The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell/Epistle
"Come, with that pensive brow, that forehead fair,
And that rich length of dark redundant hair;
Come, with those winning graces that enthrall'd,
And held my poor heart captive:"———so he call'd
To her who could not hear; yet not the less,
In dream and nightly vision he would press
Her matron lip of love, and he would strain
Her faithful bosom to his breast again,
Till Hope itself was fled, and, day by day,
The soft illusion melted all away.
Friend of my heart! to you I pour the strain
That wakes the Poet's widow'd griefs again;
Here in this breast his mirror'd sorrows see,
Each fond complaint again revives in me.
My heart reflects the melancholy line,
And more than half of Parnell's grief is mine.
With twinkling light behold, at midnight hour
The lamp is burning in the Poet's tower;
Pale o'er the page his studious brow is bent,
His eye still scans the sage's dark intent,
Dreaming with [[author:Plato|]],———was it but a dream?
Or him who, wandering by Cephisus' stream,
Gave to the listening vales the deep Socratic theme.
Say what sweet voice the wearied heart shall cheer,
Win the glad smile, or wake affection's tear;
What form shall glide within the half-clos'd door,
What small light footstep press the silent floor:
What ivory arm around his neck shall twine,
And say, or seem to say,———this hour is mine!
What voice shall cry,———away, my love, away!
The nightingale is now on every spray,
Come, hear the enchanter's song, and welcome in the May!
Ah! say why here do art and nature pour
Their charms conjoin'd in many a varied store;
Why bloom, by Flora's hand adorn'd, my bowers,
Why dance my fountains,and why laugh my flowers?
Along each velvet lawn and opening glade
Why spreads the cedar his immortal shade?
The brooks that warble, and the hills that shine,
Charm every heart, and please each eye but mine.
Though gleams the page by jealous time unroll'd,
Where the long shelves expand their rows of gold,
Tho' their rich leaves the pictur'd missals spread
With knightly tale, and gothic legend fed;
Woe to the wight who once those witching tales has read!
Tho' round each latticed bower and shaded room,
Soft airs waft fragrant with the citron bloom.
Their bright festoons the flowery woodbines braid,
Wed tree to tree, and join the distant shade.
While from each sculptur'd urn, in beauteous row,
The rich geranium spreads its scarlet glow:
Beneath the southern sash the myrtle bears
Our ruder winters and inclement airs.
Though round the walls the pictur'd tablets shine,
And all the wealth of Titian's art is mine;
Yet no sweet voice its silver music wakes,
O'er my fond eye no form of beauty breaks,
No gentle hand my morning meal prepares,
My studious noon, my evening saunter shares;
No steps of gladness wander through the grove,
No lute is sounding from the soft alcove,
And when the summer sun sinks down to rest,
This cheek lies piilow'd on no loved one's breast.
Poet and friend! from every haunted grove,
Where, wild of wing, young fancy loves to rove;
Where'er thy devious footsteps wont to stray,
Each muse, each grace, companions of thy way,
Pause o'er the page which friendship gives to fame,
And mark the verse inscribed with Parnell's name.
See the poor minstrel leave his silent towers,
His moss-grown gardens, and neglected bowers.
Pleas'd for awhile with pilgrim-steps to roam,
He found in Twickenham's groves a dearer home,
And sooth'd alike by friendship and the muse,
For one brief moment would his sorrows lose:
With St. John's converse the slow hours beguile,
And win with song approving Harley's smile.
Yet duly, where the evening willows wave,
Seek the lone grot, and weep o'er Anna's grave.
"Where dost thou flow (methinks his voice I hear),
Thou nameless brook, whose warbles soothe my ear;
Where spread, thou soft and visionary scene,
Thy gentle lawns and sunny slopes of green.
How wild the music steals from yonder vale!
What sweets are breathing in that western gale!
Why gleams thy spire, sweet hamlet yet unknown;
Ah! might I call thy pastoral charms my own!
Find in thy shades the long forsaken lyre,
And wake to nobler flights the sleeping wing of
fire."
So duly as the vernal blossoms smile,
And win to gladness our reluctant isle,
When Venus wakes her loveliest smiles again,
Mounts her bright car, and calls her roseate train;
Charm'd by thy voice, I leave my books and bowers,
Well pleas'd with thee to share the social hours,
Secure to find (so close our fates agree),
The friend, and such as Parnell found, in thee.
Say (for thou know'st), how glides the various day,
How time, with thee conversing, steals away.
And oh! recall (too swift our pleasures fly,)
Those kindlier seasons and that softer sky.
Through the long morn, from art to art we roam,
(For genius here has ever found a home).
See grace and truth young Newton's brows enwreathe,
From Chantrey's hand the soften'd marble breathe;
The wond'ring stranger pausing as he cries,
'Tis he—the friend long lost—that smile, those eyes
Restor'd are his,—ah! now he time defies!
Pleas'd we behold another Reynolds shine,
Lamented Lawrence! in each touch of thine;
So pure, so true, the aerial colours fall,
And blend with life the animated wall;
Flush'd with rich Nature's hues, the temper'd ray
Steals into shade, and softly melts away.
From Peel's fair eyes such streams of radiance flow,
On Richmond's cheek such bright carnations glow,
While Genius builds his throne on Canning's thoughtful brow.
Or if the Tragic Muse her sceptre wield,
All eye—all ear—intent with tears, I yield
To Kemble's charms—Nature with Art—I hear
Siddons revived again;—and now appear
(Would he had seen her, but he is no more;
Whom I remember on the midnight floor,
Breathless, with dagger clutch'd, and dripping gore;
Would he had seen her—but the silent bier
Hath pass'd Lausanne's still waters)—now appear
Each sweet reflected form that Shakespeare drew;
Verona's pallid flower surcharged with dew,
Young Juliet—ere her bridal robes were worn,
Sleeping with death—alas! that fatal morn!
And she whom Hamlet lov'd, the Danish maid forlorn.
Sweets to the sweet!—not flowers, but tears we pay,
Charm'd by Thalia's laughing eyes away.
The goddess comes! ah! let not that gay smile,
Breathing each varied grace, thy heart beguile;
Though Mirth and Pleasure kindle on her brow,
Though bright the gleams of love and laughter glow,
Yet thou each soft seductive glance distrust,
And feel that beauty is not always just.
E'en as I speak, behold the Enchantress flies,
While at her feet departing pleasure lies.
Ah! had she still adorn'd the comic scene,
Then all that Oldfield was, had Mordaunt been.
The Poet's page had hail'd her growing fame,
And future Drydens dignified a name,
Of beauty more profuse, and more secure from blame.
One moment linger!—lo! from Venus' bowers
Descends the youngest of the roseate Hours:
She comes in all her blushing beauty borne,
From the far fountains of the purple morn.
Aurora's self! what time her brow resumes,
The bright refulgence of its golden plumes.
Sylph of the earth!—the sky!—and oh! as fair
And beauteous as her sisters of the air.
In that sweet form what varied graces meet,
Love in her eye, and music in her feet.
Light as the bounding fawn along the lea,
Or lithe bird glancing on the summer tree,
Light as the foam when Venus leaves the wave,
Or blossoms fluttering over April's grave.
Mark on yon rose lights the celestial tread,
The trembling stalk but just declines its head.
Sweet Ariel floats above her as she springs.
And wafts the flying fair, and lends her wings.
Now wreath'd in radiant smiles she seems to glide,
With buoyant footstep, like Favonius' bride,
Or Psyche, zephyr-borne to Cupid's blushing side.
Her light symar in lucid beauty streams,
Of woven air, so thin the texture seems;
Round her small waist the zone young Iris binds,
And gives the sandals that command the winds;
A thousand voices challenge Music's throne.
Daughter of Air! this empire is thine own,
Here Taglioni reigns unrivall'd and alone.
Now either park invites—to deck yon plain,
See all Palladio's skill revived again.
There the bright palace rears its regal state,
The sculptur'd column and the trophied gate,
Spreads the rich frieze in marble beauty round,
And calls the distant quarry from the ground.
Each mirror'd wall in silver lustre blooms,
And Persia blushes through her flow'ry looms.
There the blue lake reflects the growing scenes,
The glittering terraces, and pendant greens,
How glow its banks! how winds each opening glade,
Thro' blooming thickets, and thro' walks of shade;
A bolder shore the admiring waters lave,
And the green island trembles in the wave.
Mark, where new vistas ope, new temples rise,
And Athens smiles beneath our northern skies.
The Enchanter calls!—the mountain waves its brow,
Through softer vales the obedient rivers flow;
Yon bending arch,where Thames his tribute pours,
Spans the long wave, and weds the opposing shores,
Pleas'd he receives his granite yoke again,
And glides with gentler murmur to the main.
Now in thy calm suburban walks we stray,
Or catch from beauty's lips the warbled lay,
When masque and music close the long declining day.
From yon grey Abbey mark the glittering beam,
O'er the rich shrines with ruby lustre stream,
Lighting the oriel;—tread, ah! gently tread!
Each stone a scholar's, or a soldier's bed.
Yon time-worn tombs, and sculptured marbles hold
Names, 'mid the mightiest of the earth enroll'd,
Warrior and sage; the eloquent and strong;
Ah! only weak, least valour lead to wrong.
The lips that once admiring nations heard,
The arm, whose strength retreating legions fear'd.
There lies the lightning glance that Rodney flung,
There sleep the thunders of a Chatham's tongue.
Firm 'mid corruption's cry, 'mid faction's band,
The unshaken Abdiel of a faithless land.
(A voice once heard—silent how many a year,
In the mute senate list'ning—'wouldst thou hear
Tully, or him of Tarsus, now draw near!'
Crouch'd the pale minions then—he stood alone
And shook the impending tempest from the throne.
There meek as wise, in all his wisdom just,
And true to nature, there is Newton's dust.
At every step the exulting breast shall glow,
No vulgar weakness force the tear to flow.
The blameless bard, the unblemish'd statesman, all
Whose hearts responsive throbb'd at Freedom's call,
There lie—alike their task of duty done,
A Somers here, and there an Addison.
To Virtue's eye, awful the dust appears,
The gather'd treasure of a thousand years;
Honour'd, but not deplor'd!ah! where enshrin'd
As there, the immortality of mind!
The Patriot's breast, the Poet's tongue declare
That half the glory of the world is there.
With awe we visit, oft unmark'd the name,
Each spot that Genius consecrates to fame;
The bleeding scaffold, or the dungeon's gloom,
The sacred glories of the martyr's tomb.
Where, when the fires of death more fiercely rise
Sweet Hope, with bosom calm and radiant eyes,
Absolves the doubtful justice of the skies.
There shine, where Sidney fell, the opprobrious walls,
There the grey virtue of a Cranmer calls;
Forms how benign attend his closing years,
Majestic sorrows—penitential tears!
Tender remorse, and soft upbraidings sent
By the contrite heart, and conscience rightly bent,
Fetching forgiveness home through punishment.
There Russell stood—while love and beauty nigh,
Watch'd each low word, and caught each changing eye.
Gaz'd on the gleaming axe, the headsman's frown,
And the rich blood that stain'd the tyrant's crown.
In yon dim aisle unmark'd a Milton sleeps;
O'er Rawleigh's grave indignant virtue weeps,
Greatest, when all were great—serene and gay,
There More, unmov'd beheld life's closing day,
And frowning on his foes, great Strafford stood at bay.
Nor be the names unhonour'd in the page
Of faithful memory, calling back her age
With tears of holy joy and love divine!
To hang a pensive wreath upon the shrine
Of them who put—in hard affliction tried—
Crosier, and crown, and jewell'd robe aside;
Begging with earnest zeal to be denied.
Left all, and fled—fled to life's holier shade,
Changing the sceptre for the peasant's spade.
Perchance a monarch on his throne to-day,
To-morrow, what? a hermit lone and grey,
Asking of heaven in penitence to pray.
And such was he whom time could never wrong,
(His name would sanctify the weakest song),
Who left high Lambeth's venerable towers,
For his small heritage and humble bowers,
Conscience and faith his guide—and what if now,
Taking the mitre from his aged brow,
(Crowds round his knees, and many a furrow'd cheek,
And glist'ning eye, that seem'd indeed to speak
Better than language, seeing him depart,
In the meek sorrows of a silent heart:
Soft gentle deeds, blossoms of love, that hung
Ever around him,—could they want a tongue?
Tears too from childhood, and the words that call,
' Father and Friend'—were heard alike from all.)
Gently he pass'd beside them, with a mien
Temper'd with hope and fortitude serene;
Nor deem him unattended with a train
Of more sublime emotions, free from pain
Of doubt or fear,—like an unclouded day
Upon the golden hills in endless ray,
A well-spring in his heart without decay;
As one who knew that god a home had made
For those he cherish'd, in the humblest shade.
