtue’s heav’nly road, _ The’ cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling’s pomp! a cumbrous load Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d ! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content | And, O! may Heav’n their simple lives prevent From Luxury’s contagion, weak and vile ! Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their mucly-lov’d Isle. O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart ; 174 BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS, Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot’s God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian and reward Ny O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert : But still the patriot and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! A CHRISTMAS CAROL. Coleridge. Tue shepherds went their hasty way, And found the lowly stable-shed Where the Virgin-Mother lay : And now they check’d their eager tread, For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, A mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung. They told her how a glorious light, _ Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone suspending night ! While sweeter than a mother’s song, Bless’d angels heralded the Saviour’s birth, Glory to God on high! and peace on earth, She listen’d to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she press’d ; And while she cried the Babe is mine! The milk rush’d faster to her breast : Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn ; Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born. Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate ! That strife should vanish, battle cease, O, why should this thy soul elate : Sweet Music’s loudest note, the poet’s story, Didst thou ne’er love to hear of Fame and Glory ? BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 17 And is not War a youthful king, A stately hero clad in mail ? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; _ Him earth’s majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh. Cyt ‘ Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state ! { am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged father tears his child ! ‘A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire, and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow’s toil had won ; Plunders God’s world of beauty ; rends away AU) safety from the night, all comfort from the day. ‘ Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease ; I’m poor and of a low estate, | The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn: Peace, peace on earth, the Prince of Peace is born.’ ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. Watts. [Isaac Watts was born July 17, 1674, at Southampton, where his fa- ther kept a boarding school. He was much given to books from his infancy ; and, it is said, began to learn Latin when he was but four years old. He was educated at the free-school at Southamp- ton, and afterwards at a dissenting academy, taught by Mr. Rowe. «At the age of twenty, he left the academy, and spent two years in study and devotion at the house of his father, who treated 176 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. _ him with great tenderness ; and had the happiness, indulged to few parents, of living to see his son eminent for literature and venera- ble for piety.” He was afterwards domestic tutor to the son of Sir John Hartopp ; then, pastor of a dissenting congregation in London; and though this duty was interrupted by want of health, he continued to at- tend to it through life. He died in 1748. “Few men have left behind such purity of character, or sucli monuments of laborious piety. He has provided instruction for all ages, from those who are lisping their first lessons, to the enlightened readers of Malbranche and Locke ; he has Ieft neither corporeal nok spiritual nature unexamined; he has taught the art of reason- ing, and the science of the stars. ‘‘ As a poet, had he been only a poet, he would probably have stood high; for his judgment was exact, and he noted beauties and faults with very nice discernment: his imagination was vigorous and active, and the stores of knowledge were large, by which his fancy was to be supplied. His ear was well-tuned, and his diction was elegant and copious,” —Johnson. ] My God, I love and } adore! But souls that love would know thee more. Wilt thou for ever hide, and stand Behind the labours of thy hand? Thy hand, unseen, sustains the poles On which this huge creation rolls : The starry arch proclaims thy power, Thy pencil glows in every flower : In thousand shapes and colours rise Thy painted wonders to our eyes ; While beasts and birds with labouring throats Teach us a God in thousand notes. The meanest pin in nature’s frame Marks out some letter of thy name. Where sense can reach or fancy rove, From hill to hill, from field to grove, Across the waves, around the sky, There’s not a spot, or deep or high, Where the Creator has not trod, And left the footstep of a God. But are his footsteps all that we, Poor groveling worms must know or see ? - BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Thou Maker of my vital frame! Unveil thy face, pronounce thy name, Shine to my sight, and let the ear Which thou hast form’d the language hear. Where is thy residence ? Oh! why Dost thou avoid my searching eye, My longing sense? Thou Great Unknown, Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne ? . Divide, ye clouds, and let me see The Power that gives me leave to be. Or, art thou all diffused abroad Through boundless space, a present God, Unseen, unheard, yet ever near! What shall I do to find thee here? Is there not some mysterious art To feel thy presence at my heart ? To hear thy whispers soft and kind, In holy silence of the mind ? Then rest my thoughts ; nor longer roam In quest of joy, for Heaven’s at home. But, oh! thy beams of warmest love ; Sure they were made for worlds above. How shall my soul her powers extend, Beyond where Time and Nature end, To reach those heights, thy blest abode, And meet thy kindest smiles, my God ? What shall Ido? I wait thy call; Pronounce the word, my life, my all. Oh, for a wing to bear me far Beyond the golden morning star! Fain would I trace the’ immortal way | That leads to courts of endless day, Where the Creator stands confess’d, In his own fairest glories dress’d. Some shining spirit help me rise, Come, waft a stranger through the skies ; Bless’d Jesus meet me on the road, First offspring of the’ Eternal God! Thy hand shall lead a younger son, Clothe me with vestures yet unknown, And place me near thy Father’s throne. G tae 177 178 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR. Milman. ——THou knowest, Merciful ! That knowest all things, and dost ever turn Thine eye of pity on our guilty nature ; For thou wert born of woman: thou didst come, Oh Holiest ! to this world of sin and gloom, Not in thy dread omnipotent array ; And not by thunders strewed Was thy tempestuous road ; Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way. But thee, a soft and naked child, Thy mother undefiled In the rude manger laid to rest From off her virgin breast. The heavens were not commanded to prepare A gorgeous canopy of golden air ; Nor stooped their lamps the’ enthroned fires on high : A single silent star Came wandering from afar, Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky ; The eastern sages leading on, As at a kingly throne, To lay their gold and odours sweet Before thy infant feet. The earth and ocean were not hush’d to hear Bright harmony from every starry sphere ;. Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song From all the cherub choirs, And seraphs’ burning lyres Pour’d thro’ the host of heav’n the charmed clouds along. One angel troop the strain began, Of all the raceof man | By simple shepherds heard alone, That soft hosanna’s tone. - BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 179 And when.thou didst depart, no car of flame To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came ; Nor visible angels mourn’d with drooping plumes : Nor didst thou mount on high, From fatal Calvary, [tombs. With all thine own redeem’d outbursting from their For thou didst bear away from earth But one of human birth, The dying felon by thy side, to be In Paradise with thee. Nor o’er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake ; A little while the conscious earth did shake At that foul deed by her fierce children done ; A few dim hours of day The world in darkness lav ; Then bask’d in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun 3 While thou didst sleep within the tomb, Consenting to thy doom ; Kre yet the white-robed angel shone Upon the sealed stone. And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand With devastation in thy red right hand, Plaguing the guilty city’s murtherous crew ; But thou didst haste to meet Thy mother’s coming feet, , And bear the words of peace unto the faiths,,) fay, © Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise Into thy native skies, Thy human form dissolved on high In its own radiancy. IMMORTALITY REVEALED BY THE SAVIOUR. Gisborne. ‘ Tnx meanest herb we trample in the field, Or in the garden nurture, when its leaf iso BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, In Autumn dies, forebodes another Spring, And from short slumber wakes to life again. Man wakes no more! Man, peerless, valiant, wise, Once chill’d by death, sleeps hopeless in the dust, A long, unbroken, never-ending sleep !’ Such was thy plaint, untutor’d bard», when May, As now, the lawns revived! “Iwas thine to rove Darkling, ere yet from Death’s reluctant shade, In cloudless majesty, the Son of God Sprang glorious; while hell’s ruler, he who-late, With frantic scoffs of triumph, to his powers Pointed the sad procession as it moved From Calvary to the yet unclosed tomb, Saw the grave yield its conqueror ; and aghast, Shunned, in the deepest midnight of his realms, The wrath of earth’s and heaven’s Almighty Lord. Said the desponding lay, ‘ Man wakes no more!’ O blind! who read’st not in the teeming soil, The freshening meadow, and the bursting wood, A nobler lesson !