EPISTLE TO THE EARL of DorseT. Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl.

O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear,
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow:
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsully'd froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of Nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
[meads.
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns..

"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Curst be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade!
The lily peace outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore:
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart and wealthy town.
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea:
And are we only yet repaid by thee?
Ah! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betray'd?
Why heed we not, while mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we these less pleasing to behold,
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O cease, my fears! - all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of woe,
What if the lion in his rage I meet!
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:
And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger rous'd, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train:
Before them death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep:
Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure!
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find;
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

O, hapless youth! for she thy love hath won,
The tender Zara, will be most undone !

Big swell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid,
When fast she dropt her tears, as thus she said:
"Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain,
Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain!
Yet as thou go'st, may every blast arise
Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs!
Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see,
No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me."
O, let me safely to the fair return,

Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn;
O let me teach my heart to lose its fears,
Recall'd by wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.
He said, and call'd on heaven to bless the day,
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

ECLOGUE III.

ABRA; OR THE GEORGIAN SULTANA.

Scene, a Forest. Time, the Evening.

IN Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen In distant view along the level green,

While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall forests cast a longer shade,
What time 'tis sweet o'er fields of rice to stray,
Or scent the breathing maize at setting day;
Amidst the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.

Of Abra first began the tender strain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain:
At morn she came those willing flocks to lead,
Where lilies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the live-long hours she told,
Till late at silent eve she penn'd the fold.
Deep in the grove, beneath the secret shade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers she made:
Gay-motley'd pinks and sweet jonquils she chose,
The violet blue that on the moss-bank grows;
All sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there :
The finish'd chaplet well adorn'd her hair.

Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to stray, By love conducted from the chase away; Among the vocal vales he heard her song, And sought the vales and echoing groves among: At length he found, and woo'd the rural maid; She knew the monarch, and with fear obey'd. "Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd, And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

The royal lover bore her from the plain; Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain : Oft as she went, she backward turn'd her view, And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu. Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove, To richer scenes of golden power and love! Go leave the simple pipe, and shepherd's strain; With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign. "Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd, And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Yet midst the blaze of courts she fix'd her love
On the cool fountain, or the shady grove:
Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind
To the sweet vale, and flowery mead inclin'd;
And oft as spring renew'd the plains with flowers,
Breath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours,
With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,
The breezy mountains, and the forests green.
Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band!
Each bore a crook all rural in her hand :
Some simple lay, of flocks and herds, they sung;
With joy the mountain and the forest rung.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!”
And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of state, attendant on the fair;
Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retir'd,
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fir'd:
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
And thought of crowns and busy courts no more.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Blest was the life that royal Abbas led :
Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel?
The simple shepherd-girl can love as well.
Let those who rule on Persia's jewel'd throne,
Be fam'd for love, and gentlest love alone;
Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.

E E

O happy days! the maids around her say;
O haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd;
And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

ECLOGUE IV.

AGIB AND SECANDER; OR THE FUGITIVES.

Scene, a Mountain in Circassia. Time, Midnight.
IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclin❜d,
Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind;
At that still hour, when awful midnight reigns,
And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And past in radiance through the cloudless sky;
Sad o'er the dews, two brother-shepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led :
Fast as they prest their flight, behind them lay
Wild ravag'd plains, and valleys stole away.
Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began:
Secander.

O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, O turn thee and survey,
Trace our sad flight through all its length of way!
And first review that long-extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already past with pain!
Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we try'd!
And last this lofty mountain's weary side!

Agib.

Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know The toils of flight, or some severer woe! Still as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind, And shrieks and sorrows load the saddening wind: In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand, He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land. Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came, Droops its fair honours to the conquering flame: Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair, And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care. Secander.

Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword, In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian lord! In vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid, To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid! Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign'd, Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind, Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

Agib.

Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat, Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. Sweet to the sight is Zabran's flowery plain, And once by maids and shepherds lov'd in vain! No more the virgins shall delight to rove By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove, On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale, Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale: Fair scenes! but, ah! no more with peace possest, With ease alluring, and with plenty blest. No more the shepherds' whitening tents appear, Nor the kind products of a bounteous year; No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd! But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.

Secander.

In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves;
In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,
Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair!
Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send;
Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.
Agib.

Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war;
Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far

Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,
To shield your harvests, and defend your fair :
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,
Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,
By lust incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,
Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way;
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and nurst in scenes of woe.

He said; when loud along the vale was heard A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd: Th' affrighted shepherds, through the dews of night, Wide o'er the moonlight hills renew'd their flight.

ODE TO FEAR.

THOU, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,
While fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye;
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly.
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep:
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And those, the fiends who, near allied,
O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside;
While vengeance in the lurid air
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait.
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

EPODE.

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the bard who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel:

For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,
But reach'd from virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

But who is he whom later garlands grace,

Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous queen Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appear'd.

O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line. Though gentle pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy rape and murder dwell? Or in some hollow seat,

'Gainst which the big waves beat,

submitted

Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought?
Dark power, with shuddering meek
thought,

Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told;
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true!
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel;
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

ode on the poetical CHARACTER.

As once, if not with light regard
I read aright that gifted bard,
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest elfin-queen has blest)
One, only one unrivall'd fair,
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn tournay hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand,
Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame,
With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd side;
Happier, hopeless fair, if never

Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,

To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in Heaven,

The cest of amplest power is given,
To few the godlike gift assigns,

To gird their blest prophetic loins,

And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame.
The band, as fairy legends say,
Was wove on that creating day.

When he, who call'd with thought to birth
Yon tented sky, this laughing earth,
And drest with springs and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,
Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, sate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his sapphire throne:
The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to sound,
Now sublimest triumph swelling,
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And she, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic notes aloud:
And thou, the rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy subject life was born!
The dangerous passions kept aloof,
Far from the sainted growing woof:
But near it sate ecstatic wonder,
Listening the deep-applauding thunder:
And truth, in sunny vest array'd,
By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made.
All the shadowy tribes of mind,

In braided dance their murmurs join'd;
And all the bright uncounted powers,
Who feed on Heaven's ambrosial flowers.
Where is the bard, whose soul can now
Its high presuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him design'd?
High on some cliff, to Heav'n up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange shapes o'erbrow the valleys deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread;

I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,
Nigh spher'd in Heaven its native strains could hear;
On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung.
Thither oft his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,
With many a vow from hope's aspiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;
In vain-Such bliss to one alone
Of all the sons of soul was known;
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,
Or curtain'd close such scene from every future view.

ODE TO EVENING.

Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales;