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SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the | a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, about 1760. He received a learned education, which he completed by travelling through most of the countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the common reverses of an author, in which character he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirited Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These were succeeded, after an interval of five years, by the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, when he added to a collected edition of his works, his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Columbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, a tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara; and, in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published his first part of Italy, which has since been completed, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which,
his last and greatest, but by no means his best, performance; though an eminent writer in the New Monthly Magazine calls it "perfect as a whole." There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive passages to be found in it; and it is totally free from meretriciousness: but we think the author has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, to render it of much value to his reputation, as a whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Memory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. In society, few men are said to be more agreeable in manners and conversation than the venerable subject of our memoir; and his benevolence is said to be on a par with his taste and accomplishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, "We are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell."
Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui.—Mart.
O COULD my mind, unfolded in my page,
Enlighten climes and mould a future age;
There as it glow'd, with noblest frenzy fraught,
Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;
To virtue wake the pulses of the heart,
And bid the tear of emulation start!
O could it still, through each succeeding year,
My life, my manners, and my name endear;
And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,
Still hold communion with the wise and just !—
Yet should this verse, my leisure's best resource,
When through the world it steals its secret course,
Revive but once a generous wish supprest,
Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest;
In one good deed a fleeting hour employ,
Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy;
Blest were my lines, though limited their sphere,
Though short their date, as his who traced them
Colle, che mi piacesti,
Ov' ancor per usanza Amor mi mena;
Ben riconosco in voi l'usate forme,
Non, lasso, in me.
THE poem begins with the description of an obscure village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and leading principles of this faculty.
It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regu larity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second.
When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in tine or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our
attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, he who feels the infirmities of age dwells most on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of his youth.
The associating principle, as here employed, is no less conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous propensity.
Not confined to man, it extends through all animated nature; and its effect sare peculiarly striking in the
TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear!
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.
See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest:
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
O haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring;
And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear;
And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear:
Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood,
Or view'd the forest feats of Robin Hood:
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep.
Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of inspiration round.
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;
Those muskets, cased with venerable rust;
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life-all whisper of the past!
As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,
We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest;
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!
How oft inscribed, with friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
Through sister elms that waved their summer-shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!
Childhood's loved group revisits every scene
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green!
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live!
Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below,
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ;
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong
The sage's precept, and the poet's song.
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses/
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn:
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here,
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions, and romantic dreams!
Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed;
Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,
Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart.
Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd :-
And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and
To learn the colour of my future years!
Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!"
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.
But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell!
It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace
The few fond lines that time may soon efface.
On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its spring;
Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.
The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade,
He lectured every youth that round him play'd;
And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone
I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Guides of my life! instructers of my youth!
Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth;
Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd;
In age beloved, in poverty revered;
In friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.
-But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep,
When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind
With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined!
Ethereal power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight;
From whom that musing, melancholy mood
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse,
Her pencil dipt in nature's living hues,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.
Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the various avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Drew every subject spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore;
From reason's faintest ray to Newton soar.
| What different spheres to human bliss assign'd!
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
O mark the sleepless energies of thought!
Th' adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy;
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the
The village common spotted white with sheep,
The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep;
All rouse reflection's sadly pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,
And, with the sons of science, woo'd the gale
That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of sail;
So, when he breathed his firm, yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved-such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy forests fringed the evening sky.
So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height,
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues portray'd
Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade:
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.
And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth,
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth.
Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh;
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
Venice should blush to hear the muse relate,
When exile wore his blooming years away,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
Glad to return, though hope could grant no more,
And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore.
And hence the charm historic scenes impart :
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale
Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the
In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell,
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.
'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom:
So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honour'd dust disclosed,
Th' immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.
And as he long in sweet delusion hung,
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves?
In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?
And hence that calm delight the portrait gives:
We gaze on every feature till it lives!
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid;
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep:
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace
The father's features in his infant face.
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
Won by the raptures of a game at play;
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.
What though the iron school of war erase
Each milder virtue, and each softer grace;
What though the fiend's torpedo touch arrest
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast:
Still shall this active principle preside,
And wake the tear to pity's self denied.
Th' intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemn'd to climb his mountain cliffs no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild, Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the rong-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.
Ass not if court or camps dissolve the charm: ay why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm; Why great Navaire, when France and freedom
Bought the lone limits of a forest shed.
When Dioclesian's seh-corrected mund
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd
day why we trace the labours of his spade,
In calm Salona's philosophic snage.
Say, when contentious Chailes renounced a throne,
To muse with monks unletter d and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claim'd the sorrows of a las auteu?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast,
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress d.
Undamp'd by time, the generous instinct grows
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
On every form of varied life imprest.
The social tribes its choicest influence hail:-
And when the drum beats briskly in the gale,
The war-worn courser charges at the sound,
And with young vigour wheels the pasture rour!.
Oft has the aged tenant of the vale
Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale;
Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed,
From sire to son with pious zeal bequeath'd.
When o'er the blasted heath the day declined,
And on the scath'd oak warr'd the winter wind;
When not a distant taper's twinkling ray
Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way
When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear,
And the big rain-drops told the tempest near;
Then did his horse the homeward track descry,
The track that shunn'd his sad, inquiring eye;
And win each wavering purpose to relent,
With warmth so mild, so gently violent,
That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd,
And doubts and terrors vanish'd from his mind.
Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form
Has borne the buffet of the mountain storm;
And who will first his fond impatience meet?
His faithful dog's already at his feet!
Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door, Though all, that knew him, know his face ne more,
His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,
With that mute eloquence which passes speech,-
And see, the master but returns to die!
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly?
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of
The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth,
These, when to guard misfortune's sacred grave,
Will firm fidelity exult to brave.
Led by what chart, transports the timid dove The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? Say, through the clouds what compass points her flight?
Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the sight.
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies:'Tis vain! through ether's pathless wilds she goes,
And lights at last where all her cares repose. Sweet bird! thy truth shall Haarlem's walls
And unborn ages consecrate thy nest.
When, with the silent energy of grief,
With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope relief,
Want with her babes round generous valour clung,
To wring the slow surrender from his tongue,
'Twas thine to animate her closing eye;
Alas! 'twas thine, perchance, the first to die,
Crush'd by her meager hand, when welcomed from
Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
And many a stream allures her to its source.
'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought,
Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought,
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind;
Its orb so full, its vision so confined!
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue
Of varied scents, that charm'd her as she flew?
Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign
Guards the least link of being's glorious chain.