Now with his staff, on his paternal ground,
Amid his orchard trees he may be found
An old man late return'd, where he was seen
Sporting a child upon the village green.
How many a changeful year had pass'd between,
Blanching his scattered hairs—yet leaving there
A heart kept young by piety and prayer;
That to the inquiring friend could meekly tell,
"Be not for me afflicted— it is well:
For in my great integrity I fell.
'Twas in my great integrity I made
The choice that sends me to my native shade."
Lo! Themis hall!—there the coif'd serjeant draws
Through winding eloquence the Norman laws.
Yet Justice there, severely kind, repairs
The widow's wrongs, and dries the orphan's tears.
Leans with delight on Eldon's honoured name
(So wise his counsel, so mature his fame),
And owns (forgot the breath of public rage)
The more than Hardwicke of a later age.
Time-honour'd thou shalt be!—and though thy years
May now speak no continuance, and the fears
Of good men hang around thee — though a line,
Written by me, shall meet no eye of thine:
Yet will I in my gratitude, thy name
(Oh! that my verse were lasting, and that fame
Went with it), unto all in praise proclaim.
While others speak thee, wise and learn 'd, of law
Arbiter, such as England seldom saw.
(Mute silence list'ning, and each dubious plea,
Taken by reason to thy firm decree)
Statesman and sage—a better, I will lend
A higher title still—the generous friend.
The summer sun is set—dark autumn shrouds
His dripping pinions in the southern clouds.
Thro' the pale woods the showers of foliage sweep,
And the rough surge is whitening all the deep.
Now round the social fire, and steaming urn,
O'er fragrant cups the studious lamp we burn;
Or dream of days (ah! why should fate deny!)
Long days beneath Ausonia's golden sky.
On Mincio's banks, at shut of evening hours,
The bee is sleeping in his ark of flowers:
Past are the Julian hills—and lo! the plain
Spreading by soft Adeste's green domain.
Now with the shepherd on Soracte's brow,
Gazing the marble city; now below,
Where Tiber's pale and silent waters flow.
With nicest taste our evening banquet glows,
From the rich flask old Gascon's vintage flows.
And though the stars are set, we still prolong
The cheerful converse and instructive song;
With many a tale the friendly feast refine,
And jest that sparkles in the flowing wine.
Yet ours to scorn the foul insatiate stain
Insidious Circe, and her siren train.
Chaste are the guests the timid muses bring,
And chaste as crystal dews, Apollo's spring.
Thus pleas'd we hail our W-lm-t's gifts refin'd,
So bright his numbers, and so pure his mind.
Gentle and good! if greater praise there[errata 1] be
Or more enduring, it belongs to thee,
Accomplish'd W-lm-t!—thy serener eye
Unmov'd beholds each tempting pleasure nigh.
Far from the fears that softer minds await,
With the sweet muse and sounding lyre elate.
Oh, eloquent of song! whose dawning ray
Now burns and brightens into purer day;
Not thine the lover's flower-encircled chain,
Long years consum'd at beauty's feet in vain,
Delusive hopes, and pleasure's laughing train:
Not thine the Teïan blooms, the Lesbian wreath
Bedew'd with wine, and rich with beauty's breath,
Charms not thine ear the sweet Provençal tale,
Nor Arno warbling down the Etrurian vale;
Young love in vain his myrtle wand supplies,
In vain her spells the soft enchantress tries,
Though the bright shaft is wing'd with light from B-g-t's eyes.
We read alternate, and alternate hear
Songs that might win attention's choicest ear;
Rich with the spoils of all Castalia's dew,
And truths that haughty Athens only knew.
Those tragic strains, worthy the Delphic shrine,
Of Thebes, and Pelops' race, and Troy divine;
And not unheard the surge's midnight roar
Breaking on the proud solitude, that bore
The warrior's wounded cries from Lemnos' rocky shore.
Cruel Leucadia! and ye winds that sweep
Round every Grecian isle, and hallow'd steep!
Why mourn'd ye not, when injur'd beauty gave
Her glory, and her genius to the wave;
Why heard unmov'd the immortal notes expire,
The burning breath of love, the ætherial song of fire!
Each mystic spring that feeds the Aonian well
Is ours—the music of Cyrene's shell;
Or that, the later lay thou lov'st, that told
Of those brave kings, and of the fleece of gold,
Their prows to Phasis turn'd, ploughing the Euxine old.
Gazing the wondrous barque,—the Centaur band
Shake their huge manes, and stamp the oozy strand;
Loud conchs are sounding from each mountain cave,
And through the glittering woods barbaric lances wave.
Or if the Dorian reed delight thine ear,
The shadowy vales, and wild birds warbling near.
The sparkling streams that down their channel shine,
The murmur of the bee, the whispering pine,
And sun-gilt cliffs purpled with many a vine,
Sweet violet banks beside the silver wave,
And fountains flashing from their rocky cave.
While satyr-forms, and sounds of sylvan feet
Pass by, and nymphs flying with sandals fleet.
Leave Phasidamus, and the stream that shines
Of old Anapus, and the murmuring pines!
And let the Syracusan shepherd sleep
Where through cool grots the glancing waters leap!
Now wake the harp that Chios loved to hear
In his lone caves, (no doubtful legend fear)
When Time himself was young—by Meles' stream
An old blind man was sitting; while a gleam
(It was Apollo's) lit his cheek, and young
And old around in mute attention hung;
Ionian girls were with him as he sung,
Each with her lover, and with lips apart
All stood, and breathless, and with beating heart.
Gods! 'twas a witching tale!—of heaven-built Troy
And bright-hair'd Helen, and the shepherd boy
From Ida's shores, and how the billowy tide
For her he crost, and beckoning to the bride,
'Come to green Ida's pines, my couch is there' he cried.
Beautiful Helen! by thy shepherd's cave
Ah! wilt thou dream with me of Simois' fairer wave?
And leaning on thy lover's bosom say,
While round thy feet its sparkling waters play,
"For ever, gentle stream, ah! here for ever stray."
Then did the minstrels of the house lament,
As from her bower the queen of beauty went,
Went, gliding with soft footstep, and unseen,
Fled with her lover o'er the ocean green.
And he who home returning, in his gate
Found sorrow, and a hearth all desolate;
Disgrac'd by her he lov'd—forsaken—left,
Of all the treasure of his heart bereft;
O'er her pale statue (she was imag'd there,
E'en in his hall) gazing with mute despair,
Her damask'd chambers of their mistress bare,
Her handmaids weeping round,—with tearful eye,
He knew the nuptial bower, and left it with a sigh.
Then the red beacons wav'd their beards of flame,
Then o'er the deep the mailed warriors came,
Breathing revenge—"disgrace he brought, and shame,
To the Atridæ—a dishonour'd name."
Pale Asia trembled, as the kindling strain
Woke the fierce war, and shook the ensanguin'd plain;
The battle bled—Scamander roll'd with gore.—
What shades are moving on the moonlight shore?
Who waits expectant of her lord's return
In the Argive halls? what festal torches burn?
Alas! yon broken armour, and an urn,
Is all she holds—all that is left to tell,
Beneath barbaric spears the flower of Hellas fell.
Break off!—for time is list'ning to the lay,
Heard from the syren shores, along the bay
Of green Parthenope—the later theme
Immortal, sung by him in mystic dream,
Whose marble seat is still on Arno's shelving stream.
The song is clos'd.—See Nature's darling laid
An infant yet, in Avon's classic shade.
Hark! his wild notes are floating down the vale,
like blossoms scatter'd in the summer gale.
I mark thy hand each latent thought refine,
Stamp with the seal of truth the Delphic line;
O'er Fletcher's song bid new-born Pity weep,
And wake the Muse of Shirley from her sleep.
Oh, friend! as oft I hail thy taste refin'd,
Thy gentle manners, thy congenial mind;
Those studious hours that leave no page unknown,
Of all that Rome or Athens call'd their own;
Thine the fair flowers on Tiber's banks that smile,
And thine a wreath from each Ægean isle,
With many a violet mix'd from Britain's gothic pile;
Secure of fame, thy future path I see,
And mark another Parnell rise in thee.
Farewell! e'en now I leave, where Thames's wave
His lucid mirror spreads by St. John's grave,
(Yon little hamlet, once a vulgar name,
Lives in the lines that mark the statesman's fame,
And studious he each nobler grace to blend,
At once the senate's strength, the poet's friend).
For my lone woods I quit the insatiate throng
(The child alike of sorrow and of song);
And still the same, as when I wander'd pale
By far Sorrento's cliffs, and Sorga's vale;
Or when Ardennes' green forests saw me roam
Their leafy glens, nor wish a fairer home.