—He who spake the word, And the sun rose from Chaos, while the abyss From the new fires with shuddering surge recoil’d ; He, at whose voice the moon’s nocturnal beam, And starry legions, on the admiring earth Rained lustre ; He, whose providence the change Of day and night and seasons crown’d with food, And health and peace proclaim’d, bade Nature’s hand Point to the scenes of dim futurity. He on a world, in Gentile darkness lost, Pitying looked down: He to bewilder’d man Bade Spring, with annual admonition, hold Her emblematic taper ; -not with light Potent each shade of doubt and fear to chase, Yet friendly through the gloom to guide his way, ‘ull the dawn crimson’d and the impatient Hast, Shouting for joy, the day-star’s advent hail’d. That star has risen, and with a glow that shames The sun’s meridian splendour, has illumined, Eternity ! thy wonders: and as hills, ° Far seen, by telescopic power draw nigh ; Regions of bliss and realms of penal doom, » Moschus, who flourished about two hundred years before Christ. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 1sl More clear, more sure than earth to mortal ken, Beyond the shades of Death to Faith reveals ! Yet may this sylvan wild, from Winter’s grasp Now rescued, bid the soul on loftiest hopes Musing elate, anticipate the hour When, at the archangel’s voice, the slumbering dust Shall wake, nor earth nor sea withhold her dead : When starting at the crash of bursting tombs, Of mausoleums rent, and pyramids Heaved from their base, the tyrant of the grave, Propp’d on his broken sceptre, while the crown Falls from his head, beholds his prison-house Emptied of all its habitants ; beholds Mortal in immortality absorb’d Corruptible in incorruption lost, A FIELD FLOWER. Monigomery. {James Montgomery, the eldest son of a Moravian minister, was bor November 4, 1771, at Irvine, a small seaport in Ayrshire, North Britain. At five years of age he was placed, for the purpose of education, at Fulnick, a Moravian seminary in Yorkshire, where he remained ten years; during which time, the seeds of poesy which nature had sown, began to germinate, and he not only filled three volumes with his verses, but composed a mock heroic poem, in three books, in imitation of Homer’s Frogs and Mice, which contained more than a thousand lines. He was, on leaving the seminary, placed with a Moravian, who kept a retail shop at Mir- field, near Wakefield ; but in the following year left this situation, and engaged himself in a similar one, at Wash, near Rotherham. After having remained here twelve months, he removed to London, and obtained a situation in the shop of Mr. Harrison, a bookseller in Paternoster Row. At the end of eight months, having had a misunderstanding with Harrison, he returned to his last situation in Yorkshire. In 1792 he removed to Sheffield, and engaged him- 1S2 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. self with Mr. Gales, who at that time published the Sheffield Re- gister, to which Montgomery occasionally contributed essays and verses. In 1794, when Mr. Gales left England, to avoid a politi- cal prosecution, Montgomery, by the assistance of a gentleman, to whom, except in a knowledge of his talents, he was almost a stran- ger, became the publisher of the newspaper, the title of which he changed for that of the ‘‘ Tris,” and under that name it still con- tinues to be published by him. In 1797 he sent forth a volume of poems, entitled, ‘‘ Prison Amusements,” composed during an im- prisonment of three months in York Castle, which he incurred for some trifling political offence, committed in the course of his edito- rial daties. In 1806, his ‘* Wanderer of Switzerland” made its appearance ;—‘‘ The West Indies” in 1809 ;—and in 1812, “‘ The World before the Flood.” His latest production is a new version of the Psalms of David, under the title of “ Songs of Zion.’”’] THereE is a flower, a little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun. it smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way, And twines December’s arms. The purple heath, and golden broom, On moony mountains catch the gale, O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale ; BEAUTIES CF THE POETS. But this bold foweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forests, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox’s den. Within the garden’s cultur’d round It shares the sweet carnation’s bed ; And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead. The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, ~ The blue-fly bends its pensile stem Light o’er the sky-lark’s nest. "Tis Flora’s page :—in every place, In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms everywhere. On waste and woodland, rock and plain, lts humble buds unheeded rise ; The rose has but a summer reign, The Daisy never dies. % THE PIGEON OF THE EAST. Moore. Tue bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fondly home, Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, or flies Where idler wanderers roam ; But high she shoots through air and hight, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Or shadow dims her way. 184 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. So grant me, God, from every stain Of sinful passion free, Aloft, through virtue’s purer air, To steer my course to Thee! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs, Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Phy freedom on her wings. tm re HYMN. 4 Addison. | Joseph Addison was born May 1, 1672, at Milton, in Wiltshire, of which place, his father, Launcelot Addison, was rector. He was sent to Oxford in his fifteenth year, where he distinguished himself by his proficiency in classical literature, especially in Latin poetry. in his twenty-second year he shewed his power of English poetry, by some verses addressed to Dryden, which procured him the ap- plause of that celebrated writer. In 1695 he wrotea poem to King William, with a preface’to Lord Somers, whose patronage he gained by the poem, which is entitled to considerable praise, being highly poetical in its descriptions and animated in its sentiments, which issue from a breast warm with alove of liberty, and zealous for the happiness of mankind. Through the patronage of Lord Somers, Addison obtained from the King a pension of 3001. a year, that he might be enabled to travel. On his return, after two years of travel on the Continent, Lord Halifax procured for him the post of Commissioner of Appeals, After this he became connected with Sir Richard Steele, and oc- casionally contributed papers tothe Tatler, the Spectator, and the Guardian ; in which, his productions, serious and comic, placed him deservedly at the head of his class, He was afterwards raised to the office of one of the principal Se- cretaries of State ; but finding himself ill-suited to the post, and in a declining state of health, he was forced to solicit his dismission, which being permitted » and a pension of 15001. a year granted him, he retired to hisliterary avocations, He died June 17, 1714 9.) » er BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 1$5 Tue spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, (a shining frame i Their great Original proclaim. The’ unwearied sun from day to day, Doth his Creator’s power display, And publisheth to every land, The work of an almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, ‘The,moon takes up the wondrous tale, _ And nightly to the listeaing earth, Repeats the story of her birth : Whilst all the stars that round Hap burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth as pole to pole. What though in ailsint silence all Move round this dark terrestrial ball : What though no real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found ; In reason’s ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, For ever singing as they shine, «The hand that made us is divine.” THE VOICE OF PRAISE. Mary Russell Mitford. THERE is a voice of magic power Lo charm the old, delight the young— In lordly hall, in rustic bower, In every clime, in every tongue, Howe’er its sweet vibration rung, In whispers low, in poet’s lays, There lives not one who has not hung Enraptur’d on the voice of praise. e foot Os BEAUTIES OF THE POHTS. The timid child, at that soft voice, Lifts for a moment’s space the eye ; it bids the fluttering heart rejoice, And stays the step prepar’d to fly : "Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh, And flushes o’er that rosy face ; Whilst shame and infant modesty Shrink back with hesitating grace. The lovely maiden’s dimpled cheek At that sweet voice still deeper glows ; Her quivering lips in vain would seek To hide the bliss her eyes disclose ; The charm her sweet confusion shows Oft springs from some low broken word . O praise! to her how sweetly flows Thine accent from the loved one heard ! The hero, when a people’s voice Proclaims their darling victor near, Feels he not then his soul rejoice, Their shouts of love, of praise to hear ? Yes! fame to generous minds is dear— It pierces to their inmost core ; He weeps, who never shed a tear ; He trembles, who ne’er shook before. The poet too—ah! well I deem, Small is the need the tale to tell ; Who knows not that his thought, his dream, On thee at noon, at midnight dwell ? Who knows not that thy magic spell Can charm his every care away ? In memory cheer his gloomy cell ; In hope can lend a deathless day. "Tis sweet to watch affection’s eye : To mark the tear with love replete ; To feel the softly-breathing sigh, When Friendship’s lips the tones repeat ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. pond 2.9) mJ But oh! a thousand times more sweet ‘The praise of those we love, to hear ! _ Like balmy showers in summer heat, It falls upon the greedy ear. The lover lulls his rankling wound, _ By dwelling on his fair one’s name ; The mother listens for the sound Of her young warrior’s growing fame. Thy voice can sooth the mourning dame, Of her soul's wedded partner riven, Who cherishes the hallow’d flame, Parted on earth, to meet in heaven !