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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42181 ***
+
+[** Transcriber Note :-
+  [oe] ligature in Ph[oe]bus has been replaced with oe. ]
+
+
+
+                POETRY.
+
+            BY THOMAS OLDHAM.
+
+
+  O! should I ever dare profane
+  With venal touch the hallow'd lyre,
+  Let me be banish'd from the Muses' train;
+  Ne'er let me feel their heart-ennobling fire!
+  Unworthy of a Poet's glorious name,
+  Let me be doom'd to everlasting shame!
+
+
+                  LONDON:
+    A. H. BAILEY AND CO., 83, CORNHILL;
+     ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, EDINBURGH;
+         AND CUMMING AND CO., DUBLIN.
+
+                  MDCCCXL.
+
+      H. MERRIDEW, PRINTER, COVENTRY.
+
+
+
+
+  PREFACE.
+
+
+The writer of the following pages has been in the habit, for many years,
+of amusing himself with the composition of Poetry. Often has he been
+advised by his friends to publish; and at length, influenced by their
+persuasion, and feeling a sort of paternal fondness for the offspring of
+his own brain, he ventures to present this small volume to the notice of
+the Public.
+
+It contains Poems of many different kinds, composed, of course, in as
+many varieties of style; and the author has exerted his best endeavours
+to render them worthy of approbation. The present times--he is well
+aware--are unfavourable for the publication of poetical works. The
+booksellers complain generally of the little demand for them.
+Nevertheless, it is very improbable that Poetry,--if excellent, (as it
+ought to be to deserve the name,) should ever be totally neglected. The
+seed of poetic taste is sown by the hand of Nature in the souls of all
+men; though in a small number only it is by culture brought to maturity.
+
+The author has exalted ideas of Poetry, He deems it--decidedly--the
+first of the Fine Arts. It is the most intellectual,--the most
+comprehensive,--the most powerful,--the most delightful,--and,
+also,--hear it, Utilitarians!--the most useful. In remote antiquity, as
+is well known, it was chiefly instrumental in teaching and civilising
+the then-barbarous human race. To lure their wild minds into reflection,
+it invested truth and morality with the many-coloured garb of Fiction,
+and introduced them, through their delighted imagination, to their
+understanding and their heart; while, by the charm of harmonious
+numbers, it soothed their fierce and licentious passions into submission
+to the laws of social life. It was believed to have something divine in
+its nature, and was universally held in the highest veneration. From
+ancient times, even to this day, it has continued to be a favourite
+study with many of the most illustrious characters.
+
+Finally,--and let this be for ever remembered, as conferring on it the
+highest honour! Poetry has been deemed worthy by the Sacred Writers to
+be made an instrument in the cause of Religion; and by its sublime
+descriptions it has assisted human imagination in forming grand, and
+awful conceptions of the Almighty Creator!
+
+  Park-Fields, Allesley, near Coventry,
+     22d January, 1840.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                          CONTENTS.