Ah! then, St. Hubert! who so pleas'd as me,
Wandering at will, beneath thy forest tree;
Or where the antler'd herds at early dawn
Graze the green wealth of many a flowery lawn;
Or list'ning in thy chapel, legends old
Of the brave knight, and of the spurs of gold,
By the grey Sacristain in mystery told.
Yet what if time around my temples pour
Its lenient dews, a sweet exhaustless store;
And Nature, to regain what grief may part,
Spread the fresh tide of feeling round the heart?—
Fled is the Morn of Life! yet left me still,
The vale secluded, and the whispering rill:
Content amid the silent woods to hear
Soft falls of water murmuring in the ear.
View the wild flowers their fragrant bells unfold,
Spread the small leaf, and ope their cups of gold.
Round the still pool the martlet's wing to see,
To mark the linnet warbling from the tree,
Or to his nectar'd hive watch home the yellow bee.
Or now at Eve, from the tall mountain's crest,
Catching the purple splendours of the West:
Yon level length of shore—the headland grey,
Far seen—and many a barge and pinnace gay,
With flag and flashing oar moor'd in the golden bay.
Pass'd is the spangling shower—well pleas'd I hail
The emerald bow that seems to span the vale.
Through the still meads then oft my steps are seen,
Where the small hamlet spreads its straggling green,
Its little orchard plot—the smiling field,
Mid tufts of auburn foliage half conceal'd,
(The Leveret's haunt) yon bank of yellow broom,
And the sweet odours of the trefoil bloom;
And not unmark'd the Naiad's hand that leads
Her winding waters through a thousand meads,
(While more remote, where the low hills extend,
Bright purple heaths and russet fallows blend);
For there the humble virtues love to rest
Secure, and shelter'd in the peasant's nest;
Like the sweet tenants of the hive, they dwell,
Gentle companions of the poor man's cell.
Pleas'd memory tells, how warm his bosom glow'd
For ills prevented, or for good bestow'd,
While the small mite, in love, in pity given,
Touch'd by his hand, became a gem in Heaven.
Uplift the latch that opes the matron's door,
Though low the roof and scanty be her store,
Yet meek content, and patient labour there,
Spread the small couch and eat their evening fare.
Safe, where no ills molest, no cares invade,
Watch'd by the genius of the rural shade;
And when that sleep (such monarchs seldom knew),
Has bath'd them in its soft celestial dew,
Rise from their rest (ere the blue morning break
From the fresh heaven, or early breezes wake,
Scattering the glist'ning drops from off the thorn,
Or list'ning in the copse the hunter's horn);
And duly as the sun, and day by day,
Tread the same path through life's unwearied way;
Their frugal virtues wisdom's eye admires,
Where prudence guards what industry acquires.
The glassy brook—the bee-hive at the door—
The golden sheaf—the garden's fragrant store,
Their little wants supply, they ask no more.
While leisure loves in these sequester'd bowers
The soft oblivion of the silent hours.
And are there not who oft have cried in vain,
"Ah, give to me my russet weeds again!"
See, bending o'er her wheel with patient care,
Her cheek just shaded by her nut-brown hair,
Content the cottage maid is singing there.
How fresh for her the vernal zephyr blows!
For her how fair the purple morning glows!
Her's the green earth in all its beauty given,
And her's the bright transparent dome of heaven.
Tired nature rests—the sun declines his rays,
Round the warm hearth the evening fagots blaze.
Stretch'd by the cheerful fire, the genial board,
They wish not Russell's wealth, nor Gideon's hoard:
Nor envy they, by summer fountain laid,
The lords of Chatsworth, or of Ragley's shade.
Wandering I see at twilight's gentlest hour
The lights that linger on the village tower,
Watch the soft clouds their faery lustre leave,
Like isles, that gem the emerald sky of eve,
Catch every changing hue, the amber fold,
Bright ruby gleams, and lakes of floating gold;
Refulgent tints, that mimic art defy,
And spread a nobler purple down the sky.
Now o'er the vale descends a darker hue,
(The distant mill-sail lessening to the view)
And where the grange its garners broad extends,
Forest and field a lengthening shadow blends.
