Who the rude depths of Dante hast explor'd;
Yet Orpheus-like return'd, to light restor❜d;
And then didst follow, unappal'd by fear,
Frantic Orlando in his mad career;
Or, bosom❜d in Ophelia's haunted vale,
Of princely Eugene sung'st the wond'rous tale!
O skill'd like Turpin, with sagacious eye
To pierce the glorious rites of chivalry,
And fill each chronicle's mysterious void!
Pattern of modest worth, where art thou, Boyd ?
Though Fancy o'er my cradled vision smil'd,
And fav'ring muses own'd their darling child;
Though secret bliss, ineffably refin'd,
Shed soft illusions o'er my melting mind;
And her fantastic mirror Promise gave;
E'en then Misfortune mark'd me for her slave;
Dependance pointed to my lot forlorn,
And mid the roses thrust a latent thorn.
From youth's first dawn to manhood's riper day,
What scenes have drawn my pilgrim-step astray :
Deceitful scenes; in fairy-prospect bright,
But dimm'd too often on the cheated sight!
Ere yet grief's keenest shaft unerring sped,
And Rapture wip'd the tear that Pity shed,
What winning forms aye beck'd me to pursuë
Such shades as colder Prudence never knew;
While, every fibre stretching e'en to pain,
I commun'd with the beings of the brain!
Late o'er my head I view the gathering cloud
Of sorrow wrap me in its sablest shroud;
Of life's machine the movements wear away,
And those voluptuous fantasies decay.
Yet still with undiminish'd smile témaint
Some silent conscious guests to soothe my pain:
Still meek-ey'd Feeling bends, divinely mov'd,
n social woe, o'er him the muses lov'd ;
Still Friendship from her healing store bestows
A sov'reign cure each slighter scar to close ;
And fair Devotion, brightly fleeting by,
Unbars new portals to a purer sky,
Whence seraphs, leaning from th' angelic quire,
Invite to sweep a more than mortal lyre.
Be thine, my friend, with free facetiotis ease,
And flashes of unpilfer'd mirth, to please;
Whom Fortune fix'd, then learning first to feel,
Just on the middle spoke of her inconstant wheel.
Be ne'er thy page, to gull a guilty taste,
By ribaldry's licentious trash disgrac'd;
Be ne'er thy satire strew'd on virtue's bier,
Nor yet the frown of vice in office fear;
And still with honest apathy avoid
That glut of wit where every palate's cloy'd ;
Where Malice harlequins in Humour's vest,
And brother-fools stand gaping for the jest..
Oh! would th' indulgent stars this band allow
To quit the barren pen, and grasp the plough ;
Cheerful to chaunt unmeditated lays,
And see at eve the sprightly faggot blaze;
Reckless of all the brilliant toys of state
That win those babies, falsely styl'd the great;
With friends select but few, the noisy town
I'd fly for green retreats, and shadows brown ;
Shrink mid their vernal fold; and safe within,
Despise th' abode of luxury and sin;
Stretch'd by a winding streamlet's tiny tide,
Forget majestic Thames's ocean-pride;
Nor miss, where village-spires presume to rise,
London's imperial top that wounds the skies.
NOW when the sun with less enamour'd beam
Lights the faint blushes of the fading year,
Oh teach me, matron staid,
To woo thy tender calm!
For much I love the languish of thine eye, Luxurious stream'd o'er each congenial scene, That lends to all around
Whether thy evening-clouds their skirts unfold Of paler purple, through the forest-gloom Effusing partial streaks
From their ethereal glow ;
Or the blue bosom of the tranquil lake,
Where Silence sits amid the dusky steam,
Scarce undulating, heaves
Thy chasten'd smile beneath:
Thy auburn locks with dewy woodbine drest; Ere yet the sere wreath withers on thy brow, Or brumal blasts deform
Thy stole of sober green.
Oft, mid the leafy wilderness of shade,
Through its obscure recesses moaning deep,
But yet without a wind,
Conduct my devious step.
Nor seldom let me catch the softer dash
Of distant water, from some willowy sluice,
Prone to its pebbled bed
Bounding in faery fall;
Or curfew's slumbrous swing from village-spire; Or hollow hum of whisp'ring voices near,
Homeward returning late ;
Or watch-dog's sullen bay.
Meanwhile the mellow swell of past'ral flute,
May from her thicket lure the Attic bird,
With one sad-closing strain
To harmonize the whole.
Then will the muse (the muse, thy handmaid fair), When all the hamlet's hush'd in silence sweet,
Resume her solemn song,
Her song of grateful praise:
For, ever in thy rear is Genius seen,
Inly conversing with himself; and them
Contrasting with each sight,
The creatures of the mind.
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