Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf Where Shakspeare lies, be present: and with thee Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings Wafting ten thousand colours through the air, Which, by the glances of her magic eye, She blends and shifts at will, through countless Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre, [forms, Which rules the accents of the moving sphere, Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend And join this festive train? for with thee comes The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports, Majestic Truth; and where Truth deigns to come, Her sister Liberty will not be far.
Be present all ye genii, who conduct
The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard, New to your springs and shades: who touch his ear With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye The bloom of Nature, and before him turn The gayest, happiest attitude of things.
Oft have the laws of each poetic strain The critic-verse employ'd; yet still unsung Lay this prime subject, though importing most A poet's name for fruitless is the attempt, By dull obedience and by creeping toil Obscure to conquer the severe ascent
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath Must fire the chosen genius; Nature's hand Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings Impatient of the painful steep, to soar High as the summit; there to breathe at large Ethereal air; with bards and sages old, Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes, To this neglected labour court my song ; Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task To paint the finest features of the mind, And to most subtle and mysterious things Give colour, strength, and motion. Of Nature and the Muses bids explore, Through secret paths erewhile untrod by man, The fair poetic region, to detect
Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts, And shade my temples with unfading flowers Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recess, Where never poet gain'd a wreath before.
From Heaven my strains begin; from Heaven descends
The flame of genius to the human breast, And love and beauty, and poetic joy And inspiration. Ere the radiant Sun Sprang from the east, or 'mid the vault of night The Moon suspended her serener lamp; Ere mountains, woods, or streams, adorn'd the globe, Or Wisdom taught the sons of men her lore; Then lived the almighty One: then, deep retired In his unfathom'd essence, view'd the forms, The forms eternal of created things; The radiant Sun, the Moon's nocturnal lamp, The mountains, woods, and streams, the rolling globe,
And Wisdom's mien celestial. From the first Of days, on them his love divine he fix'd,
His admiration till in time complete, What he admired and loved, his vital smile Unfolded into being. Hence the breath Of life informing each organic frame, Hence the green earth, and wild resounding waves; Hence light and shade alternate; warmth and cold; And clear autumnal skies and vernal showers, And all the fair variety of things.
But not alike to every mortal eye
Is this great scene unveil'd. For since the claims Of social life, to different labours urge The active powers of man; with wise intent The hand of Nature on peculiar minds Imprints a different bias, and to each Decrees its province in the common toil. To some she taught the fabric of the sphere, The changeful Moon, the circuit of the stars, The golden zones of Heaven; to some she gave To weigh the moment of eternal things, Of time, and space, and Fate's unbroken chain, And will's quick impulse: others by the hand She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore What healing virtue swells the tender veins Of herbs and flowers; or what the beams of morn Draw forth, distilling from the clifted rind In balmy tears. But some, to higher hopes Were destined; some within a finer mould She wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame. To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds The world's harmonious volume, there to read The transcript of himself. On every part They trace the bright impressions of his hand : In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores, The Moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form Blooming with rosy smiles, they see portray'd That uncreated beauty, which delights The mind supreme. They also feel her charms, Enamour'd; they partake the eternal joy.
For as old Memnon's image, long renown'd By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded through the warbling air Unbidden strains; even so did Nature's hand To certain species of external things, Attune the finer organs of the mind: So the glad impulse of congenial powers, Or of sweet sounds, or fair proportion'd form, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills through Imagination's tender frame, From nerve to nerve: all naked and alive They catch the spreading rays; till now the soul At length discloses every tuneful spring, To that harmonious movement from without Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain Diffuses its enchantment: Fancy dreams Of sacred fountains and Ely-ian groves, And vales of bliss: the intellectual power Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear, And smiles: the passions, gently soothed away, Sink to divine repose, and love and joy Alone are waking; love and joy, serene As airs that fan the summer. O! attend,
Whoe'er thou art, whom these delights can touch, Whose candid bosom the refining love Of Nature warms, O! listen to my song; And I will guide thee to her favourite walks, And teach thy solitude her voice to hear, And point her loveliest features to thy view. Know then, whate'er of Nature's pregnant stores, Whate'er of mimic Art's reflected forms With love and admiration thus inflame The powers of fancy, her delighted sons To three illustrious orders have referr'd; Three sister-graces, whom the painter's hand, The poet's tongue, confesses; the sublime, The wonderful, the fair. I see them dawn; I see the radiant visions, where they rise, More lovely than when Lucifer displays His beaming forehead through the gates of morn, To lead the train of Phoebus and the Spring. Say, why was man so eminently raised Amid the vast creation; why ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame ; But that the Omnipotent might send him forth In sight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundless theatre, to run The great career of justice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds;
To chase each partial purpose from his breast: And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding smile of Heaven? Else wherefore In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, [burns That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind, With such resistless ardour to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free, Spurning the gross control of wilful might; Proud of the strong contention of her toils; Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame? Who that, from Alpine heights, his labouring eye Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade,
And continents of sand; will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of Earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm; Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens; Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast, Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars The blue profound, and hovering round the Sun Beholds him pouring the redundant stream Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway
The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused She darts her swiftness up the long career Of devious comets; through its burning signs Exulting measures the perennial wheel Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, Invest the orient. Now amazed she views The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode ; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has travell❜d the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world untired She meditates the eternal depth below; Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of Renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene.