+
+
+                                                                Page
+
+  The Muse's triumph                                              1
+  Elegy on the Death of Chatterton                                5
+  Sylvia's Elegy on her dead Canary-bird                          9
+  To Julia                                                       13
+  Ditto                                                          15
+  On seeing Mademoiselle ***** dance, &c.                        17
+  Sonnet, on taking a favourite walk after recovery
+      from sickness                                              20
+  Sonnet, written on my Birth Day                                22
+  Eclogue--Spring                                                23
+  Eclogue--Summer                                                33
+  Epistle to a Friend                                            43
+  To Delille                                                     48
+  Ode written on the night of the illuminations for
+     Lord Howe's Victory on 1st June, 1793                       51
+  Ode to Horror                                                  57
+  Ode to Hope                                                    62
+  Ode to the Duke of Wellington                                  66
+  Description of a Conflagration                                 80
+  To Spring                                                      88
+  To Winter                                                      93
+  The desperation and madness of Guilt                           99
+  On hearing the Nightingale                                    103
+  To Paganini                                                   108
+  To Fancy                                                      111
+  A Summer-Evening                                              116
+  Prologue                                                      122
+  Ditto                                                         126
+  Epilogue                                                      129
+  Lines on the death of the Rev. Mr. B ***,
+     supposed to be written by his Sister                       134
+  Lines to an Infidel, &c.                                      136
+  Lines on hearing a Young Gentleman, &c.                       138
+  Lines to a Pedantic Critic                                    140
+  Lines on Shakspeare                                           142
+  Lines on Milton                                               145
+  Anacreontic                                                   147
+  Ditto                                                         149
+  Ditto                                                         152
+  Song                                                          157
+  Ditto                                                         158
+  Song to Bacchus                                               159
+  On seeing the Apollo Belvidere                                162
+  Inscription for ditto                                         162
+  Epitaph on Nelson                                             163
+  Ditto on Howard                                               164
+  Ditto on Voltaire                                             165
+  Ditto on Napoleon                                             166
+  Ditto on Lord Byron                                           168
+  Ditto on Sir Samuel Romilly                                   170
+  Ditto on Wilberforce                                          171
+  Epitaph                                                       172
+  Translation from Anacreon                                     173
+  Epigrams                                          from 174 to 200
+
+
+
+
+  THE MUSE'S TRIUMPH.
+
+  What adverse passions rule my changeful breast,
+  With hope exalted, or by fear deprest!
+  Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre,
+  And proudly to poetic fame aspire;
+  Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines,
+  And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns.
+  Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade,
+  With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade:
+  'A Poet!'--thus they sneeringly exclaim--
+  'Well may you court that glorious, envied name;
+  For, sure, no common joys his lot attend;
+  None but himself those joys can comprehend.
+
+  O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime,
+  To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme!
+  Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret,
+  To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot!
+  And what, though want and scorn his life assail?
+  What, though he rave in Bedlam, starve in jail?
+  Such trifling ills the Bard may well despise;
+  Sure of immortal honour when he dies.
+  But, seriously--the advice of friendship hear:
+  Stop short in your poetical career;
+  O! quell the frenzies of your fever'd brain,
+  And turn, at Wisdom's call, to trade and gain,'
+
+  Absorb'd in passive sadness, I comply;
+  Turn from the Muse my disenchanted eye,
+  And deign to study, as my friends persuade,
+  The little, money-getting arts of trade.
+  But soon the Goddess, fired with high disdain
+  To see me woo the yellow strumpet, Gain,
+  Resuming all her beauty, all her power,
+  Returns to triumph in the vacant hour;
+  Weakly reluctant, on her charms I gaze,
+  Trembling, I feel her fascinating lays;
+  Roused from ignoble dreams, my wondering soul
+  Springs to the well-known bliss, regardless of control.
+
+  Say then, ye blind, profane! who dare to blame
+  The heaven-born Poet, and his thirst of fame;
+  Ye slaves of Mammon! whose low minds behold
+  No fair, no great, no good, in aught but gold;
+  Say! will the Captive of tyrannic sway,
+  Restored to genial air, and boundless day,
+  Turn to his dungeon's suffocating night?
+  Will the proud Eagle, who with daring flight
+  Sublimely soars against the solar blaze,
+  And eyes the inspiring God with raptured gaze,
+  Stoop from his native kingdom in the sky,
+  To share the breathings of mortality?
+
+  How, then, can he, whose breast the Muse inspires,
+  Restrain his soul, or quench those hallow'd fires?
+  How can he quit the world of mental bliss,
+  For all the riches,--miseries!--of this?
+
+
+
+
+  ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.
+
+  When to the region of the tuneful Nine,
+  Rapt in poetic vision, I retire,
+  Listening intent to catch the strain divine--
+  What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!
+
+  Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes,
+  Stray the fair daughters of immortal song;
+  Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries,
+  And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.
+
+  O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo?
+  Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar?
+  A solemn pause ensues:--then falters low
+  The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'
+
+  'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour
+  Saw each poetic star indulgent shine;
+  E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power,
+  And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."
