« НазадПродовжити »
*** Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 22 Aud waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn,
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
“ The next, with dirges due in sad array, And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him
borne. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown,
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own,
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
He gave to misery all he had, a tear;
He gaiu'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
spelt by th' unletter'd
THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
A PINDARIC ODE.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oh! sovereign of the willing soul,
They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-cncircled
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Far from the sun and summer-gale, Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
In thy green lap was nature's darling laid, O'er Idalia's velvet-green
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, The rosy-crowned loves are seen,
To him the mighty mother did unveil On Cytherea's day,
Her awful face: The dauntless child
sca d'er o With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures,
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smild. Frisking light in frolic measures;
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Now pursuing, now retreating,
Richly paint the vernal year: Now in circling troops they meet :
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! To brisk notes in cadence beating,
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Nor second he, that rode sublime In gliding state she wins her easy way:
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy,
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw: but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos’d his eyes in endless night. And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear And justify the laws of Jove.
Two coursers of ethereal race, Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
With necks in thunder cloth’d, and long-resounding Night, and all her sickly dews,
pace. Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky;
Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no moreIn climes beyond the solar road,
Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
Wakes thee now? though he inherit The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom,
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.
That the Theban eagle bear, And oft, beneath the odorous shade
Sailing with supreme dominion Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
Through the azure deep of air: She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Glory pursues, and generous shame,
Beyond the limits of a vulgar sate,
Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
* Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Mute, but to the voice of anguishı?
Confusion on thy banners wait, Where each old poetic mountain
Though, fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state. Inspiration breath'd around;
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Every shade and liallow'd fountain
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power,
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild disinay, And coward vice that revels in her chains.
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
Ile wound with toilsome march his long array.
A PINDARIC ODE.
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiver
In gallant trim the gilded vessel ing lance.
Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm; On a rock, whose haughty brow
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
That hush'd in grim repose,expects his evening prey. Rob'd in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood;
Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare ;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :
Fell thirst and famine scowl
Heard ye the din of battle bray, O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they weave, Lance to lance, and horse to horse! Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, • Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
Revere bis consort's faith, his father's fame, That hush'd the stormy main;
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Above, below, the rose of snow, Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: Modred, whose magic song
The bristled boar in jufant gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er th'accursed loom, Far, far aloof th'affrighted ravens sail :
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. The famish'd eagle screams and passes by.
“ Edward, lo! to sudden fate Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)” No more I weep. They do not sleep.
"Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit: they linger yet,
In you bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.'
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! “ Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! The winding-sheet of Edward's race:
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. Give ample room, and verge enough,
All-hail, ye genuine kings; Britannia's issue, hail! The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night,
• Girt with many a baron bold When Severn shall re-echo with affright [ring,
Sublinie their starry fronts they rear; The shrieks of death, through Berkeley's roofs that And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old Shrieks of an agonizing king.
In bearded majesty, appear. She wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
In the midst a form divine ! That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. wait!
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, Amazement in his van,
with flight combin'd; What strains of vocal transport round her play! And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Low on his funeral couch he lies!
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd No pitying heart, no eye afford
wings. A tear to grace his obsequies! Is the sable warrior fled ?
"The verse adorn again Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
Fierce war, and faithful love, The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. Gone to salute the rising morn.
In buskin'd measures move Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
The different doom our fates assign. That lost in long futurity expire.
Be thine despair, and scepter'd care; Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine To triumph, and to die, are mine.' cloud,
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? Deep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
What can an actor give? In ev'ry age
The town divided, each runs several ways,
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
When place of judgment is by whim supply'd,
At length agreed, all squabbles to decide,
For Johnson, some, but Johnson, it was fear'd, Would be too grave; and Sterne too gay appear’d: Others for Francklin voted; but 'twas known, He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own: For Colman many, but the peevish tongue Of prudent age found out that he was young: For Murphy some few pilföring wits declar'd, Whilst folly clapp'd her hands, and wisdom star'd.
To mischief train'd, ev'n from his mother's womb, Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom, Adopting arts by which gay villains rise, And reach the heights which honest men despise; Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud, Dull’mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud; A pert, prim prater, of the northern race, Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face, Stood forth ;--and thrice he wav'd his lily hand And thrice he twirl'd his eye-thrice strok'd his
band. “At friendship's call (thus oft with trait’rous aim, Men void of faith usurp faith's sacred name) At friendship’s call I come, by Murphy sent, Who thus by me developes his intent. But lest, transfus'd, the spirit should be lost, That spirit which in storms of rhet'ric tost, Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer, In his own words his own intentions hear.
“Thanks to my friends.-But to vile fortunes born, No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn, Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw, Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law? Twice (curs'd remembrance)! twice I strove to gain Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train, Who in the Temple and Gray's-inn prepare For clients wretched feet the legal snare: Dead to those arts which polish and refine, Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine, Twice did those blockheads startle at my name, And foul rejection gave me up to shame. To laws and lawyers then I bid adieu, And plans of far more lib'ral note pursue. Who will may be a judge my kindling breast Burns for that chair wbich Roscius once possessid,