Final cause of our pleasure in Beauty.
THEN tell me, for ye know, Does Beauty ever deign to dwell where health And active use are strangers? Is her charm Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends Are lame and fruitless? or did Nature mean This pleasing call the herald of a lie;
To hide the shame of discord and disease, And catch with fair hypocrisy the heart Of idle faith? O no! with better cares The indulgent mother, conscious how infirm Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, By this illustrious image, in each kind Still most illustrious where the object holds Its native powers most perfect, she by this Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire, And sanctifies his choice. The generous glebe Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul, The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense, And every charm of animated things, Are only pledges of a state sincere, The integrity and order of their frame, When all is well within, and every end Accomplish'd. Thus was Beauty sent from Heaven The lovely ministress of truth and good
In this dark world: for truth and good are one, And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her, With like participation.
FROM THE SAME. Mental Beauty.
MIND, mind alone, (bear witness, Earth and The living fountains in itself contains [Heaven!) Of beauteous and sublime: here hand in hand, Sit paramount the Graces; here enthroned, Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, Invites the soul to never-fading joy. Look then abroad through Nature, to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling unshaken through the void immense; And speak, O man! does this capacious scene With half that kindling majesty dilate Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar's fate, Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm Aloft extending, like eternal Jove
When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail? For lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free! Is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, In the bright eye of Hesper or the Morn, In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair As virtuous Friendship? as the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just? The graceful tear that streams for others' woes ? Or the mild majesty of private life, Where Peace with ever-blooming olive crowns The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings Of Innocence and Love protect the scene?
All the natural passions, grief, pity, and indignation, partake of a pleasing sensation.
Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture.-Ask the crowd Which flies impatient from the village-walk To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some helpless bark; while sacred Pity melts The general eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While every mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down: O! deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature given To mutual terror and Compassion's tears? No sweetly-melting softness which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers To this their proper action and their end? -Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour, Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye, Led by the glimmering taper, moves around The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame For Grecian heroes, where the present power Of Heaven and Earth surveys the immortal page, Even as a father blessing, while he reads The praises of his son. If then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame; Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the base, heroic states Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown Of curst Ambition: when the pious band Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires, Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian Pride Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp Of public power, the majesty of rule, The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe, To slavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust And storied arch, to glut the coward-age Of regal Envy, strew the public way With hallow'd ruins; when the Muse's haunt, The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk With Socrates or Tully, hears no more, Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks, Or female superstition's midnight prayer; When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow To sweep the works of glory from their base; Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall, Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd, Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds That clasp the mouldering column; thus defaced, Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow, Or dash Octavius from the trophied car; Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, And bears aloft his gold-invested front, And says within himself-I am a king, And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe Intrude upon mine ear?—The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught Of servitude and folly, have not yet,
Blest be the eternal Ruler of the world! Defiled to such a depth of sordid shame The native honours of the human soul, Nor so effaced the image of its sire.
Enjoyments of genius in collecting her stores for composition.
