Those hangings with their worn-out graces, Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen." Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Makes answer quite beside the mark: "No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, Engaged myself to be at home, And shall expect him at the door, Precisely when the clock strikes four." "You are so deaf," the lady cried, And raised her voice, and frown'd beside, "You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear?' "Dismiss poor Harry!" he replies; "Some people are more nice than wise: For one slight trespass all this stir? What if he did ride whip and spur, 'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse Will never look one hair the worse."
"Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing""Child! I am rather hard of hearing""Yes, truly; one must scream and bawl: I tell you, you can't hear at all!" Then, with a voice exceeding low, "No matter if you hear or no." Alas! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be fear'd, As to be wantonly incurr'd, To gratify a fretful passion, On every trivial provocation? The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive. But if infirmities, that fall In common to the lot of all, A blemish or a sense impair'd, Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create The comfort of the wedded state; Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays; 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression Shews love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
THE swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait The call of early Spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream, The wildest wind that blows, Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache, And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear, that speaks regret Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine and dry the tear.
[This spirit-stirring ode was suggested by the reading of Hume's history, during the winter of 1780.]
WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.
"Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
"Rome shall perish-write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.
"Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
"Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name ;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
"Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
"Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due ;
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you."
[This poem, finished in 1779, its author had named the "Burning Mountain," and intended it to occupy, as he says, of the light infantry." In correcting the proof sheets of his first volume, however, he adopted its present place and appellation.]
THERE was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire ; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines, (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doom, A conflagration labouring in her womb, She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But, oh! what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along? Havock and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass; Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?) Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets! The selfsame gale that wafts the fragrance round, Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore.
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
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