+
+  'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring;
+  In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried;
+  We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing,
+  And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.
+
+  'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind,
+  Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known;
+  Taught him to range, by matter unconfined,
+  And claim the world of fancy for his own.
+
+  'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race;
+  Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul,
+  Started at once with more than human pace,
+  And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:
+
+  'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth
+  Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired,
+  He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth,
+  The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:
+
+  'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast!
+  The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade;
+  Soon dire Adversity's relentless host,
+  Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:
+
+  'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn
+  Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride;
+  Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn,
+  Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.
+
+  'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair
+  Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires:
+  In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear!
+  Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'
+
+
+
+
+  ELEGY,
+  (WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY.)
+  SYLVIA ON HER DEAD CANARY-BIRD.
+
+  Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
+  And must I hear thy notes no more?
+  Then will I make thy funeral bed;
+  Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.
+
+  Beneath the turf in yonder bower,
+  Where oft I've listened to thy lay,
+  Forgetting care, while many an hour
+  In music sweetly stole away;--
+
+  There will I bid thy relics rest;
+  Then sadly sigh my last farewell;
+  But long, oh! long within my breast
+  Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.
+
+  Still to that spot, now more endear'd,
+  Shall thy fond mistress oft return,
+  And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd,
+  To deck with verse thy simple urn.
+
+  'Here lies a bird, once famed to be
+  Peerless in plumage and in lay;
+  This was the soul of melody,
+  And that the golden blush of day.'
+
+  'Soon as the Morn began to peep,
+  While yet with shade her smiles were veil'd,
+  The sprightly warbler shook off sleep,
+  And with his song her coming hail'd.'
+
+  'His guardian rose, nor scorn'd as mean,
+  But found it still a pleasing care,
+  To keep his little mansion clean,
+  And minister his daily fare.'
+
+  'The dewy groundsel was his feast,
+  Which when the watchful songster view'd,
+  Straight his loud, thrilling strain he ceased,
+  And softly chirp'd his gratitude.'
+
+  'Then would he peck his savoury treat,--
+  Turn his head sly, and breathe a note--
+  Now flutter wild with wings and feet--
+  Then silent sit--now pour his throat.'
+
+  'His playful freaks, his joyous lay,
+  Well pleased, his mistress would attend;
+  It call'd affection into play,
+  And gave to solitude a friend.'
+
+  'Thus happily his days he led
+  Even to the ninth revolving year;
+  Then Fate, alas! her weapon sped;
+  And Pity laid his relics here.'
+
+
+
+
+  TO JULIA.
+
+  Should Phoebus e'er desert my mind,
+  And should the Nine their aid refuse,
+  Enchanting Girl! I still could find
+  A theme in thee, in thee a Muse.
+
+  Can Fiction any charms devise
+  That proudly may with thine compare?
+  On thee she turns her wondering eyes,
+  And drops the pencil in despair.
+
+  Far sweeter are thy notes to me
+  Than sweetest poet ever sung;
+  And true perfection would it be
+  To sing thy beauties with thy tongue.
+
+  Let Phoebus, then, desert my mind!
+  And let the Nine their aid refuse!
+  Ever, my Julia! shall I find
+  In thee a theme, in thee a Muse.
+
+
+
+
+  TO JULIA.
+
+  Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing
+    Hush'd is the listening air;
+  My spirit trembles on the wing,
+    And no delay can bear.
+
+  Those down-cast eyes, that smile supprest,
+    Thy conscious power betray;
+  Yet, Siren! grant the bold request;
+    Come, steal my heart away.
+
+  See, see, those ruby lips divide;
+    An ivory shrine appears;
+  There Harmony and Love reside,
+    To ravish mortal ears.
+
+  And hark! they from that sweet recess
+    Breathe their celestial lays;
+  The enchanting sounds my thought possess
+    With rapture and amaze.
+
+  Still pressing on with strong control
+    I feel the lavish strain,
+  Till drunk with bliss, my wilder'd soul
+    Reels on the brink of pain.