-—~ That voice can quiet passion’s mood ; Can humble merit raise on high ; And from the wise, and from the good, It breathes of immortality ! _ There is a lip, there is an eye, Where most I love to see it shine, To hear it speak, to feel it sigh— My mother, need I say ’tis thine ! THE TEAR. Byron. Wuewn Friendship or Love Our sympathies move ; When truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile With a dimple or smile, - But the test of affection’s a Tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite’s wile, To mask detestation, or fear ; iSS REAUTIES OF THE POETS, Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimm/’d, for a time, with a Tear. Mild Charity’s glow, _ To us mortals below Shews the soul from barbarity clear ; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffus’d in a Tear. The man doom'd to sail With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o’er the wave, Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death, For a fanciful wreath, In glory’s romantic career; But he raises the foe, When in battle laid low, And bathes ev’ry wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson’d spear ; All his toils are repaid, When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chas’d each fast-fleeting year ; Loth to leave thee, I mourn’d, For a ‘last look I turn’d, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour T'o my Mary no more, My Mary, to Love once so dear ; 4 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 189 In the shade of her bow’r, IT remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest May she live ever blest, Her name still my heart must revere : With a sigh I resign What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, Kre from you I depart, This hope to my breast is more near, As ye pass by the tomb | Where my ashes consume, h! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of vanity rear ; No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, All I ask—all I wish—is a Tear. HYMN TO THE NATIVITY. Milton [John Milton, a poet of the first rank, was born of reputable parents, “* in London, December 9, 1608. He received the rudiments of learning from a domestic tutor, was afterwards sent to St. Paul’s school, and thence, in his sixteenth year, to Cambridge. After taking his degree of Master of Arts there, he returned to his fa- ther’s house (who had now retired to Hortonin Buckimghamshire), and passed five years in the study of the best Roman and Grecian authors, and in the composition of some of his finest miscellaneous 190 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. poems, This was the period of bis ‘‘ Allegro” and ‘‘ Penseroso,” his “‘Comus” and ‘ Lycidas.” In 1638 he went to France and Italy, and spent a year and three months abroad. On his return home, he found the nation agitated by civil and religions disputes, which threatened a crisis, His taste and habits being. altogether literary, he fixed himself in the metropolis, and re- ceived pupils. He was soon, however, drawn into controversy, and into public life; and he eventually became Latin secretary to the Council of State. During this period he lost his sight. After the Restoration, in reduced circumstances, and under the discountenance of power, he withdrew into retirement. His pow- erful mind, now centered in itself, and undisturbed by contentions and temporary topics, opened to those great ideas which were con- tinually filling it, and the result was ‘‘ Paradise Lost.” In 1670, followed the * Paradise Regained,” and together with it, his ‘* Sam- son Agonistes.’ He died in November, 1674, at his house in “Bunhill-fields, and was buried in the chancel of St. Giles at Crip- plegate. | INTRODUCTION. Turis is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven’s Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring ; - For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, Sg And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse! shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the infant God ? BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 19] Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun’s team untrod, - Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See, how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet : -O! run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; Have thou the hcnour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel quire, | Frem out his secret altar touch’d with hallow’d fire. THE HYMN. Ir was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child, All meanly wrapp’d in the rude manger lies: Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize : It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She wooes the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. » But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; ates She, crown’d with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, weeds With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 192 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Nor war nor battle’s sound Was heard the world around : The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; The hooked chariot stood Unstain’d with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began : The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kiss’d, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean ; Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixt in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence ; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence ;. But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid diehig go. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his are speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame | The new-enlighten’d world no more should need ; He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axle-tree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 193 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook ; Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise,- As all their souls in blissfu' rapture took ; The air, such pleasure loath to lose With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia’s seat, the aery region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here the last fulfilling : She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefaced night array’d ; The helmed Cherubim, The sworded Seraphim, f Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display d, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes, to heaven’s new-born Heir. Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, i But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, . And the well balanced world on hinges hung ; And cast the dark foundations deep, ‘And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; K 9 194 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the base of heaven’s deep organ blow ; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould ; And hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb’d in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. But wisest Fate says no, This must not yet be so, The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on tke bitter cross Must redeem our loss ; So both himself and us to glorify : Yet first, to those ychain’d in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through tile deep 5, With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds out brake : The aged earth, aghast With terror of that blast, if Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; When, at the world’s last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne BEAUTI25 OF THE PORTS. . 195 And then at last our bliss Full ana perfect is, , But now begins ; for, from this happy day, The old Dragon, under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in “ane deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eved priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o’er, } And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent : With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint : In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter’d god of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven’s queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine ; 196 BEAUTIES OF THE vogrts, The Libye Hammon shrinks his horn: [mourn. In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 'Thammuz And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue : In vain with cymbals’ ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue: The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud.: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud : In vain with timbrel’d anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worship’d ark. He feels from Juda’s land The dreaded infant’s hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in the swaddling bands control the damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtain’d with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the’ infernal jail, Each fetter’d ghost slips to his several grave ; And the yellow-skirted Fayes [maze. Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved But see, the Virgin bless’d Hath laid her babe to rest ; BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 197 Time is, our tedious song should here have ending. Heaven’s youngest teemed star Hath fix’d her polish’d car, "4 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending : And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness’d angels sit in order serviceable. FAREWELL TO THE HARP, ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION. Howitt. ‘Tue harp, whose angel tones beguiled My soul to transport when a child ! The harp, that with unfailing truth, Has been the solace of my youth! And lent its seraph voice to bless Those days of dream, of loneliness ; When in the silence of the wood, When ’neath the mountain’s hermit tree, Or the cragged heath’s wide solitude, That harp was all the world to me! And though my new-born spirit then Strange to the crowded seats of. men, Knew not what forms of heaven’s clear mould Mingling with those impure and cold, There cast on earth’s wide novel seat, Where Paradise and Misery meet, Yet told of bosoms still unknown That throbb’d with feelings like my own, And gave me with preclusive power The dreams of life’s advancing hour ; Ere yet *twas mine in truth to know, The world of bliss—the world of woe— That every gentler heart shall trace, That loves and seeks its kindred race ! The joys, the smiles, the tumult sweet, When souls of love and lightness meet ! 