OFFSPRING of holy Truth,
Maternal guide of youth,
Lo! to thy shrine no costly gifts I bring,
But thou, with aspect stern,
Wilt not, O Duty, spurn
Feeling's spontaneous simple offering.
Not mine the song of flame;
Not mine the hero's name;
Yet wilt thou not my humble efforts bless?
For I would call thee friend,
Thy voice with joy attend,
And walk with thee in silent usefulness.
Oft when I shuddering eye
The dark futurity,
That silent untried path! and meditate
On all the ills and cares,
The sorrows and the snares,
Which there the young adventurer await :
And think with sickening glance
Upon life's awful chance,
great the danger, and the task how vast! From the dark torrent's brink
I like a coward shrink,
Fear to plunge in, and wildly wish it past.
Then thou, with frown severe,
Reprov'st my servile fear;
"Why tremble thus, while Duty is thy guide? While beams my steady light,
"Fear not the blackest night,
"For ill shall ne'er befall thee at my side."
And trust in thee I will;
O keep me near thee still,
And teach me every terror to dismiss !
For ne'er have I believed,
And thou my hopes deceived,
Thy yoke is easy, and thine end is bliss!
Should Love's seductive wiles,
Should Beauty's melting smiles,
From prudence tempt my youthful heart to err,
While phantoms of delight
Dance by my dazzled sight,
And eager Hope forbids me to defer:
O then, oppose thy shield,
Nor let me weakly yield,
But bow submissive, and await thy will,
Within my throbbing breast,
Be every sigh represt,
And every fond aspiring hope be still!
Yet never shall my heart
Be taught the Stoic's art:
Far-far the apathy of pride remove!
Oh! better 'twere to feel
The wound that ne'er can heal,
Than, cold and callous grown, forget to love.
Where'er thou lead'st the way,
The summons I'll obey ;`
Bid me come to thee o'er the yielding wave,
For thou wilt o'er the tide
My steps upholding guide,
And when I'm sinking, stretch thine arm to save.
E'en shall thy stern command
Forbid my youthful hand
To hold sweet converse with the much-lov'd lyre,
Tho' not without a sigh,
I'd hang it up on high,
And bid with fond adieu the Muse retire.
Then, when in swift decay,
Fast ebbs my life away,
How sweet to hear thy soft approving voice!
How will thine angel-smile
The last sad hour beguile,
The dying pillow smooth-the sinking heart rejoice!
IMAGE of Death, my wishes give
With thee, kind Sleep, to lie:
Thus, without life, how sweet to live!
Thus, without death, to die.
VERSES, RECITED IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD,
IN THE YEAR MDCCCXI.
Antehac fuisse, tales cum sint reliquiæ.
(The Lines marked with inverted Commas were not recited.}
As in some drooping form and time-worn face
Oft lingers yet the shade of youthful grace;
So, Parthenon, thy beauty still appears
Amid the wreck of thy forgotten years.
Though rude barbarian mosques profane thy scite,
And cells unveiled now mingle with the light;
Though but one lonely pillar lives to tell
Where a long range of shapely columns fell;
And, half suspended now, thy ruin nods
O'er mouldering fragments of its prostrate gods;
Yet still Oblivion seems to toil in vain,
For what she razes, Fancy rears again.
Nor rears thee, Parthenon, of meaner mould,
Than when, from Cecrop's cliff, would gleam of old
Thy lustre o'er the rocky plain; or burst
Through morning mists by orient suns disperst,
"And flashing on the glassy wave afar,
"Would startle, at his oar, the mariner."
How glows the frontispiece! in sumptuous stone An awful Jove his offspring seems to own: With gaze majestic on the stranger bent, The heavenly conclave nod their dread assent:
High on her car she stands, the virgin queen,
In peaceful garb arrayed, and peaceful mien :
Light bound her steeds, unconscious of the rein,
While bloodless transport throbs in every vein.
Neptune behind, in Parian stone, the earth
Strikes; and behold a war-horse spring to birth.
Next Pallas gives the word; from stony roots
The branch of Peace in budding marble shoots,
Eight fluted columns, ranked in even file,
In front and rear, adorn the shadowy pile:
The channeled triglyph, and its drooping base,
Bespeak the new-born temple's Dorian race:
There might you see a dread-inspiring sight,
The Lapitha and Centaurs wreathed in fight:
Those wield their giant limbs: these grasp their foe
With sinewy arms, which branch from beasts below,
Far sloping pillars range along each side,
And stretch a portico sublime and wide;
Six, at each front, retiring from the eye,
Shun its observance, but to tempt it nigh.
In slow procession move around the frieze
Virgins, and Youths, and guardian Deities.
"Some stately ride, some march to measur'd sound,
"Whilst youthful champions walk their chariots round.
"Here victims pace their voluntary way,
"And bards proclaim Minerva's festal day."
Such Fancy paints thee, Parthenon, and pours
Meridian splendor on thy waning hours,
As oft the sun, on some tall mountain's brow
Crowned with the wreath that winter wove, as now
It melts in silent lapse, will fling his ray,
And lend it lustre, while it wastes away.
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