Imagens das páginas

O Nymph with loosely flowing hair, With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, Waving in thy snowy hand An all commanding magic wand; Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow. Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Through air, and over earth and sea, While the various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes; O lover of the desert, hail ! Say in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Midst falls of water you reside, 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green


dales between,
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear’d,
Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was reard,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne ;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer tell,
To thy unknown, sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev’ning warbling thee to rest :
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove ;
Till suddenly awak'd I lear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly soothing sound !

Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead, Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-rob’d Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads, Where Echo walks steep hills anong, Lisť’ning to the shepherd's song,

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long iny pensive mind employ:
Haste, Faney, from these scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh!
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of wo,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some Virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cbeek,
Her promis'd bridegronin's urn to seek;
Or to some abbey's mond'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold winter's show'rs,
The naked buggar shiv'ring lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tott'ring wall
Shonid on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosum beat!
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear

; “ Give une another horse!" I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadronis fly; Whence is this rage ?

What spirit, say, To battle hurries me away? 'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war,

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The pangs

There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign ;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead :
Where giant Terrour stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield !

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun;

of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss.

When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
Fr her green lap the pink and rose ;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Sunumer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold,
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear,

O warm, enthusiastic Maid,
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line;
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to louch the sacred string,
Save when with siniles thuu bidst me sing.

O hear our pray'r! O hither come
From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb!
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling grave;
O Queen of numbers! once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, filld with unexbausted fire,
May boldly strike the sounding lyre,

May rise above the rhyming throng,
And with some new unequalld song
O'er all our listning passions reign,
O’erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,
With terrour shake, with pity move,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign † attend his ey’ning walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk :
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like lightning let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce ;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critics' studied laws :
O let each Muse's fame increase !
O bid Britannia rival Greece !




Hence loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sighs unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings ;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,


Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a maying,
There on beds of vi'lets blue,
And fresh blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Haste thee Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek ;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides;
Come, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the bark begin bis flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tow'r in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweetbrier, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine :
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn door,
Stoutly struts his dames before :
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horta
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,
From the side of some hoar bill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Some tiine walking not unseen
By hedge-row elnis, on hillocks green,

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