19S REAUTIES OF THE POETS. The pang, the cloud, the dying pain, When they are forced to part again ! Life’s summer glow, its sun gay shining,. When bonds of Faith and Hope are twining ! “The charms of hours, pursued by years Of daily thought, and daily tears ; Watching “or eomet beams that run But once for ever neai the sun, Then gilide into a track of shade, No mortal vision can pervade ; The harp that even now can please When I have felt somewhat of these ! The harp, the dearest joy of mine, I now, perhaps, for aye resign ! My early friend! oh! thou alone Shalt listen to its farewell tone ! Oh! thou canst tell what tremors start— How bounds—how reels—how sinks the heart, When friends long join’d are doom’d to part, Their meeting all unknown. Friends, whose warm passions, thoughts and cares, Were known, and felt, and loved so well They seem’d within our souls to dwell— Our souls the life of theirs ! Then canst thou well my heart explore, As here I hush the long-loved lyre ; As here the songs of youth are o’er And all their light and mirth expire ! We part—or if we cannot bring Ourselves to perfect severing, Yet must the clinging spirit rest, Entomb’d and silent in my breast ! For scenes far different wait me now Than streamy dell or mountain brow— And, oh! I would not carry there The minstrel’s thought—the minstrel’s air ! Friend of my youth! thy voice has heen The balm of many an anguish keen ! And if for once my conscious soul Could all melodious powers controut BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. My lyre’s last notes should flow. In music of past times should steal O’er thy sad heart its woes to heal ! Oh ! could I burst the withering spell That fraught with visions horrible, Has on thy breast a ruin hurl’d, Dread as the death-hour of a world ! Oh! could I wake thee to a morning, Whose beams, all shades of sadness seéening, Would ope thy placid eye to know Peace such as thine a year ago ! The fragile visions of the night Are born in peace and end in light ! Their beauty breaks in brighter day Or morning wafts their woes away ; But oh! these dreams of day impart Such lingering sadness to the heart ! Cast in a moment on the eye, Alas ! they pass not fleetly by ! But dimly drags each faltering day, And still the hateful objects stay ; They will not pass—but on we tread Midst tombs of friends and pleasures dead ! The sun but brightens to make known How desolate our path is grown, Or if night slumber on the air, The ghosts of former times are there ! Yet, in the twilight valley cast *T wixt heaven to come and heaven that’s past, ‘There is a voice so still and low The maniac ear of boisterous woe, Arrests it not,—but there ‘tis known When pain is left and passion gone! *Tis hope—though rather dark despair Than any hope seems dwelling there : *Tis hope disguised, like light that springs, From watchful knowledge of past things ; Proving, from causes, that have been, From pleasures gone, and triumphs seen, That still some happier change shall be, And still our eyes shall gladness see. 199 200 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Oh ! let not then thy tortured sense Gorge in delirium on the past ! Firmly on heaven thy wishes cast, And draw down power and solace thence. Oh! think not that the fire intense Of grief, e’en long on earth ean last ! But whilst thy thoughtful head is laid Upon the bosom of that maid, Who, in Afffiiction’s ordeal flame, Has found Love’s mild celestial glow ! Whilst round thee, thou canst spirits name, Whose worth the ear can never know, Think ! for it cannot be forgot— There was a day thou knew’st them not ! Think ! how life’s blessings sometimes crowd Like angels from a hovering cloud. Teil me—was that within the scope Of the far prescient eye of Hope, To promise in an hour unknown A ray of heaven, like that which shone Full on thy breast with sudden flame When Rufferd’s <‘ Beam of Beauty” came ; No, ’twas the bliss—the fount of bliss,— Tinging all other joys with this, Of hearts that through long years have grown Warm for each other though unknown,— Without a dream yet many a sigh For that which drew in secret nigh, Till in an instant glance, has shone The flash that melts two hearts to one ! To sever when shall cease to be God’s mystic throne—Eternity ! Oh! ’twas an hour of that blest cast Which though ne’er seen till felt—when past For ever stands the radiant pole Of each beloved magnetic soul, And leaves a gem ’twere worth distress Of slow-year'd ages to possess. That hour has left for thee a light That fears no power of storm or night, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 201 Distance may grieve, and years entwine The bond of absence, yet to thine Shall ever turn that light of love On earth, or if in realms above Down shall its gladdening beams be sent, To guide thee by the way it went ! This then shall close my votive stra} in, ““Whate’er has been may be again.” Springs not the lightning from a cloud "Midst weeping showers and murmurs loud ? Comes not the sun’s all-quickening mien *Midst mist and wreaths of darkness seen ? Smiles not the moon’s loved pensive light Upon the very couch of night ? And hast thou seen joy rise from sorrow, And shalt thou doubt the coming morrow ? Now cast a look on Nature’s face ! Tell me in all its: vast expanse Canst thou a tint but beauty trace? A scene where light and rapture dance, A scene where ear, and eye, and glance, Meet life, and melody, and peace ! A feast of millions, from the hand Of Him, whose mercies never cease ! Oh! canst thou think that His command Shall thus the streams of gladness roll O’er all creation’s millions wide, Alike their God and thine, nor guide A rill of comfort to thy soul ? Then fare thee well ! that guide divine Shall lead alike thy steps and mine! And know, that from my conscious heart The treasures past will ne’er depart, In grief or pleasure, pain or prayer, Thy imaged presence will be there, And ‘twill a pensive pleasure be— _My lyre’s last tones were spent for thee. K 2 20% BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. STANZAS. Moore. A BEA of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And the wave,,,while it welcomed the moment of rest, Still heavea, as. remembering ills that were o’er! Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, And the spirit becalm’d but remember’d their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled ! I thought of the days when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh ; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known Was pity for those who were wiser than I! I felt how the pure intellectual fire In luxury loses its heavenly ray ; How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire, The pearl of the soul may be melted away ! And I pray’d of that spirit that lighted the flame, That pleasure no more might its purity dim ; And that sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the gem I had borrowed of him ! The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven Had already the wreath of eternity shown ; As if, passion all chasten’d and error forgiven, My heart had begun to be purely its own! I look’d to the west, and the beautiful sky : Which morning had clouded was clouded no more : ‘Oh, thus,’ I exclaim’d, ‘can a heavenly eye Shed light oa the soul that was darken’d before !’ BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 203 THE MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS. Cowper. [William Cowper was born in 1731, at Great Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire. At the age of ten he was sent to Westminster school. About 1750 he was articled to an attorney in London: and at the age of twenty-one took chambers in the Temple : soon after which, he says, “‘ I was struck with such a dejection of spirits, as none bat they who have felt the same, can have the least con- ception of. Day and night 1 was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and rising up in despair.” This malady, which evidently had its origin in an excéssive sensibility and timidity of disposition, drove him into retirement, where, for a time, he enjoyed the con- soling influences of religion; but relapsed at length into constitu- tional melancholy, from which he was in some measure relieved-at intervals, by literary employments, He died in 1800.] I viry bashful men, who feel the pain -. Of fancied scorn and undeserv’d disdain, And bear the marks upou a blushing face Of needless shame and self-impos’d disgrace. Our sensibilities are so acute, The fear of being silent makes us mute. We sometimes think we could a speech produce Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose ; But being tried, it dies upon the lip, Faint as a chicken’s note that has the pip : Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain’d ; It seems as if we Britons were ordain’d, By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, To fear each other, fearing none beside. The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, Self-searching with an introverted eye, Conceal’d within an unsuspected part, The vainest corner of our own vain heart : For ever aiming at the world’s esteem, Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 204. BEAUTIES OF THE PORTS. in other eyes our talents rarely shown, Become at length so splendid in our own, We dare not risk them in the public view, Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes in the proper place ; But counterfeit is blind, and sculks through fear, Where ’tis a shame to be asham’d to appear ; Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produc’d and nurs’d. The circle form’d, we sit in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial plate ; Yes, ma’am, and no, ma’am, utter’d softly, show Every five minutes how the minutes go ; Each individual suffering a constraint Poetry may, but colours cannot paint, As if in close committee on the sky, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ! And finds a changing clime a happy source Of wise reflection, and well-tim’d discourse. We next enquire, but softly and by stealth, Like conservators of the public health, Of epidemic throats, if such there are, And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and catarrh. That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, Fill’d up at last with interesting news, Who dane’d with whom, and who are like to wed, And who is hang’d, and who is brought to bed : But fear to call a more important cause, As if ’twere treason against English laws. The visit paid, with ecstacy we come, As from a seven years’ transportation home, And there resume an unembarrass’d brow,. Recovering what we lost we know not how, The faculties that seem’d reduc’d to nought, Expression and the privilege of thought. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 205 A COMPARISON. Byron. As rising on its purple wing The insect-queen® of eastern spring, O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower A weary chace and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye : So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; A chace of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betray’d, Woe waits the insect and the maid ; A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play, and man’s caprice : The lovely toy so fiercely sought Hath lost its charm by being caught, For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brush’d its brightest hues away, Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, "Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest ? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find jéy within her broken bower ? No: gayer insects fluttering by, Ne’er droop the wing o’er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister’s shame. ° The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species. ' 206 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. ODE TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. Hogg. Spirit all limitless Where is thy dwelling place ? Spirit of him, whose high name we revere, Come on thy seraph wings, Come from thy wanderings, And smile on thy votaries, who sigh for thee here. Come, oh! thou spark divine! Rise from thy hallow’d shrine ! Here in the windings of Forth, thou wilt see, Hearts true to Nature’s call, Spirits congenial, Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee. Here with rapt heart and tongue, While our fond minds were young, Oft thy bold numbers we pour’d in our mirth, Now in our halls for aye, This shall be holiday, Bard of all nature to honour thy birth. Whether thou tremblest o’er Green grave of Elsinore, Stray’st o’er the hill of Dunsinane to hover, Bosworth, or Shrewsbury, Egypt, or Philippi, _ Come from thy wanderings the universe over. Whether thou journeyest far On by the evening star ; Dream/’st on the shadowy brows of the morn, Or lingering in fairy land, Mid lovely elves to stand, Singing thy carol unearthly and boon ; Here thou art called upon, Come thou to Caledon, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 207 Come to the land of the ardent and free ; The land of the lone recess, Mountain and wilderness, This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee. O never since time had birth, Rose from the pregnant earth, Gems such as late have in Scotia sprung, Gems that in future day, When ages pass away, Like thee shall be honour’d, like thee shall be sung. Then here by the sounding sea, Torrent and greenwood tree, Here to solicit thee, cease shall we never: Yes, thou effulgence bright, Here must thy frame relight, Or vanish from nature, for ever and ever. = ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. Barry Cornwall. O rHov vast ocean! ever-sounding sea! Thou symbol of a drear immensity ! Thon thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurl’d From the black clouds, lies weltcring and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is like a giant’s slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth hath nought of this ; nor chance nor change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-waken air ; But o’er its wastes, the weakly tenants range 208 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. At will, and wound his bosom as they go. Ever. the same it hath no ebb, no flow ; But in their stated round the seasons come And pass like visions to their viewless home, And come again and vanish: the young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming, And Winter always winds his sullen horn, And the wild Autumn with a look forlorn Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken when the Summer flies. Thou only, terrible ocean, hast a power, A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour, When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds, A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind, How guickly dost thou thy great strength unbind, And stretch thine arms, and war at once with Heaven ! ~ Thou trackless and immeasurable main ! On thee no record ever lived again To meet the hand that writ it; line nor lead Hath ever fathom’d thy profoundest deeps, Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps, King of his watery limit, who ’tis said Can move the mighty ocean into storm.— Oh! wonderful thou art, great element : And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, And lovely in repose : thy summer form Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves Make music in earth’s dark and winding caves, I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach— «Eternity, Eternity, and Power.’ td BBRAUTIES OF THE POETS. 209 AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION. Stillingfleet. {The Author of this Epistle was the only son of Edward Stillingfleet, a clergyman in Norfolk, and grandson to the Bishop of Worcester. He was educated at Norwich School, and leaving it in 1720, went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where Dr. Bentley, who had been private tutor to his father, was Master. After taking his bachelor’s degree, he became a candidate for a fellowship; but, through the influence of Dr. Bentley, was rejected. On this disappointment, he left Cambridge, and travelled with Mr. Wyndham, to whom he inscribed this Epistle, and with whom he lived in the most intimate and unreserved friendship. Through the favour of Lord Barring- ton, he was appointed master of the barracks at Kensington, a place which enabled him to pursue his studies, and particularly Natural History, his favourite, with success. He died a bachelor, in the year 1771, upwards of seventy, and was buried in St. James’s church. } | Tue art of converse, how to sooth the soul Of haughty man, his passions to control, His pride at once to humble and to please, And join the dignity of life with ease, Be now my theme. O thou, whom Nature’s hand Fram/’d for this best, this delicate command, And taught, when lisping without reason’s aid, At the same time to speak and to persuade, Wyndham, with diligence awhile attend, Nor scorn the’ instructions of an older friend ; Who when the world’s great commerce shall have join’d The deep reflection, and the strength of mind, To the bright talents of thy youthful state, In turn shall on thy better lessons wait. Whence comes it, that in every art we see Many can rise to a supreme degree ; Yet in this art, for which all seem design’d By nature, scarcely one complete we find ? You'll say, perhaps, we think, we speak, we move, By the strong springs alone of selfish love : 210 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Yet among all the species, is there one, Whom with more caution than ourselves we shun ? What is it fills a puppet-show or court ? Go none but for the profit or the sport ? If so, why comes each soul fatigued away, And curses the dull puppets’ same dull play ; Yet, unconvine’d, is tempted still to go? ‘Tis that we find at home our greatest foe. And reason good why solitude we flee ; Can wants with self-sufficiency agree ? Yet, such our inconsistency of mind, We court society, and hate mankind. With some we quarrel, for they’re too sincere : With others, for they’re close, reserv'd and queer ; This is too learn’d, too prudent, or too wise ; And that we for his ignorance despise : A voice perhaps our ear shall harshly strike, Then strait ev’n wit itself shall raise dislike ; Our eye may by some feature be annoy’d, Behold at once a character destroy’d : One’s so ECousnatur’d, he’s beyond all bearing’, He'll ridicule no friend, though out of hearing : Another warm’d with zeal, offends our eyes, Because he holds the mirror up to vice. No wonder then, since fancies wild as these Can move our spleen, that real faults displease. When Mevius, spite of dullness, will be bright, And teach Argyle? to speak, and Swift to write ; When Flavia entertains us with her dreams, And Macer with his no less airy schemes ; » When peevishness, and jealousy, and pride, And interest, that can brother hearts divide, In their imagin’d forms our eyesight hit, Of an old maid, a poet, peer or cit ; Can then, you'll say, philosophy refrain, And check the torrent of each boiling vein ? Yes; she can still do more ; view passion’s slave With mind serene, indulge him, and yet save. But self-conceit steps in, and with strict eye Scans every man, and every man awry ; P Jobn, Duke of Argyle, who was equally celebrated as a states- man, a warrior, and an orator. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. S11 That reigning passion, which through every stage Of life, still haunts us with unceasing rage. No quality so mean, but what can raise Some drudging driveling candidate for praise ; Ev’n in the wretch, whom wretches can despise, Still self-conceit will find a time to rise. Quintus salutes you with forbidding face, And thinks he carries his excuse in lace : You ask, why Clodius bullies all he can ? Clodius will tell you, he’s a gentleman : Myrtilla struts and shudders half the year, With a round cap, that shews a well-turn’d ear : The lowest jest makes Delia laugh to death ; _ Yet she’s no fool, she has only handsome teeth. Ventoso lolls, and scorns all humankind, From the gilt coach with four lac’d slaves behind : Does all this pomp and state proceed from merit ? Mean thought! he deems it nobler to inherit : While Fopling from some title draws his pride, Meanless or infamous or misapplied ; Freemason, rake or wit, ’tis just the same, The charm is hence, he has gain’d himseif a name. Yet, spite of all the fools that pride has made, "Tis not on man an useless burden laid ; Pride has ennobled some, and some disgrac’d ; It hurts not in itself, but as ’tis plac’d : When right, its view knows none but virtue’s bound ; When wrong, it scarcely looks one inch around. Mark ! with what care the fair one’s critic eye Scans o’er her dress, nor lets a fault slip by ; Each rebel hair must be reduce’d to place With tedious skill, and tortur’d into grace ; Betty must o’er and o’er the pins dispose, Till into modish folds the drapery flows, And the whole frame is fitted to express The charms of decency and nakedness. Why all this art, this labour’d ornament ? To captivate, you'll cry, no doubt, ’tis meant. True, but let’s wait upon this fair machine From the lone closet to the social scene ; There view her loud, affected, scornful, sour, Paining all others and herself still more. 912 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. What means she, at one instant to disgrace The labour of ten hours, her much lov’d face ? Why, ’tis the selfsame passion gratified ; The work is ruin’d, that was rais’d by pride. Yet of all tempers, it requires least pain, Could we but. rule ourselves, to rule the vain. The prudent is by reason only sway’d, With him each sentence and each word is weigh’d ; The gay and giddy can alone be caught By the quick lustre of a happy thought ; The miser hates, unless he steals your pelf; The prodigal, unless you rob yourself ; The lewd will shun you, if your wife prove chaste ; The jealous, if a smile on his be cast ; The steady or the whimsical will blame, Hither, because you’re not, or are the same ; The peevish, sullen, shrewd, luxurious, rash, Wiil with your virtue, peace, or interest clash ; But mark the proud man’s price, how very low ! "Tis but a civil speech, a smile or bow. Ve Who, vush’d on by nobler ardour, aim, In social life to gain immortal fame, Observe the various passions of mankind, General, peculiar, single, or combined : How youth from manhood differs in its views, And how old age still other paths pursues ; How zeal in Priscus nothing more than heats, In Codex burns, and ruins all it meets ; How freedom now a lovely face shall wear, Now shock us in the likeness of a bear ; How jealousy in some resembles hate, In others, seems but love grown delicate ; How modesty is often pride refin’d, And virtue but the canker of the mind : How love of riches, grandeur, life and fame, Wear different shapes, and yet are still the same. But not our passions only disagree, In taste is found as great variety ; Sylvius is ravish’d when he hears a hound, His lady hates to death the odious sound : Yet both love music, though in different ways ; He in a kennel, she at operas. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 213 A florist shall, perhaps, not grudge some hours, To view the colours in a bed of flowers ; Yet, shew him Titian’s workmanship divine, He passes on, and only cries, ’tis fine. A rusty coin, an old worm-eaten post, The mouldy fragment of an author lost, A butterfly, an equipage, a star, A globe, a fine lac’d hat, a china Jar, A mistress, or a fashion that is new, Have each their charms, though felt but by a few. Then study each man’s passion and his taste, The first to soften, and indulge the last : Not like the wretch, who beats down virtue’s fence, And deviates from the paths of common sense ; Who daubs with fulsome flattery, blind and bold, The very weakness we with grief behold. Passions are common to the fool and wise, And all would hide them under art’s disguise ; For so avow’d, in others, is their shame, None hates them more than he who has the same. But taste seems more peculiarly our own, And every man is fond to make his known ; Proud of a mark he fancies is design’d By Nature to advance him o’er his kind ; And where he sees that character impress’d, With joy he hugs the favourite to his breast. But the main stress of all our cares must lie, To watch ourselves with strict and constant eye : To mark the working mind, when passion’s course Begins to swell, and reason still has force ; Or, if she’s conquer’d by the stronger tide, Observe the moments when they first subside ; For he who hopes a victory to win O’er other men, must with himself begin ; Else like a town by mutiny oppress’d, He’s ruin’d by the foe within his breast ; And they alone, who in themselves oft view Man’s image, know what method to pursue. All other creatures keep in beaten ways, Man only moves in an eternal maze : He lives and dies not tam’d by cultivation, The wretch of reason, and the dupe of passion ; 214 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Curious of knowing, yet too proud to learn ; More prone to doubt, than anxious to discern : Tir’d with old doctrines, prejudic’d at new ; Mistaking still the pleasing for the true ; Foe to restraints approv’d by gen’ral voice, Yet to euch fool-born mode a slave by choice : Of rest impatient, yet in love with ease ; When most good-natur'd, aiming how to teaze : Disdaining by the vulgar to be aw’d, Yet never pleas’d but when the fools applaud, By turns severe, indulgent, humble, vain ; A trifle serves to lose them or to gain. Then grant this trifle, yet his vices shun, Not like to Cato or to Clinias’ son4: This for each humour every shape could take, Ev’n virtue’s own, though not for virtue’s sake ; At Athens rakish, thoughtless, full of fire, Severe at Sparta, as a Chartreux friar ; In Thrace a bully, drunken, rash and rude ; In Asia gay, effeminate and lewd ; While the rough Roman, virtue’s rigid friend, Could not, to save the cause he died for, bend : In him ’twas scarce an honour to be good, He more indulg’d a passion than subdued. See how the skilful lover spreads his toils, When eager in pursuit of beauty’s spoils ! Behold him bending at his idol’s feet ; Humble, not mean ; disputing, and yet sweet ; In rivalship not fierce, nor yet unmov’d ; Without a rival studious to be lov’d ; For ever cheerful, though not always witty, And never giving cause for hate or pity : These are his arts, such arts as must prevail, When riches, birth, and beauty’s self will fail : And what he does to gain a vulgar end, Shall we neglect, to make mankind our friend ? Good sense and learning may esteem obtain ; ‘Humour and wit a laugh, if rightly ta’en : Fair virtue admiration may impart ; But ’tis good nature only wins the heart : 4 Alcibiades, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 215 It moulds the body to an easy grace, And brightens every feature of the face : It smooths the’ unpolish’d tongue with eloquence, And adds persuasion to the finest sense. Yet this, like every disposition, has Fix’d bounds, o’er which it never ought to pass ; When stretch’d too far, its honour dies away, Its merit sinks, and all its charms decay ; Among the good it meets with no applause, And to its ruin the malicious draws : A slave to all, who force it, or entice, It falls by chance in virtue or in vice. "Tis true, in pity for the poor it bleeds, It cloaths the naked, and the hungry feeds ; It cheers the stranger, nay its foes defends, But then as oft it injures its best friends. Study with care Politeness, that must teach The modish forms of gesture and of speech : In vain Formality, with matron mien, And Pertness apes her with familiar grin : They against nature for applauses strain, Distort themselves, and give all others pain : She moves with easy, though with measur'd pace, And shews no part of study, but the grace. Yet ev’n by this, man is but half refin’d, Unless philosophy subdues the mind : Tis but a varnish that is quickly lost, Whene’er the soul in passion’s sea is tost. Would you both please and be instructed too, Watch well the rage of shining to subdue ; Hear every nian upon his fav’rite theme, And ever be more knowing than you seem. The lowest genius will afford some light, Or give a hint that had escap‘d your sight. Doubt, till he thinks you on conviction yield, And with fit questions let each pause be fill’d: And the most knowing will with pleasure grant, You're rather much reserv’d, than ignorant. The rays of wit gild wheresoe’er they strike, But are not therefore fit for all alike ; They charm the lively, but the grave offend, And raise a foe as often as a friend ; Q16 - BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Like the resistless beams of blazing light, That cheer the strong, and pain the weakly sight. If a bright fancy therefore be your share, Let judgment watch it with a guardian’s care ; Tis like a torrent apt to overflow, Unless by constant government kept low ; And ne’er inefficacious passes by, But overturns or gladdens all that’s nigh. Or else, like trees, when suffer’d wild to shoot, That put forth much, but all unripen’d fruit ; It turns to affectation and grimace, As like to wit as dullness is to grace. How hard soe’er it be to bridle wit, Yet mem’ry oft no less requires the bit: How many, hurried by its force away, For ever in the land of gossips stray ! Usurp the province of the nurse to lull, Without her privilege for being dull ! Tales upon tales they raise ten stories high, Without regard to use or symmetry : So Ripley’, till his destin’d space is fill’d, Heaps bricks on bricks, and fancies ’tis to build. A story should, to please, at least seem true, Be apropos, well told, concise, and new ; And whensoe’er it deviates from these rules, The wise will sleep, and leave applause to fools. But others, more intolerable yet, The waggeries, that they’ve said, or heard, repeat ; Heavy by mem’ry made, and what’s the worst, At second-hand, as often as at first. And can even patience hear without disdain, The maiming register of sense once slain ? While the dull features, big with archness, strive In vain, the.fore’d half-smile to keep alive. Some know no joy like what a word can raise, Haul'd through a language’s perplexing maze ; * “Ripley,” says Pope, “ was a carpenter, employed by a first minister, who raised him to an architect, without any genius in the art; and after some wretched proofs of his insufficiency in public buildings, made him Comptroller to the Board of Works.” Note to Moral Essays, Ep. iv. l. 18. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, Q17 "Till on a mate, that seems to’ agree, they light, Like man and wife, that still are opposite ; Not lawyers at the bar play more with sense, When brought to the last trope of eloquence, Than they on every subject, great or small, At clubs, or councils, at a church or ball, Then cry we rob them of their tributes due : Alas ! how can we laugh and pity too? While others to extremes as wild will run, And with sour face anatomize a pun : When the brisk glass to freedom does entice, And rigid wisdom is a kind of vice. But let not such grave fops your laughter spoil ; Ne’er frown where sense may innocently smile. Cramp not your language into logic rules, To rostrums leave the’pedantry of schools ; Nor let your learning always be discern’d, But choose to seem judicious more than learn’d. Quote seldom, and then let it be, at least, Some fact that’s prov d, or thought that’s weil express’d. But lest, disguis’d, your eye it should escape, Know, pedantry can put on every shape: For when we deviate into terms of art, Unless constrain’d, we act the pedant’s part, Or if we’re ever in the self-same key, No matter of what kind the subject be, From laws of nations down to laws of dress, For statesmen have their cant, and belles no less, As xood hear Bentley dictate on epistles, Qr Burman* comment on the Grecian whistles ; As old Obesus preach upon his belly, Or Phileunucha rant on Farinelli ; Flirtilla read a lecture on a fan, Or W—d set forth the praise of Kouli-Kan. But above all things raillery decline, Nature but few does for that task design : Tis in the ablest hand a dang’rous tool, But never fails to wound the meddling fool ; For all must grant, it needs no common art To keep men patient, when we make them smart. * Peter Burman, a celebrated Dutch Commentator. L 10 218 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Not wit alone, nor humour’s self, will do, Without good-nature, and much prudence too, To judge aright of persons, place, and time; — For taste