By these mysterious ties the busy power Of Memory her ideal train preserves Entire; or when they would elude her watch, Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste Of dark oblivion; thus collecting all The various forms of being to present, Before the curious aim of mimic Art, Their largest choice: like spring's unfolded blooms Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful bee May taste at will, from their selected spoils To work her dulcet food. For not the expanse Of living lakes in summer's noontide calm, Reflects the bordering shade, and sun - bright heavens
With fairer semblance; not the sculptured gold More faithful keeps the graver's lively trace, Than he, whose birth the sister powers of Art Propitious view'd, and from his genial star Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind; Than his attemper'd bosom must preserve The seal of Nature. There alone unchanged, Her form remains. The balmy walks of May There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling Resounds for ever in the abstracted ear, [chord Melodious and the virgin's radiant eye, Superior to disease, to grief, and time, Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length Endow'd with all that Nature can bestow, The child of Fancy oft in silence bends O'er these mix'd treasures of his pregnant breast, With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves To frame he knows not what excelling things; And win he knows not what sublime reward Of praise and wonder. By degrees, the mind Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic powers Labour for action: blind emotions heave His bosom, and with loveliest frenzy caught, From Earth to Heaven he rolls his daring eye, From Heaven to Earth. Anon then thousand shapes,
Like spectres trooping to the wizard's call, Flit swift before him. From the womb of Earth, From Ocean's bed they come: the eternal Heavens Disclose their splendours, and the dark Abyss Pours out her births unknown. With fixed gaze He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares Their different forms; now blends them, now Enlarges, and extenuates by turns ; [divides, Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands, And infinitely varies. Hither now,
Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim, With endless choice perplex'd. At length his plan Begins to open. Lucid order dawns; And as from Chaos old the jarring seeds Of Nature at the voice divine repair'd Each to its place, till rosy Earth unveil'd Her fragrant bosom, and the joyful Sun Sprung up the blue serene; by swift degrees Thus disentangled, his entire design Emerges. Colours mingle, features join, And lines converge the fainter parts retire; The fairer eminent in light advance ; And every image on its neighbour smiles. Awhile he stands, and with a father's joy Contemplates. Then with Promethean art, Into its proper vehicle he breathes
The fair conception; which, embodied thus, And permanent, becomes to eyes or ears An object ascertain'd: while thus inform'd, The various organs of his mimic skill, The consonance of sounds, the featured rock, The shadowy picture and impassion'd verse, Beyond their proper powers attract the soul By that expressive semblance, while in sight Of Nature's great original we scan
The lively child of Art; while line by line, And feature after feature, we refer
To that sublime exemplar whence it stole Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love Doubts where to choose; and mortal man aspires To tempt creative praise. As when a cloud Of gathering hail, with limpid crusts of ice Inclosed and obvious to the beaming Sun, Collects his large effulgence; straight the Heavens With equal flames present on either hand The radiant visage: Persia stands at gaze, Appall'd; and on the brink of Ganges doubts The snowy-vested seer, in Mithra's name, To which the fragrance of the south shall burn, To which his warbled orisons ascend.
FROM BOOK III Conclusion.
OH! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs Of Luxury, the syren! not the bribes Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store Of Nature fair Imagination culls
To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. The rural honours his. The princely dome, the
His the city's pomp, Whate'er adorns column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting Sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspired delight: her temper'd powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On Nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations, if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the Sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd The powers of man: we feel within ourselves His energy divine: he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom Nature's works can charm, with God him- Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, [self With his conceptions, act upon his plan ; And form to his, the relish of their souls.
INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF SHAKSPEARE.
O YOUTHS and virgins: O declining eld: O pale Misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell Unknown with humble Quiet; ye who wait In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings: O sons of Sport and Pleasure: 0 thou wretch That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds Of conscious Guilt, or Death's rapacious hand Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam In exile; ye who through the embattled field Seek bright renown; or who for nobler palms Contend, the leaders of a public cause; Approach behold this marble. Know ye not The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue Told you the fashion of your own estate, The secrets of your bosom? Here then, round His monument with reverence while ye stand, Say to each other: "This was Shakspeare's form: Who walk'd in every path of human life; Felt every passion; and to all mankind Doth now, will ever, that experience yield Which his own genius only could acquire."
THOMAS CHATTERTON.
[Born, Nov. 20, 1752. Died, Aug. 25, 1770;
AGED SEVENTEEN YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND A FEW DAYS *.]
THOMAS CHATTERTON was the posthumous child of the master of a free-school in Bristol. At five years of age he was sent to the same school which his father had taught ; but he made so little improvement that his mother took him back, nor could he be induced to learn his letters till his attention had been accidentally struck by the illuminated capitals of a French musical MS. His mother afterwards taught him to read from an old black-letter Bible. One of his biographers has expressed surprise that a person in his mother's rank of life should have been acquainted with black-letter. The writer might have known
that books of the ancient type continued to be read in that rank of life long after they had ceased to be used by persons of higher station. At the age of eight he was put to a charity-school in Bristol, where he was instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic. From his tenth year he discovered an extraordinary passion for books; and before he was twelve, had perused about seventy volumes, chiefly on history and divinity. The prematurity of his mind, at the latter period, [* O early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? DRYDEN of Oldham.]
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