+
+  Ah! how could I so rashly dare
+    Contend with Powers divine?
+  The pride of victory forbear;
+    My heart is wholly thine.
+
+
+
+
+  ON SEEING MADEMOISELLE ***
+  DANCE AT THE OPERA IN PARIS.
+
+  What fine aerial Shape,
+  In orient colours dight,
+  Springs from the world unknown
+  Upon my wondering sight?
+
+  Loosely through various space
+  The lovely Figure flows,
+  And leaves the sleeping air
+  Unconscious as it goes.
+
+  Hark! a spontaneous strain
+  Its fairy gait attends;
+  In concord every sound
+  With every movement blends.
+
+  Lo, now! the passive Form
+  Moves as the music leads;
+  Each motion from each note,
+  Harmoniously proceeds.
+
+  By the same sense, methinks,
+  At once I hear and see;
+  And ears and eyes and mind
+  Are all one harmony.
+
+  Along my shivering nerves
+  The mingled raptures thrill,
+  And strangely take my soul,
+  And rule it as they will;
+
+  True to the magic force,
+  That shifts a thousand ways,
+  An echo, and a shade,
+  It answers and obeys.
+
+  But ah! the charm expires.--
+  Did Fancy thus deceive?
+  She smiles, and fondly vain,
+  Would have me so believe.
+
+
+
+
+  SONNET,
+  ON TAKING A FAVOURITE WALK,
+  AFTER RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
+
+  Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again!
+  Forbidden long to my desiring sight,
+  Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain,
+  I visit ye with fresh, increased delight.
+
+  Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb,
+  The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale;
+  River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime,
+  While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil;
+
+  And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade
+  The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear
+  Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd:
+  Hail all ye objects to my memory dear!
+  Once more, to feel the transports ye impart,
+  Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart.
+
+
+
+
+  SONNET,
+  WRITTEN ON MY BIRTH DAY.
+
+  Again has Time his annual circle run,
+  And April ushers in my natal day:
+  Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun,
+  How many a year has swiftly roll'd away!
+  Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun;
+  What various colours does the web display!
+  Some dark, some brighter; ere the work be done
+  The sadder hues will overshade the gay.
+  Yet not to Melancholy will I yield;
+  Against Despondency and Discontent
+  Still Fortitude and Hope shall keep the field;
+  Swerving from thee, O Virtue! I repent;
+  Now! to repel Temptation I am steel'd;
+  To follow thee I'm resolutely bent.
+
+
+
+
+  ECLOGUE.
+
+  SPRING.
+
+  Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign,
+  Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
+  Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray
+  Primeval nature in his simple lay;
+  And him of Mantua, in a nicer age,
+  To form the graces of his artful page;
+  O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene,
+  And with thy presence bless the brightening scene;
+  Now, while I rove his willowy banks along,
+  With fond intent to wake the rural song,
+  Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart
+  The force of nature, and the grace of art.
+
+  Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn,
+  And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn;
+  The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies
+  Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise;
+  The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play,
+  Waking the flowers to steal new sweets away:
+  And now with trembling steps, her swain to find,
+  Fair Delia hastens to the spot assign'd:
+  Her faithful Colin waits impatient there;
+  How raptured to regain his long-lost fair!
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  O happiness!--and am I then so blest?
+  Or does a heavenly dream possess my breast?
+  Has not her father sternly bid us part,
+  And for my rival claim'd his daughter's heart?
+  Has not my Delia sigh'd the sad adieu?
+  Have I not long been banish'd from her view?
+  Away, ye jealous fears! ye sorrows, flee!
+  This letter, this! revokes the dire decree.
+  And lo! she comes! she comes! but why so slow,
+  Pensive, and shy, as if oppress'd with wo?
+  My Delia!--
+
+    DELIA.
+
+              Colin! (_They embrace._)
+
+    COLIN.
+
+        O my Delia! tell,
+  What dark ideas in thy bosom dwell.
+  Is not thy letter true? then give thy soul
+  To love and happiness without control.
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  O generous Colin! can'st thou, then, forget
+  The painful past, and love thy Delia yet?
+  Deem me not faithless; stern parental sway,
+  Spite of my tears, constrained me to obey.
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  Faithless? O no! I knew thy father's ire;
+  Thy filial virtue could not but admire;
+  Still did I hope, believe, and know thee true:
+  The pains I suffer'd thou did'st suffer too.
+  Now weep no more; this bids our sufferings cease,
+  This letter--heavenly messenger of peace!--
+  That promises a more propitious fate;
+  But thou, sweet girl! the same blest news relate;
+  Chase from thy fancy every shade of fear;
+  Wipe from thy cheek that ill-beseeming tear;
+  And tell thy lover all;--he burns to hear.
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  When Damon first his amorous suit addrest
+  Thou long had'st reign'd the sovereign of my breast;
+  My love, my heart, my soul were vow'd to thee,
+  And none but Colin could have charms for me.
+  With scorn, thou know'st, his courtship I declined:
+  O, that my thoughts had sway'd my father's mind!
+  But Damon's ampler wealth, which I despised,
+  Too much, alas! my doting father prized.
+  What were thy words that sad, that trying hour,
+  When, in submission to paternal power,
+  I sacrificed the feelings of my heart,
+  And faltering told thee we were doom'd to part?
+  'Part!--must we part, my Delia?' did'st thou say,
+  'Alas! 'tis Virtue's law; we must obey;
+  But still, to render absence less severe,
+  Let us, my Love, Hope's pleasing dictates hear.
+  Little of Damon, yet, thy father knows:
+  Time his perfidious purpose will disclose;
+  Then will thy sire his hasty choice repent;
+  And to our loves, perhaps, may yield consent.
+  Meanwhile beware, my Delia, O beware!
+  Lest Damon's arts thine innocence insnare.'
+  Such were thy parting words. Now, Colin, hear!
+  Then will thy words prophetical appear.
+  Each night the favourite of my parents came
+  To boast the matchless ardour of his flame;
+  Still did he teaze me with his flattering strain;--
+  Fool, to suppose his praise could make me vain!
+  At length a favouring hour the traitor chose,
+  And dared his wicked purpose to disclose.
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  Did he? O heaven! the impostor could not dare;
+  I would, my Love, thy Colin had been there!
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  Just then, most luckily, my sire returned:
+  Surprised, enraged, his Damon's guilt he learn'd:
+  Then banish'd him, (his advocate no more,)
+  With vengeful threats for ever from his door.
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  Look! how the glorious Sun, as he ascends,
+  His radiance o'er the dew-bright earth extends,
+  While the last fogs of conquer'd night retreat,
+  And Nature welcomes the reviving heat:
+  So thy returning smiles, indulgent fair!
+  Dispel my fears and every jealous care.
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  No less delight to me thy smiles impart,
+  Diffusing sunshine through my raptured heart;
+  Hope, like yon lark, has spread her drooping wings,
+  And, mounting up to heaven, her carol sings.
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  Observe, my Love, the beauties of the scene;
+  The youthful year puts forth its tender green;
+  Awakened Flora bids her flowerets rise,
+  Opening their colours to the genial skies;
+  Winter is fled; fair Spring's melodious voice
+  Whispers, in every balmy breeze, rejoice!
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  The sparkling rills dance warbling in their beds;
+  The trees with gladness lift their fresh, green heads;
+  From yonder wood responsive cuckoos sing;
+  The swallow skims the stream, and dips his wing.
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  Objects and sounds of joy! yet, Delia, these,
+  Unaided by thy presence, would not please;
+  Though thousand charms and harmonies unite,
+  Thy favour only crowns the full delight.
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  Now, Colin, duty summons me away;
+  Gladly I would, but must no longer stay.
+
+    COLIN.
+
+  When duty summons we resist in vain:
+  Yet tell me, kindest Delia, once again,--
+  To give me courage unalarm'd to part,
+  And soothe, till next we meet, my restless heart,--
+  O tell me art thou now for ever mine?
+
+    DELIA.
