صفحة 1
POETRY.
BY THOMAS OLDHAM.
O! should I ever dare profane With venal touch the hallow'd lyre, Let me be banish'd from the Muses' train; Ne'er let me feel their heart-ennobling fire! Unworthy of a Poet's glorious name, Let me be doom'd to everlasting shame!
LONDON:
A. H. BAILEY AND CO., 83, CORNHILL;
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, EDINBURGH;
AND CUMMING AND CO., DUBLIN.
MDCCCXL.
H. MERRIDEW, PRINTER, COVENTRY.
PREFACE.
The writer of the following pages has been in the habit, for many years, of amusing himself with the composition of Poetry. Often has he been advised by his friends to publish; and at length, influenced by their persuasion, and feeling a sort of paternal fondness for the offspring of his own brain, he ventures to present this small volume to the notice of the Public.
It contains Poems of many different kinds, composed, of course, in as many varieties of style; and the author has exerted his best endeavours to render them worthy of approbation. The present times—he is well aware—are unfavourable for the publication of poetical works. The booksellers complain generally of the little demand for them. Nevertheless, it is very improbable that Poetry,—if excellent, (as it ought to be to deserve the name,) should ever be totally neglected. The seed of poetic taste is sown by the hand of Nature in the souls of all men; though in a small number only it is by culture brought to maturity.
The author has exalted ideas of Poetry, He deems it—decidedly—the first of the Fine Arts. It is the most intellectual,—the most comprehensive,—the most powerful,—the most delightful,—and, also,—hear it, Utilitarians!—the most useful. In remote antiquity, as is well known, it was chiefly instrumental in teaching and civilising the then-barbarous human race. To lure their wild minds into reflection, it invested truth and morality with the many-coloured garb of Fiction, and introduced them, through their delighted imagination, to their understanding and their heart; while, by the charm of harmonious numbers, it soothed their fierce and licentious passions into submission to the laws of social life. It was believed to have something divine in its nature, and was universally held in the highest veneration. From ancient times, even to this day, it has continued to be a favourite study with many of the most illustrious characters.
Finally,—and let this be for ever remembered, as conferring on it the highest honour! Poetry has been deemed worthy by the Sacred Writers to be made an instrument in the cause of Religion; and by its sublime descriptions it has assisted human imagination in forming grand, and awful conceptions of the Almighty Creator!
Park-Fields, Allesley, near Coventry,
22d January, 1840.
CONTENTS
Page The Muse's triumph 1 Elegy on the Death of Chatterton 5 Sylvia's Elegy on her dead Canary-bird 9 To Julia 13 Ditto 15 On seeing Mademoiselle ***** dance, &c. 17 Sonnet, on taking a favourite walk after recoveryfrom sickness 20 Sonnet, written on my Birth Day 22 Eclogue—Spring 23 Eclogue—Summer 33 Epistle to a Friend 43 To Delille 48 Ode written on the night of the illuminations for
Lord Howe's Victory on 1st June, 1793 51 Ode to Horror 57 Ode to Hope 62 Ode to the Duke of Wellington 66 Description of a Conflagration 80
صفحة 2
class="tdl">To Spring 88 To Winter 93 The desperation and madness of Guilt 99 On hearing the Nightingale 103 To Paganini 108 To Fancy 111 A Summer-Evening 116 Prologue 122 Ditto 126 Epilogue 129 Lines on the death of the Rev. Mr. B ***,
supposed to be written by his Sister 134 Lines to an Infidel, &c. 136 Lines on hearing a Young Gentleman, &c. 138 Lines to a Pedantic Critic 140 Lines on Shakspeare 142 Lines on Milton 145 Anacreontic 147 Ditto 149 Ditto 152 Song 157 Ditto 158 Song to Bacchus 159 On seeing the Apollo Belvidere 162 Inscription for ditto 162 Epitaph on Nelson 163 Ditto on Howard 164 Ditto on Voltaire 165 Ditto on Napoleon 166 Ditto on Lord Byron 168 Ditto on Sir Samuel Romilly 170 Ditto on Wilberforce 171 Epitaph 172 Translation from Anacreon 173 Epigrams 174 to 200
supposed to be written by his Sister 134 Lines to an Infidel, &c. 136 Lines on hearing a Young Gentleman, &c. 138 Lines to a Pedantic Critic 140 Lines on Shakspeare 142 Lines on Milton 145 Anacreontic 147 Ditto 149 Ditto 152 Song 157 Ditto 158 Song to Bacchus 159 On seeing the Apollo Belvidere 162 Inscription for ditto 162 Epitaph on Nelson 163 Ditto on Howard 164 Ditto on Voltaire 165 Ditto on Napoleon 166 Ditto on Lord Byron 168 Ditto on Sir Samuel Romilly 170 Ditto on Wilberforce 171 Epitaph 172 Translation from Anacreon 173 Epigrams 174 to 200
THE MUSE'S TRIUMPH.