I pass the woodman on his homeward way,
The lowing kine, the sports that close the day,
When all the budding groves are green in May;
Catch from the distant fold the tinkling bell,
In the still evening heard—that seems to tell,
'Ye vales and uplands grey a long and last farewell!'
Studious of song! 'tis thine with ease to blend
Learning with mirth, the instructor and the friend.
Tis thine to point the page where taste presides,
Where wit enlivens, and where genius guides;
To show the knowledge deep, the judgment clear,
The varying fancy sportive or severe.
With curious toil (nor mean the praise) to trace
Each finer harmony, each latent grace,
Recall the wanderings of a thoughtless age
To Spenser's song, or Shakespeare's bolder page,
Mark each connecting chain, each deep design,
And pour fresh lustre on the glowing line;
With just remark refine the poet's lays,
And give the critic's art a higher praise.
Touch'd by no meaner hand, so pleas'd I see
The wreath that Gifford wore, descend to thee.
Come then, alike in converse grave or gay,
Speed the swift hours, and share the social day;
Leave the huge city's throng, the tumult loud,
Absolved of care, and sacred from the crowd.
(Thy hand the Muses' various gifts inspire
To dip the pencil, or to wake the lyre;)
Aid me to wind my banks, direct my shade,
Slope the green lawn, or roll the broad cascade,
Collect the flowers the cultur'd garden yields,
And glean the soft instruction of the fields;
Paint with new light the mountain's florid brow,
And wake the genius of the flood below.
With calm desires and gentlest wishes blest,
Here mayst thou choose of nature's gifts the best.
Thine is the laurel shade — the chesnut bower,
When summer glows beneath the noontide hour.
The vernal walk is thine — the soften'd scene,
Sweet evening lights, and golden skies serene;
The fresh airs moving o'er the mottled sea,
And Hesper's fragrant lamp, that burns for thee.
Calm leisure waits thee here — nor thou disdain
Our humbler annals, and inglorious plain.
Once to these silent woods young Milton came,
(The site, the shade now consecrate to fame)
Time holds not in his hand a more immortal name.
Then was the hour when with exulting spring,
Youth lent to Genius all its fiery wing,
When Fancy roam'd the rich creation free;
A line, a word — was immortality.
In all the wealth of Plato's mind array'd,
When science wooed him in the olive shade,
He came — the friend in converse sweet to cheer,
(Waking the memory of each youthful year,
When, ere the lark had sung, at matin tide,
Building high thoughts, in converse side by side;
Oft by the early shepherd they were seen,
Or old Damœtas on the dewy green)
Sure in that little Tusculum to find
The ripen'd wisdom of a scholar's mind.
The first his young enamour'd feet to lead
By many a flowery rock and haunted mead,
Wet with Castalian dews — each bold design
Urging, till now along the steep divine,
He caught the gleam of Phœbus' golden shrine.
Heard round its gates the hallow'd laurels wave,
And sound of choral fountains warbling in their cave.
Behold! not far remov'd, yon elmy vale;
Whose branching foliage screens the mossy pale;
There the last refuge of his exiled woes,
The village pastor's humble dwelling rose,
Who far from worldly cares, from worldly strife,
Watch'd the calm sunset of his closing life.
Fix'd in these sheltering vales his peaceful seat,
Amid the silent blessings of retreat,
Pleas'd 'mid his books, his fold, his farm to stray,
And pass, as Tully pass'd, the approving day.
Or him the lov'd of Earth — the sent of Heaven,
To whom the knowledge of its will was given;
Guide of the wanderer — teacher of the blind,
Well was he call'd— the Wisest of Mankind.
Ah, mark, with reverence mark, each willowy glade,
Each wild- wood walk where oft the poet stray 'd,
His favourite path beneath yon hawthorns green,
Where the small glow-worm's emerald lamp was seen,
Star of the earth — of eve! — yon bank of flowers,
Detain'd him musing through the noontide hours;
And still the traveller points the green retreat,
The crystal waters and the Muses' seat,
There would he watch the morning's dewy beam
Tremble with silver lustre on the stream,
Or view, as the mild shades of evening blend,
The orb of glory to his couch descend.
And oft before his youthful eyes there came
Bright gleams, the Aurora of his future fame;
He felt the gale that blew from Mars's hill,
He heard the murmurs of Ilissus' rill.
Gaz'd on each marble shrine, each sacred fane,
Fresh rising (thus it seem'd), and that lov'd plain,
Where Athens saw her own Minerva reign.
Genius of Greece! what sounds his ear invade,
Breath'd by thy lips from Delphi's depth of shade!
How roll the kindling numbers soft or strong,
In all the awful majesty of song.
What voice prophetic sounds from Cirrha's cave!
How sweet the warbling of the Thespian wave!
Lov'd Amymonè! and ye gales that bring
The silver drops to pale Pyrene's spring,
Shook from your lucid plumes! — ye linger'd there,
Waking soft echoes from the listening air.
While o'er each twilight vale, and haunted grove,
Young Fancy's hand its wild embroidery wove,
Flung o'er the earth, a light immortal given,
And hung with flowery brede the purple zone of heaven.
Him by far Deva's banks the Muses found
(Their favourite haunt) or Severn's western bound,
Musing on Merlin's art (his earliest theme),
Or Uther's son; — then by the shadowy stream
Of Trent or Tamar, visions strange would be
Of ships from Troy, ploughing the British sea.
First from Kent's chalky headlands the salt tide
Dividing, were green Ida's oaks espied,
Bound for th' old giant's isle — anon they past
The shore, and Brutus' colours on the mast.
Then (twilight dreams) would fabling fancy tell
Of the dark talisman, the potent spell,
And dwarfs, an elfin crew, around the sorcerer's cell;
Of fragrant groves, with mystic garlands hung,
Of viewless harps on high (tales yet unsung),
Tall steeds caparison'd, and knights afield,
The glittering scutcheon, and the emblazon'd shield,
The trumpet wailing o'er the warrior slain;
(Like him who fell on Fontarabia's plain;
The peerless chief long wept in many a poet's strain.)
There the rich doors their ivory valves unfold,
Forth issuing many a knight and emir old,
And broider'd caftans shine, and garments stiff with gold.
Crossing the sunny cove, with glancing sail,
There flits the fairy pinnace down the gale.
Round the tall prow the sparkling waves behold,
The silken cordage, and the cloth of gold.
Child of the sea! — the mantle and the ring,
And the bright sword proclaim the Armoric king!
There, touch'd with light the rich pavilion gleams,
Where the green forest's pensile foliage streams.
Stretch'd on the ground the weary falconers lie,
Gaze-hound, and horn, and bleeding quarry nigh;
And mantling on his perch, the hooded hawk on high.
Sweet forms were seen, and voices down the glade,
Tapestry and lute, on moss and wild flowers laid,
And many an ermin'd cap and jewell'd ring,
And the blue plumage of the Heron's wing,
And milk-white hinds, the fairest creatures seen,
Tripping with snowy feet across the alleys green.
Bright was the bower, a silver colonnade
Spread its sun-chequer'd floor, where light and shade
Alternate with the varying zephyr play'd.
Young lips were trembling with sweet whispers there:
"Lady, I could have lov'd thee, though less fair."
How soft the breath of that consenting sigh!
How bright the glances of that falcon eye!
The look, the smile — a hermit's heart 'twould cheer:
When beauty speaks — who can refuse to hear?
Then vows were made; "Witness ye stars that shine!"
And — "Nay, sir Knight:" and "gentle mayflower mine!"
While chess and tables wile the hours away,
With many a song between, and lusty roundelay.
But hark! a cry! — 'to horse — no time afford,
Grasp thou the lance, and gird thou on the sword!
The foe's at hand — a field of blood to-day —
Each to the rescue, fly — away, away!'
Chang'd is the scene — down yon sequester'd vale
The chaunt comes floating from the cloisters pale.
Psalter in hand, the long procession moves,
The tapers glare amid the yellow groves,
Then the low requiem's heard,—the prayer to save,
And holy symbols mark the Christian warrior's grave.
Such were the pictur'd shadows that around
Bright fancy scatter'd on the enamell'd ground
From her rich urn—feeding the poet's mind
With visionary spells and truths refin'd;
And prescient of his future fame, bestow'd
The aspiring thought, and breath'd the words that glow'd.
Perchance by Harewood's tangled groves, or now
Musing upon the solitary brow
Of that dark rock, shadowing Sabrina's cave,
Her lily-paved banks, and pearly wave.
And, lo! rose other forms to meet him there,
The enchanted wood, the gentle lady fair,
The wizard's crystal glass, and that delusive chair.
Benhall, Sept. 1, 1832.
Errata