Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Genius
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GENIUS.
Now evening steals upon the glowing scene,
Her colours tremble on the wave serene;
The dews of balm on languid flowers descend,
The mellow tinges of the landscape blend;
Hail! placid eve, thy lingering smiles diffuse
A pensive pleasure to the lonely muse.
I love to wander by the ocean side,
And hear the soothing murmurs of the tide;
To muse upon the poet's fairy-tale,
In fancy wafted to the moonlight vale:
Sometimes I think that Ariel's playful bands
Are lightly hovering o'er "these yellow sands."
’Tis thus that Shakspeare with inspiring song,
Can lead the visionary train along;
Then by his magic spell the scene around,
The "yellow sands" become enchanted ground.
But when the lingering smile of even dies,
And when the mild and silvery moonbeams rise,
Then sweeter is the favourite rustic seat,
Where pensile ash trees form the green retreat,
And mingle with the richer foliage round,
To cast a trembling shadow on the ground;
'Tis there retir'd I pour the artless rhyme,
And court the muses at this tranquil time.
Oh! Genius, lead me to Piërian bowers,
And let me cull a few neglected flowers:
By all the poets, fanciful and wild,
Whose tales my hours of infancy beguil'd,
Oh! let thy spirit animate my lyre,
And all the numbers of my youth inspire.
Perhaps, where now I pour the simple lays,
Thy bards have wak'd the song of other days;
Some Cambrian Ossian may have wander'd near,
While airy music murmur'd in his ear:
Perhaps, even here, beneath the moonlight beam,
He lov'd to ponder some entrancing theme;
And here, while heavenly visions fill'd his eye,
He rais'd the strain of plaintive melody;
This fond idea consecrates the hour,
And more endears the calm secluded bower.
Sweet was the Cambrian harp in ancient time,
When tuneful bards awak'd the song sublime;
And minstrels caroll'd in the banner'd hall,
Where warlike trophies grac'd the lofty wall;
They sang the legends and traditions old,
The deeds of chivalry, and heroes bold.
Oh! Cambria, tho' thy sweetest bards are dead,
And fairies from thy lovely vales are fled;
Still in thy sons the musing mind may trace
The vestige of thy former simple race:
Some pious customs yet preserv'd with care,
Their humble village piety declare;
Ah! still they strew the fairest flowers and weep,
Where buried friends of sacred memory sleep.
The wandering harper, too, in plaintive lays,
Declares the glory of departed days;
And, Cambria, still upon thy fertile plains,
The power of hospitality remains.
Yet shall my muse the pleasing task resign,
Till riper judgement all her songs refine;
But let my sportive lyre resume again
The purpos'd theme, to hail another's strain.
Yes, heavenly Genius, I have heard thee raise
The note of truth, of gratitude, and praise.
'Twas thine with modest indigence to dwell,
And warble sweetly in the lowly cell;
To rove with Bloomfield thro' the woodland shade,
And hail the calm seclusion of the glade:
Beneath the greenwood canopy reclin'd,
'Twas thine to elevate his artless mind.
While in the lovely scene "to him so dear,"
He trac'd the varied beauties of the year;
And fondly loiter'd in the summer bower,
To hail the incense of the morning hour;
Or thro' the rich autumnal landscape rov'd,
And rais'd a grateful hymn for all he lov'd.
Oh! Genius, ever with thy favour'd band
May Piety be seen with aspect bland;
And conscious Honour with an eye serene,
And Independence with exalted mein.
Ah! may'st thou never to Ambition bend,
Nor at the shrine of Luxury attend;
But rather consecrate some tranquil home,
And in the vale of peace and pleasure bloom.
There may'st thou wander from the world retir’d,
And court the dreams by poesy inspir'd;
And sometimes all thy pleasing spells employ,
To bid affliction own a transient joy:
For oft 'tis thine to chase the tear away
With soothing harp and melancholy lay;
And sorrow feels the magic for a while,
And then, with sad expression, learns to smile.
Oh! teach me all the soft bewitching art,
The music that may cheer a wounded heart:
For I would love to bid emotion cease,
With sweetest melodies that whisper peace;
And all the visions of delight restore,
The soften'd memory of hours no more.
Ah! Genius, when thy dulcet measures flow,
Then pleasure animates the cheek of woe;
And sheds a sad and transitory grace,
O'er the pale beauty of the languid face.
But when 'tis thine to feel the pang of grief,
Without one melting friend to bring relief;
Then, who thy pain shall soften and beguile,
What gentle spirit cheer thee with a smile;
And bid thy last departing hopes revive,
And all thy flattering dreams of rapture live?
Oh! turn to Him thy supplicating eye,
The God of peace and tenderest charity;
And He will bless thee with consoling power,
And elevate thy soul in sorrow's hour.
Ah! then a pensive beam of joy shall play,
To cheer thee, weeping Genius, on thy way:
A lovely rainbow then for thee shall rise,
And shed a lustre o'er the cloudy skies.
Tho' all thy fairy prospects are no more,
And tho' the visions of thy youth are o'er;
Yet Sorrow shall assume a softer mein,
Like Melancholy, mournful yet serene:
The placid Muse to thee her flowers shall bring,
And Hope shall "wave her golden hair," and sing;
With magic power dispel the clouds on high,
And raise the veil of bright eternity.