decrees what’s low, and what’s sublime : And what might charm to-day, or o’er a glass, Perhaps at court, or next day, would not pass. Then leave to low buffoons, by custom bred, And form’d by nature to be kick’d and fed, The vulgar and unenvied task, to hit All persons right or wrong with random wit. Our wise forefathers, born in sober days, Resign’d to fools the tart and witty phrase ; The motley coat gave warning for the jest, Excus’d the wound, and sanctified the pest : But we from high to low all strive to sneer, Willall be wits, and not the livery wear. Of all the qualities that help to raise In men the universal voice of praise, Whether in pleasure or in use they end, There’s none that can with modesty contend. ‘Tis a transparent veil that helps the sight, And lets us look on merit with delight : In others, ’tis a kindly light, that seems To gild the worst defects with borrow’d beams. Yet, ’tis but little that its form be caught, Unless its origin be first in thought : Else rebel nature will reveal the cheat, And the whole work of art at once defeat. Hold forth upon yourself on no pretence, Unless. invited, or in self-defence ; The praise you take, although it be your due, Will be suspected, if it come from you : For each man, by experience taught, can tell How strong a flatterer does within him dwell : And if to-self-condemning you incline, — In sober sadness, and without design (For some will slily arrogate a vice, That from excess of virtue takes its rise), The world cries out, why does he hither come ? Let him do penance for his sins at home. No part of conduct asks for skill more nice, Though none more common, than to give advice ; ° BEAUTIES: OF THE POETS. Z19 Misers themselves in this will not be saving, Unless their knowledge makes it worth the having. And where’s the wonder, when we will obtrude An useless gift, it meets ingratitude ? Shun then, unask’d, this arduous task to try ; But if consulted, use sincerity ; Too sacred is the welfare of a friend, To give it up for any selfish end. But use one caution, sift him o’er and o’er, To find if all be not resolved before. If such the case, in spite of all his art, Some word will give the soundings of his heart ; And why should you a bootless freedom use, That serves him not, and may his friendship lose ? Yet still on truth. bestow this mark of love, Ne’er to commend the thing you can’t approve. Sincerity has such resistless charms, She oft the fiercest of our foes disarms ; No art she knows, in native whiteness dress'd, Her thoughts all pure, and therefore all express'd : She takes from error its deformity ; And without her, all other virtues die. Bright source ef goodness! to my aid descend, Watch o’er my heart, and all my words attend : If still thou deign to set thy foot below, Among a race quite polish’ d into show, Oh! save me from the jilt’s dissembling part, Who grants to all all favours but her heart ; Perverts the end of charming, for the fame ; To fawn, her business; to deceive, her aim ; She smiles on this man, tips the wink to that, Gives one a squeeze, another a kind pat ; Now jogs a foot, now whispers in an ear ; Here slips a letter, and there casts a leer ; °Till the kind thing, the company throughout, Distributes all its pretty self about ; While all are pleas’d, and wretched soon or late, All but thewise, who see and shun the bait. --Yet if, as complaisance requires to do, And rigid virtue sometimes will allow, You stretch the truth in favour of a friend, Be sure it ever aim at some good end ; 920 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. To cherish growing virtue, vice to shame, And turn to noble views the love of fame : And not, like fawning parasites, unaw’d By sense or truth, be every passion’s bawd. Be rarely warm in censure, or in praise ; Few men deserve our passion either ways ; For half the world but floats ’twixt good and ill, As chance disposes objects, these the will : ‘Tis but a see-saw game, where virtue now Mounts above vice, and then sinks down as low. Beside the wise still hold it forarule, To trust that judgment most, that seems most cool : For all that rises to hyperbole, Proves that we err, at least in the degree. But if your temper to extremes should lead, Always upon the’ indulging side exceed ; For though to blame most lend a willing ear, Yet hatred ever will attend on fear : And when a neighbour's dwelling blazes out, The world will think ’tis time to look about. Let not the curious from your bosom steal Secrets, where Prudence ought to set her seal ; Yet be so frank and plain, that at one view, In other things, each man may see you through : For if the mask of policy you wear, The honest hate you, and the cunning fear. Would you be well receiv’d where’er you go, Remember each man vanquish’d is a foe, Resist not, therefore, with your utmost might, But let the weakest think he’s sometimes right ; He, for each triumph you shall thus decline, Shall give ten opportunities to shine : He sees, since once you own’d him to excel, That ’tis his interest you should reason well : And though when roughly us’d, he’s full of choler, As blust’ring Bentley to a brother scholar, Yet by degrees inure him to submit, He’s tame, and in his mouth receives the bit. But chiefly against trifling contests guard, "Tis here submission seems to man most hard ; Nor imitate that resolute old fool t, Who undertook to kick against his mule. * Ctesipho, BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 221 But those who will not by instruction learn, How fatal trifles prove, let stery warn. Panthus and Euclio, link’d by friendship’s tie, Liv’d each for each, as each for each would die ; Like objects pleas’d them, and like objects pain’d ; "Twas but one soul that in two bodies reign’d. One night, as usual ’twas their nights to pass, They ply’d the cheerful, but still temp’rate glass, When lo! adoubt is rais’d about a word : A doubt that must be ended by the sword: One falls a victim, mark, O man, thy shame, Because their glossaries were not the same. Could Bailey’s self more tenderness have shown For his two tomes of words, though half his own? For what remains of failings without end, Morals must some, and some the laws must mend. While others in such monstrous forms appear, As tongue-tied sourness, sly suspicion’s leer, Free-fisted rudeness, dropsical pretence, Proteus’ caprice, and elbowing insolence ; No caution to avoid them they demand, Like wretches branded by the hangman’s hand. If faith to some philosophers be given, Man, that great lord of earth, that heir of heav’n, Savage at first, inhabited the wood, And scrambled with his fellow-brutes for food ; No social home he knew, no friendship’s tie, Selfish in good, in ill without ally ; Till some in length of time, of stronger nerve, And greater cunning, fore’d the rest to serve One common purpose, and, in nature’s spite, Brought the whole jarring species to unite. But might we not with equal reason say, That every single particle of clay, Which forms our body was at first design’d To lie for ever from the rest disjoin’d ? Can this be said, and can it be allow’d "Twas with its powers for no one end endow’d ? If so; we own that man, at first, by art Was sooth’d to act in social life a part. *Tis true, in some the seeds of discord seem To contradict this all-uniting scheme : 299 . BEAUTIES OF THE FOETS.- But that no more hurts nature’s general course, Than matter found with a repelling force. Turn we awhile on lonely man our eyes, Aad see what frantic scenes of folly rise: In some dark monastery’s gloomy cells, Where formal self-presuming Virtue dwells, Bedoz’d with dreams of grace-distilling caves, Of holy puddles, uneonsuming graves, Of animated plaister, wood, and stone, And mighty cures by sainted sinners done. Permit me, Muse, still farther to explore, And turn the leaves of superstition o’er ; Where wonders upon wonders ever grow, Chaos of zeal and blindness, mirth and woe ; Visions of devils into monkeys turn’d, That hot from hell roar at a finger burn’d : Bottles of precious tears that saints have wept, And breath a thousand years in phials kept ; Sun-beams sent down to prop one friar’s staff, And hell broke loose to make another laugh : Obedient fleas, and superstitious mice ; Confessing wolves, and sanctifying lice ; Letters and houses by an angel carried ; And, wondrous ! virgin nuns to Jesus married. One monk, not knowing how to spend his time, Sits down to find out some unheard-of crime ; Increases the large catalogue of sins, And where the sober finish, there begins. Of death eternal his decree is past, For the first erime as fix’d as for the last. While that, as idle, and as pious too, Compounds with false religion for the true ; He, courtly usher to the blest abodes, Weighs all the niceties of forms and modes ; And makes the rugged paths so smooth and even, None but an ill-bred man can miss of heav’n. One heav’n-inspir’d mvents a froek, or hood : The taylor now cuts out, and men grow good. Another quits his stockings, breeches, shirt, Because he fancies virtue dwells with dirt : While all concur to take away the stress From weightier points, and lay it on the less. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. Se) iO ioe) Anxious each paltry relic to preserve - Of him, whose hungry friends they leave to starve, Harass’d by watching, abstinence and chains ; Strangers to joy, familiar grown with pains ; To all the means of virtue they attend With strictest care, and only miss the end. Can Scripture teach us, or can Sense persuade, That man for such employments e’er was made ? Far be that thought! But let us now relate A character as opposite, as great", In him, who living gave to Athens fame, And, by his death, immortaliz’d her shame. (down, Great scourge of sophists! he from heaven brought And plac’d true wisdom on the’ usurper’s throne : Philosopher in all things, but pretence ; He taught what they neglected, common sense. They o’er the stiff Lyceum form’d to rule ; He, o’er mankind ; all Athens was his school. The sober tradesman, and smart petit-maitre, Great lords, and wits, in their own eyes still greater, With him grew wise; unknowing they were taught ; He spoke like them, though not like them he thought : Nor wept, nor laugh’d, at man’s perverted state ; But left to women this, to idiots that. View him with sophists fam’d for fierce contest, Or crown’d with roses at the jovial feast ; Insulted by a peevish, noisy wife, Or at the bar foredoom’d to lose his life ; What moving words flow from his artless tongue, Sublime with ease, with condescension strong ! Yet scorn’d to flatter vice, or virtue blame ; Nor chang’d to please, but pleas’d because the same ; The same by friends caress’d, by foes withstood, Still unaffected, cheerful, mild and good. Behold one pagan, drawn in colours faint, Outshine ten thousand monks, though each a saint ! Here let us fix our foot, hence take our view, And learn to try false merit by the true. We see, when reason stagnates in the brain, The dregs of fancy cloud its purest vein ; u Socrates. 