Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, 135 So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea; in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, 140 They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray: (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. THOMAS TICKELL TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 Oh, gone for ever, take this long adieu; To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 30 My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, (Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown), 35 Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould below; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; 40 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints who taught, and led, the way to Heaven. Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation, came a nobler guest; 45 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. In what new region, to the just assigned, What new employments please th' unbodied mind? A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, That awful form (which, so the Heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me), In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. If business calls, or crowded courts invite, Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; 70 75 'Twas there of Just and Good he reasoned strong, Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song; There patient showed us the wise course to steer, 80 A candid censor, and a friend severe; There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 85 Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! How sweet the gloom beneath thy aged trees, 90 Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore; 95 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; |