——————What adverse passions rule my
صفحة 3
changeful breast, With hope exalted, or by fear deprest! Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre, And proudly to poetic fame aspire; Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines, And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns. Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade, With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade: 'A Poet!'—thus they sneeringly exclaim— 'Well may you court that glorious, envied name; For, sure, no common joys his lot attend; None but himself those joys can comprehend.
O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime, To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme! Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret, To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot! And what, though want and scorn his life assail? What, though he rave in Bedlam, starve in jail? Such trifling ills the Bard may well despise; Sure of immortal honour when he dies. But, seriously—the advice of friendship hear: Stop short in your poetical career; O! quell the frenzies of your fever'd brain, And turn, at Wisdom's call, to trade and gain,'
Absorb'd in passive sadness, I comply; Turn from the Muse my disenchanted eye, And deign to study, as my friends persuade, The little, money-getting arts of trade. But soon the Goddess, fired with high disdain To see me woo the yellow strumpet, Gain, Resuming all her beauty, all her power, Returns to triumph in the vacant hour; Weakly reluctant, on her charms I gaze, Trembling, I feel her fascinating lays; Roused from ignoble dreams, my wondering soul Springs to the well-known bliss, regardless of control.
Say then, ye blind, profane! who dare to blame The heaven-born Poet, and his thirst of fame; Ye slaves of Mammon! whose low minds behold No fair, no great, no good, in aught but gold; Say! will the Captive of tyrannic sway, Restored to genial air, and boundless day, Turn to his dungeon's suffocating night? Will the proud Eagle, who with daring flight Sublimely soars against the solar blaze, And eyes the inspiring God with raptured gaze, Stoop from his native kingdom in the sky, To share the breathings of mortality?
How, then, can he, whose breast the Muse inspires, Restrain his soul, or quench those hallow'd fires? How can he quit the world of mental bliss, For all the riches,—miseries!—of this?
ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.
——————When to the region of the tuneful Nine, Rapt in poetic vision, I retire, Listening intent to catch the strain divine— What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!
Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes, Stray the fair daughters of immortal song; Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries, And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.
O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo? Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar? A solemn pause ensues:—then falters low The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'
'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour Saw each poetic star indulgent shine; E'en Phœbus' self o'erruled with kindliest power, And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."
'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring; In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried; We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing, And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.
'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind, Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known; Taught him to range, by matter unconfined, And claim the world of fancy for his own.
'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race; Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul, Started at once with more than human pace, And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:
'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired, He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth, The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:
'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast! The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade; Soon dire Adversity's relentless host, Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:
'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride; Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn, Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.
'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires: In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear! Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'
ELEGY,
(WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY.)
SYLVIA ON HER DEAD CANARY-BIRD.
——————
صفحة 4
class="tdc">
Sweet little warbler! art thou dead? And must I hear thy notes no more? Then will I make thy funeral bed; Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.
Beneath the turf in yonder bower, Where oft I've listened to thy lay, Forgetting care, while many an hour In music sweetly stole away;—
There will I bid thy relics rest; Then sadly sigh my last farewell; But long, oh! long within my breast Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.
Still to that spot, now more endear'd, Shall thy fond mistress oft return, And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd, To deck with verse thy simple urn.
'Here lies a bird, once famed to be Peerless in plumage and in lay; This was the soul of melody, And that the golden blush of day.'
'Soon as the Morn began to peep, While yet with shade her smiles were veil'd, The sprightly warbler shook off sleep, And with his song her coming hail'd.'
'His guardian rose, nor scorn'd as mean, But found it still a pleasing care, To keep his little mansion clean, And minister his daily fare.'
'The dewy groundsel was his feast, Which when the watchful songster view'd, Straight his loud, thrilling strain he ceased, And softly chirp'd his gratitude.'
'Then would he peck his savoury treat,— Turn his head sly, and breathe a note— Now flutter wild with wings and feet— Then silent sit—now pour his throat.'
'His playful freaks, his joyous lay, Well pleased, his mistress would attend; It call'd affection into play, And gave to solitude a friend.'
'Thus happily his days he led Even to the ninth revolving year; Then Fate, alas! her weapon sped; And Pity laid his relics here.'
TO JULIA.
——————Should Phœbus e'er desert my mind, And should the Nine their aid refuse, Enchanting Girl! I still could find A theme in thee, in thee a Muse.
Can Fiction any charms devise That proudly may with thine compare? On thee she turns her wondering eyes, And drops the pencil in despair.
Far sweeter are thy notes to me Than sweetest poet ever sung; And true perfection would it be To sing thy beauties with thy tongue.
Let Phœbus, then, desert my mind! And let the Nine their aid refuse! Ever, my Julia! shall I find In thee a theme, in thee a Muse.
TO JULIA.
——————Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing Hush'd is the listening air; My spirit trembles on the wing, And no delay can bear.
Those down-cast eyes, that smile supprest, Thy conscious power betray; Yet, Siren! grant the bold request; Come, steal my heart away.
See, see, those ruby lips divide; An ivory shrine appears; There Harmony and Love reside, To ravish mortal ears.
And hark! they from that sweet recess Breathe their celestial lays; The enchanting sounds my thought possess With rapture and amaze.
Still pressing on with strong control I feel the lavish strain, Till drunk with bliss, my wilder'd soul Reels on the brink of pain.
Ah! how could I so rashly dare Contend with Powers divine? The pride of victory forbear; My heart is wholly thine.
ON SEEING MADEMOISELLE ***
DANCE AT THE OPERA IN PARIS.
——————What fine aerial Shape, In orient colours dight, Springs from the world unknown Upon my wondering sight?
Loosely through various space The lovely Figure flows, And leaves the sleeping air Unconscious as it goes.
Hark! a spontaneous strain Its fairy gait attends; In concord every sound With every movement blends.
Lo, now! the passive Form Moves as the music leads; Each motion from each note, Harmoniously proceeds.
By the same sense, methinks, At once I hear and see; And ears and eyes
صفحة 5
and mind Are all one harmony. ON TAKING A FAVOURITE WALK, AFTER
——————
Along my shivering nerves The mingled raptures thrill, And strangely take my soul, And rule it as they will;
True to the magic force, That shifts a thousand ways, An echo, and a shade, It answers and obeys.
But ah! the charm expires.— Did Fancy thus deceive? She smiles, and fondly vain, Would have me so believe.
SONNET,
ON TAKING A FAVOURITE WALK, AFTER
RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
—————— Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again! Forbidden long to my desiring sight, Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain, I visit ye with fresh, increased delight.
Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb, The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale; River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime, While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil;
And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd: Hail all ye objects to my memory dear! Once more, to feel the transports ye impart, Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart.
SONNET,
WRITTEN ON MY BIRTH DAY.
——————Again has Time his annual circle run, And April ushers in my natal day: Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun, How many a year has swiftly roll'd away! Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun; What various colours does the web display! Some dark, some brighter; ere the work be done The sadder hues will overshade the gay. Yet not to Melancholy will I yield; Against Despondency and Discontent Still Fortitude and Hope shall keep the field; Swerving from thee, O Virtue! I repent; Now! to repel Temptation I am steel'd; To follow thee I'm resolutely bent.
ECLOGUE.
SPRING.
——————Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign, Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain, Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray Primeval nature in his simple lay; And him of Mantua, in a nicer age, To form the graces of his artful page; O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene, And with thy presence bless the brightening scene; Now, while I rove his willowy banks along, With fond intent to wake the rural song, Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart The force of nature, and the grace of art.
Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn, And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn; The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise; The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play, Waking the flowers to steal new sweets away: And now with trembling steps, her swain to find, Fair Delia hastens to the spot assign'd: Her faithful Colin waits impatient there; How raptured to regain his long-lost fair! COLIN. O happiness!—and am I then so blest? Or does a heavenly dream possess my breast? Has not her father sternly bid us part, And for my rival claim'd his daughter's heart? Has not my Delia sigh'd the sad adieu? Have I not long been banish'd from her view? Away, ye jealous fears! ye sorrows, flee! This letter, this! revokes the dire decree. And lo! she comes! she comes! but why so slow, Pensive, and shy, as if oppress'd with wo? My Delia!— DELIA. Colin! (They embrace.) COLIN. O my Delia! tell, What dark ideas in thy bosom dwell. Is not thy letter true? then give thy soul To love and happiness without control. DELIA. O generous Colin! can'st thou, then, forget The painful past, and love thy Delia yet? Deem me not faithless; stern parental sway, Spite of my tears, constrained me to obey. COLIN. Faithless? O no! I knew thy father's ire; Thy filial virtue could not but admire; Still did I hope, believe, and know thee true: The pains I suffer'd thou did'st suffer too. Now weep no more; this bids our sufferings cease, This letter—heavenly messenger of
صفحة 6
peace!— That promises a more propitious fate; But thou, sweet girl! the same blest news relate; Chase from thy fancy every shade of fear; Wipe from thy cheek that ill-beseeming tear; And tell thy lover all;—he burns to hear. DELIA. When Damon first his amorous suit addrest Thou long had'st reign'd the sovereign of my breast; My love, my heart, my soul were vow'd to thee, And none but Colin could have charms for me. With scorn, thou know'st, his courtship I declined: O, that my thoughts had sway'd my father's mind! But Damon's ampler wealth, which I despised, Too much, alas! my doting father prized. What were thy words that sad, that trying hour, When, in submission to paternal power, I sacrificed the feelings of my heart, And faltering told thee we were doom'd to part? 'Part!—must we part, my Delia?' did'st thou say, 'Alas! 'tis Virtue's law; we must obey; But still, to render absence less severe, Let us, my Love, Hope's pleasing dictates hear. Little of Damon, yet, thy father knows: Time his perfidious purpose will disclose; Then will thy sire his hasty choice repent; And to our loves, perhaps, may yield consent. Meanwhile beware, my Delia, O beware! Lest Damon's arts thine innocence insnare.' Such were thy parting words. Now, Colin, hear! Then will thy words prophetical appear. Each night the favourite of my parents came To boast the matchless ardour of his flame; Still did he teaze me with his flattering strain;— Fool, to suppose his praise could make me vain! At length a favouring hour the traitor chose, And dared his wicked purpose to disclose. COLIN. Did he? O heaven! the impostor could not dare; I would, my Love, thy Colin had been there! DELIA. Just then, most luckily, my sire returned: Surprised, enraged, his Damon's guilt he learn'd: Then banish'd him, (his advocate no more,) With vengeful threats for ever from his door. COLIN. Look! how the glorious Sun, as he ascends, His radiance o'er the dew-bright earth extends, While the last fogs of conquer'd night retreat, And Nature welcomes the reviving heat: So thy returning smiles, indulgent fair! Dispel my fears and every jealous care. DELIA. No less delight to me thy smiles impart, Diffusing sunshine through my raptured heart; Hope, like yon lark, has spread her drooping wings, And, mounting up to heaven, her carol sings. COLIN. Observe, my Love, the beauties of the scene; The youthful year puts forth its tender green; Awakened Flora bids her flowerets rise, Opening their colours to the genial skies; Winter is fled; fair Spring's melodious voice Whispers, in every balmy breeze, rejoice! DELIA. The sparkling rills dance warbling in their beds; The trees with gladness lift their fresh, green heads; From yonder wood responsive cuckoos sing; The swallow skims the stream, and dips his wing. COLIN. Objects and sounds of joy! yet, Delia, these, Unaided by thy presence, would not please; Though thousand charms and harmonies unite, Thy favour only crowns the full delight. DELIA. Now, Colin, duty summons me away; Gladly I would, but must no longer stay. COLIN. When duty summons we resist in vain: Yet tell me, kindest Delia, once again,— To give me courage unalarm'd to part, And soothe, till next we meet, my restless heart,— O tell me art thou now for ever mine? DELIA. Yes, Colin, now I am for ever thine.
ECLOGUE.
SUMMER.
——————DAVID. My task is done; no further will I mow; I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow. Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag! Badly your practice answers to your brag. GILES. Deuce take the scythe! no wonder I am last; The wonder is I work'd my way so fast; Sure such another never yet was made; It's maker must have been a duller blade; The bungling fool, might I his fault chastise, Should use it for a razor till he dies.