294 ’ BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, But circulation betwixt mind and mind Extends its course, and renders it refin’d. When warm with youth we tread the flow ry way, All nature charms, and every scene looks gay ; Each object gratifies each sense in turn, Whilst now for rattles, now for nymphs we burn ; Enslav’d by friendship’s or by love’s soft smile, We ne'er suspect, because we mean no guile ; Till, flush’d with hope from views of past success, We lay on some main trifle all our stress ; When lo! the mistress or the friend betrays, And the whole fancied cheat of life displays : Stunn’d with an ill that from ourselves arose ; For instinct rul’d, when reason should have chose: We fly for comfort to some lonely scene, Victims henceforth of dirt, and drink, and spleen. But let no obstacles that cross our views, Pervert our talents from their destin’d use ; For, as upon life’s hill we upwards press, Our views will be obstructed less and less. Be all false delicacy far away, Lest it from nature lead us quite astray ; And for the’ imagined vice of human race, Destroy our virtue, or our parts debase ; Since God with reason joins to make us own, That *tis not good for man to be alone. TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,: WHO, WHEN HENRY REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, ‘‘ 1F HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM?” Henry Kirke White. ‘* Do I not feel?” The doubt is keen as steel. Yea, I do feel—most exquisitely feel ; My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh : BEAUTIES OF THE POETS, 225 Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. On this I act—whatever pangs surround, "Tis magnanimity to hide the wound ! When all was new, and life was in its spring’, I lived an unloved solitary thing ; Even then [ learn’d to bury deep from day, The piercing cares that wore my youth away : Even then I learn’d for others’ cares to feel ; Even then I wept I had not power to heal: Even then, deep sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched’s groan, and mourn’d the wretched’s doom. Who were my friends in youth ?—The midnight fire— The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir ; To these I ’plained, or turn’d from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper’s friendly light ; I never yet could ask, howe’er forlorn, For vulgar pity mix’d with vulgar scorn ; The sacred source of woe I never ope, My breast’s my eoffer, and my God’s my hope. But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, Though the cold crowd the secret never know ; With them I laugh—yet, when no eye can see, 1 weep for nature, and I weep for thee. Yes, thou didst wrong me, ——; I fondly thought In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought ! I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, And read the truth that in my bosom lies ; I fendly thought ere Time’s last days were gone, Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! Yes—and they yet will mingle. Days and years Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : _ We then shall feel that friendship has a power To soothe affliction in her darkest hour ; Time’s trial o’er, shall clasp each other’s hand, And wait the passport to a better land. Lie 296 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS: ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM. Wolcot. Briaut stranger, welcome to my field, Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield : To me, O nightly be thy splendour given : Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command, How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand, With every sweetest dew of heaven ! Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train, Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain, Hanging thy lamp upon the moistened blade # What lamp so fit, so pure as thine, Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine, And chase the horrors of the midnight shade ? Oh! may no feather’d foe disturb thy bower, And with barbarian beak thy life devour : Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky, O’erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat ; Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat, And bid thee ‘midst the humming myriads die ! Queen of the insect-world, what leaves delight ? Of such these willing hands a bower shall form, To guard thee from the rushing rains of night, And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm. Sweet child of stillness, ’midst the awful calm Of pausing Nature, thou art pleased to dwell ; In happy silence to enjoy thy balm, And shed, through life, a lustre round thy cell. How different man, the imp of noise and strife, Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life ; Bless’d when the passions wild his soul invade! How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease ; To taste like thee, the luxury of peace, And, silent, shine in solitude and shade ! eS rae) ~~ SEAUTIES OF THE POETS. OF LOVE. Waller. i‘‘ The general character of Waller’s poetry is elegance and gaiety. He is never pathetic, and very rarely sublime. He seems neither to have had a mind much elevated by nature, nor amplified by learning. His thoughts are such asa liberal conversation and large acquaintance with life would easily supply. They had however then, perhaps, that grace of novelty, which they are now often supposed to want by those who, having already found them in later books, do not know or inquire who produced them first. This treatment is unjust. Let not the original author lose by his imitators. “* Among Waller’s little poems are some, which their excellency ought to secure from oblivion; as, ‘To Amoret,’ comparing the different modes of regard with which he looks on her and Sacha- rissa ; and the verses ‘On Love,’ that begin, ‘Anger in hasty words or blows.’ ”—Johnson, ] , ANGER, in hasty words, or blows, Itself discharges on our foes : And sorrow too finds some relief In tears, which wait upon our grief: So, ev'ry passion, but fond love, Unto its own redress does move : But that alone the wretch inclines To what prevents his own designs ; Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep, Disorder’d, tremble, fawn and creep : Postures which render him despis’d, Where he endeavours to be priz’d. For women, (born to be controul’d,) Stoop to the forward, and the bold: Affect the haughty, and the proud, The gay, the frolic, and the loud. Who first the gen’rous steed opprest, Not kneeling did salute the beast ; 228 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. But with high courage, life and force, Approaching, tam’d the’ unruly horse. Unwisely we the wiser East Pity, supposing them oppress’d With tyrant’s force, whose law is will, By which they govern, spoil and kill : Each nymph, but moderately fair, Commands with no less rigour here. Should some brave Turk, that walks among His twenty lasses bright and young ; Arid beckons to the willing dame, Preferr’d to quench his present flame ? Behold as many gallants here, With modest guise, and silent fear, All to one female idol bend : While her high pride does scarce descend To mark their follies ; he would swear That these her guard of eunuchs were : And that a more majestic Queen, Or humbler slaves, he had not seen. All this with indignation spoke, In vain I struggled with the yoke Of mighty Love: that conqu’ring look, When next beheld, like lightning strook My blasted soul, and made me bow, Lower than those I pitied now. So the tall stag, upon the brink Of some smooth stream about to drink, Surveying there his armed head, With shame remembers that he fled The scorned dog's ; resolves to try The combat next : but if their cry Invades again his trembling ear, He strait resumes his wonted care ; Leaves the untasted spring behind, And, wing’d with fear, outflies the wind. BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. 69 rhe) ie) HUMAN LIFE. Rogers. Tue lark has sung his carol in the sky ; The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby. Still in the vale the village bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound. For now the caudle-cup is circling there, Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years—and then these sotinds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Kager to run the race his fathers ran. : Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; The ale, now brew’d, in floods of amber shine: And, basking in the chimney’s ample blaze, Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguil’d, *« *Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smil’d.” - And goon again shall music swell the breeze ; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round ; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene ; While, ber dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. And once, alas! nor ih a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping’s heard where only.joy has been ; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more, He rests in holy earth with them that went before. 230 BEAUTIES OF THE POETS; And such is Human Life ; so gliding on, It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, As full methinks of wild and wondrous change, As any that the wandering tribes require, Stretched in the desert round their evening fire ; As any sung of old in hall or bower To minstrel-harps at midnight’s witching hour ! TWILIGHT. Byron. Ir is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale’s high note is heard ; It is the hour when lover’s vows Seem sweet in every whispered word ; And gentle winds and waters-near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day As twilight melts beneath the moon away. THE EXILE OF ERIN. Campbell. ‘THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin ; The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing, To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. ® BEAUTIES OF THE POETS. =). BA But the day-star attracted his eyes’ sad devotion ; For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. ‘« Sad is my fate !” said the heart-broken stranger, «