صفحة 7
c4">DAVID. Ha, ha, well said, young jester; though bereft Of strength and patience, yet your wit is left. But come, good friend, to dinner let us go; Tired are my limbs, my wasted spirits low. GILES. Poor David! age is weak, soon jaded out; I feel, as when beginning, fresh and stout; Your easy task is ended, therefore dine: I scorn refreshment till I finish mine. DAVID. Then to yon grassy bank I will retreat, Shaded by willows from the oppressive heat; There may we dine, and seated all at ease, Imbibe fresh vigour with the cooling breeze. GILES. Curse his old arms! so nimble and so strong; How calmly did he seem to creep along! While I for conquest strove with eager pain, And labour'd, sweated, panted—all in vain! This awkward tool—yet no defect I see— The ground uneven—some cause must there be. He the best mower? let it not be known; No, crafty Giles, that secret is your own. Fatigue, thirst, hunger, strongly urge me hence.— I'll e'en o'ertake him with some fair pretence. DAVID. Ha, ha, the foolish vanity of youth, Such painful efforts to disguise the truth! Who comes? what, Giles! so quickly change your mind? Too wise, I thought, to tarry long behind. GILES. In one employment when good fellows meet, They should together toil, together eat. DAVID. Here let us sit; against this trunk I'll lean, You against that; the dinner placed between. GILES. Now rest we silent till our meal be done; While in our ears sweet watery murmurs run. DAVID. Right! when the body feels recruited force, More eloquently will the mind discourse. GILES. Now, David, I'll attempt a loftier strain; Listen, and judge of my poetic vein. See Phœbus his meridian height attains, And, like a king, in all his splendour reigns; Beneath his scorching radiance Nature lies Feverish and faint; her beauteous verdure dies; Oppress'd and panting with the sultry heat, The flocks and herds to shades or streams retreat; Through the still air no Zephyr dares to play,} Lest his soft pinion melt in heat away;} But if, to mitigate the solar ray,} A lucid cloud should kindly intervene; Then the glad Zephyrs sport beneath the grateful screen. DAVID. How beautiful the thoughts! and how sublime! Rich is the language, and exact the rhyme. Inform me, friend, are those fine strains your own? They rise superior to the rustic tone. GILES. Why not be mine? does then the gift of song To wealth and rank exclusively belong? Fancy with choice unbribed her few selects, Nor affluence, nor exalted birth respects; The kingly mansion she will oft forsake, Pleased with the shepherd her abode to make: With me the kind Enchantress long has dwelt; Long has my soul her inspirations felt. DAVID. I once the feelings of a poet knew; (Though in my best of days no match for you,) But now my genius yields to conquering time; Yet still I keep my judgment and my rhyme; Then what that judgment dictates I declare: No tuneful shepherd can with you compare; Although in many a county I have been, And many a rural poet I have seen. GILES. O cease your high applauses, kindest friend! For sure my merit they must far transcend. How different men in different ways excel! My forte is rhyming, your's is mowing well; And while to me you deign in song to yield, You bear the scythe triumphant through the field. DAVID. That only Youth, whose sweetly-flowing lays, Resembling your's, deserve the second praise, Dwelt near this place—or memory I lack— Yes! now I recollect—five summers back, When to these parts for harvest-work I came, How all the fields resounded with his fame. The Bard I ne'er beheld; but heard the swains Still, with delight, repeat his peerless strains: Not less by Fortune, than the Muses, blest, No cares of life disturb'd his peaceful breast; For poesy alone his happy soul possest. Did you not know that youth? GILES.
صفحة 8
class="i20">Full well I knew; Nor is he, David, quite unknown to you;— That Youth am I!—(with what surprize you gaze!) Then was I blest indeed with golden days; My parents' only child, at home I dwelt, Indulged, caress'd, nor cares, nor wishes felt: How did they joy my verses to peruse! How praise each effort of my lisping Muse! Then sweetly glided on the stream of time; I tended flocks, or meditated rhyme. Alas! my friend, those blissful hours are o'er, My then-propitious stars now rule no more. Long has my Father slept among the dead:— With his last breath my joys, my hopes all fled. The wealth he left, which might our woes have eased, His greedy creditors unpitying seized: My Mother and myself (our sole resource) For livelihood to labour took recourse. DAVID. Affecting tale! I've heard it with a tear. GILES. No longer sit we idly chatting here; The village clock has struck; come, let us up! To-night, friend David, we'll together sup.
EPISTLE
TO A FRIEND.
——————Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd? Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles, Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane With sacred awe, repentant, to confess The Son of Venus is indeed a God? I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.
The great, creating Parent, when she breathed Into thine earthly frame the breath of life, Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul Of finer essence, capable to trace, To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good, Wherever found, through all her various works. And is not Woman, then, her fairest work, Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts Potent to captivate, and softly rule The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou, By partial Nature favour'd from the birth? Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf Through half thy genial season to the voice Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste Felicity congenial to thy soul? This was the secret cause:—inscrutable To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd To celibacy, for thyself alone Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend— The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast A visionary flame; for, while retired In solitude, on classic lore intent, Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid, With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd, Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length She dared to stand on disappointment's verge, Anticipating such thy future bride. What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes, So darkly bright, should innocently glance, Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame? That many a Fair should unregarded pass, So far unlike the picture in thy mind? At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien, Of artless manners, affable, and gay, Yet modestly reserved, with native taste Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught, Well-principled in things of prime concern. Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd Upon thy ravish'd view:—'twas She!—'twas She! Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live; And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love; And Nature was obeyed.—
Yet still suspense Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand Between the realms of happiness and pain, Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend! What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid With virgin blushes and approving smile Received thy vows, consented to be thine?
Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot, Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times, Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend.
TO DELILLE.
——————Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng I mark with transport some diviner song; Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire, Commanding silence to the vulgar quire; Apollo smiles, and all the tongues of Fame Through the poetic realm Delille proclaim.
صفحة 9
class="i10">O let a British Bard, admiring, greet Thy glorious triumph, and thy praise repeat! When merit claims the panegyric lay, Envy he scorns, and joys the debt to pay. Painter of Nature hail! to thee belong Unrivall'd talents for descriptive song: While others, fired with more ambitious views, Invoke the Epic, or the Tragic Muse, And, throned in Glory's temple, shine sublime, Proud of their laurel-wreaths that fear not Time, Thy Genius fondly stoops to softer themes, The landscape's beauties—flowers, and groves, and streams, And round his brows in modest triumph wears A simple garden-wreath, but ever green, as theirs. WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS FOR
——————
What though, some critics, in their taste severe, Turn from thy subject a disdainful ear, Demanding still, their duller minds to strike, War, passion, plot, surprises—and the like? Yet will true Taste, that ranges unconfined, And feels the charms of every various kind, Oft quit Voltaire, or Corneille, to peruse, Delille! the milder beauties of thy Muse; Oft love, with thee, through rural scenes to stray, And sweetly study Nature in thy lay.
But, ah! what boldness does thy breast inspire? Say, wilt thou dare to touch the Mantuan lyre? Long has thy country wish'd that classic spoil, Yet, of her tongue distrustful, shunn'd the toil; O cease then!—but thy hand essays the strings,— Amazement!—Fancy cries, 'tis Virgil sings! The same thy numbers, so correctly free, So full of sweetness, full of majesty!
Now, France, exult! nor view with envy more Surrounding nations rich in Roman lore; Delille has sung; then glory in his name, Engraved, immortal, on the rolls of Fame.
ODE
WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS FOR
LORD HOWE'S VICTORY ON 1ST JUNE, 1793.
—————— Whence the shouts of public joy, Whence the galaxies of light, That strike the deafen'd ear? That charm the dazzled sight? While Night, arrested in her highest way, Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway? Hark! Fame exalts her voice:— 'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice! The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave, Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave; Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main, His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.'
Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn! O fly the giddy train! From their inhuman transports turn With pity,—with disdain! Strip, strip, from Victory the fair disguise, And let her own dire form appal thine eyes! Ah, mark her triumphs in yon hideous scene! Myriads of brother-men untimely slain; Hear the deep groan, survey the dying mien, Convulsed with agonies of pain; And hark! what cries of wretchedness resound Throughout the troubled air! Widows and Orphans doom'd a helpless prey To famine and despair! And does ambition glory? Oh! the shame! The direful outrage to the human name! Nature herself is moved, the blushing stars retire, And sudden storms denounce high heaven's awaken'd ire.
See the black firmament divide! The almighty sword, with heavenly lustre bright, Flashes on the sight Terrific glory, dazzling mortal pride; The parted concave closes, while around Deep, rushing peals resound, Scatter the clouds, in airy tempest hurl'd, And shake the solid pillars of the world. As breathing from the tomb, A death-like stillness reigns, Save that in Fancy's jealous ear A sad, prophetic breeze complains Of some impending doom, While every soul is lost in vacancy and fear.
Now while Ambition lies in sleep unblest, Portentous visions haunt his guilty breast: Borne on a trophied car, sublime he goes Amid the gazing crowd, Who shout his triumphs loud; With haughty bliss his flatter'd spirit glows:— Sudden deserted and alone, Confused, alarm'd, in dreary shades unknown, He hears the wild waves beat the shore, The din of battle roar:— 'Tis silence! frowning vengeful from the gloom, Before his shrinking eyes Unnumber'd spectres rise, Point to their bleeding wounds, and sternly curse their doom: The conscious Murderer starts, the thunders roll, And hell's dread chaos yawns on his despairing soul.
But when the morn exerts her cheering power, And guilt-alarming darkness disappears, Wilt thou, Ambition! slight the warning hour, And fondly strive to dissipate thy fears? Yet wilt thou dare fulfil The madness of thy will? Kindle round earth the wasteful flames of strife, And glut the fiends of war with human life? Then mask with glory's name thy murderous cause, While fond, deluded mortals shout applause? Yet madly wilt thou dare?— Devoted Wretch! forbear!— Cries of the living,
صفحة 10
curses of the dead, Have claim'd thy destined head; And that same Power, whose mighty hand Once humbled thine aspiring flight, And hurl'd thee, with thy rebel band, Down to the deeps of hell and night, Now warns no more; that Power no longer spares, Thy sentence he hath fix'd, thy fate he now prepares.
ODE
TO HORROR.
——————I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul, Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw; Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul, And let my trembling hand the vision draw.
Lo! what terrific Forms around thee wait, The monstrous births abhorr'd of Mind and Fate! Murder, with blood of innocence defiled; Despair, deep-groaning; Madness screaming wild; Mid clouds of smoke, the fire-eyed Fury, War, Through gore and mangled flesh whirl'd in her thundering car; Plague, sallow Hag! who arms her breath With thousand viewless darts of death; And Earthquake, image of the final doom, That, bursting fierce his anguish'd mother's womb, Whelms nations in the yawning jaws of night, And palsies mighty Nature with affright. Amid that direful band I see thee, Horror! stand, With bloodless visage, terror-frozen stare, Distorted, ice-bound limbs, and bristling hair, Thy shivering lips bereft of speech and breath, In monstrous union life combined with death. I see thee still, O Horror! and in thee Methinks an image of myself I see; For, while I gaze with fear-fixed sight, O Horror! thy Gorgonian might Turns me to stone: dread tyrant, O forbear! To view thee I no longer dare.—
I feel my throbbing heart respire. Again my fancy with unquell'd desire, O Horror! courts thee, trembling owns thy power. Come, let us now, at this congenial hour, While midnight tempests sweep With bellowing rage the ship-ingulfing deep, While thunders roar, and livid lightnings blaze, Let us on that dread, watery chaos gaze. Or from the peopled vale, below, Uplooking, see, from lofty Alpine crown, The rolling mass of snow, Into a mountain grown, Rush overwhelming down. Or let us, in Numidian desert drear, The roar of prowling beasts, and hiss of serpents hear; Or bask by blazing city; or explore, On Etna's brink, the sulphurous mouth of hell, And hear the fiery flood tempestuous roar, And hear the damn'd in hotter torments yell. Or wilt thou, Horror! haunt the villain's breast, In dismal solitude, by thought opprest; Where guilty Conscience fetter'd lies, Turn'd all her shrinking lidless eyes Full to the blaze of truth's unclouded sun, And struggles, still in vain, her pangs, herself to shun? Ah!—now more hideous grows thine air; With direr aspect ne'er dost thou appear, To fright weak Beings in this earthly sphere; Faint semblance of thy most tremendous mien, As, in Tartarean gulfs of endless night, By agonizing demons thou art seen: But oh! what living eye could bear that sight? To look on it e'en Fancy does not dare.— Oh! may I ne'er be doom'd to see thee, Horror! there!