+
+  Yes, Colin, now I am for ever thine.
+
+
+
+
+  ECLOGUE.
+
+  SUMMER.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  My task is done; no further will I mow;
+  I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow.
+  Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag!
+  Badly your practice answers to your brag.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  Deuce take the scythe! no wonder I am last;
+  The wonder is I work'd my way so fast;
+  Sure such another never yet was made;
+  It's maker must have been a duller blade;
+  The bungling fool, might I his fault chastise,
+  Should use it for a razor till he dies.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  Ha, ha, well said, young jester; though bereft
+  Of strength and patience, yet your wit is left.
+  But come, good friend, to dinner let us go;
+  Tired are my limbs, my wasted spirits low.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  Poor David! age is weak, soon jaded out;
+  I feel, as when beginning, fresh and stout;
+  Your easy task is ended, therefore dine:
+  I scorn refreshment till I finish mine.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  Then to yon grassy bank I will retreat,
+  Shaded by willows from the oppressive heat;
+  There may we dine, and seated all at ease,
+  Imbibe fresh vigour with the cooling breeze.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  Curse his old arms! so nimble and so strong;
+  How calmly did he seem to creep along!
+  While I for conquest strove with eager pain,
+  And labour'd, sweated, panted--all in vain!
+  This awkward tool--yet no defect I see--
+  The ground uneven--some cause must there be.
+  He the best mower? let it not be known;
+  No, crafty Giles, that secret is your own.
+  Fatigue, thirst, hunger, strongly urge me hence.--
+  I'll e'en o'ertake him with some fair pretence.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  Ha, ha, the foolish vanity of youth,
+  Such painful efforts to disguise the truth!
+  Who comes? what, Giles! so quickly change your mind?
+  Too wise, I thought, to tarry long behind.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  In one employment when good fellows meet,
+  They should together toil, together eat.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  Here let us sit; against this trunk I'll lean,
+  You against that; the dinner placed between.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  Now rest we silent till our meal be done;
+  While in our ears sweet watery murmurs run.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  Right! when the body feels recruited force,
+  More eloquently will the mind discourse.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  Now, David, I'll attempt a loftier strain;
+  Listen, and judge of my poetic vein.
+  See Phoebus his meridian height attains,
+  And, like a king, in all his splendour reigns;
+  Beneath his scorching radiance Nature lies
+  Feverish and faint; her beauteous verdure dies;
+  Oppress'd and panting with the sultry heat,
+  The flocks and herds to shades or streams retreat;
+  Through the still air no Zephyr dares to play, }
+  Lest his soft pinion melt in heat away;        }
+  But if, to mitigate the solar ray,             }
+  A lucid cloud should kindly intervene;
+  Then the glad Zephyrs sport beneath the grateful screen.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  How beautiful the thoughts! and how sublime!
+  Rich is the language, and exact the rhyme.
+  Inform me, friend, are those fine strains your own?
+  They rise superior to the rustic tone.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  Why not be mine? does then the gift of song
+  To wealth and rank exclusively belong?
+  Fancy with choice unbribed her few selects,
+  Nor affluence, nor exalted birth respects;
+  The kingly mansion she will oft forsake,
+  Pleased with the shepherd her abode to make:
+  With me the kind Enchantress long has dwelt;
+  Long has my soul her inspirations felt.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  I once the feelings of a poet knew;
+  (Though in my best of days no match for you,)
+  But now my genius yields to conquering time;
+  Yet still I keep my judgment and my rhyme;
+  Then what that judgment dictates I declare:
+  No tuneful shepherd can with you compare;
+  Although in many a county I have been,
+  And many a rural poet I have seen.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  O cease your high applauses, kindest friend!
+  For sure my merit they must far transcend.
+  How different men in different ways excel!
+  My forte is rhyming, your's is mowing well;
+  And while to me you deign in song to yield,
+  You bear the scythe triumphant through the field.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  That only Youth, whose sweetly-flowing lays,
+  Resembling your's, deserve the second praise,
+  Dwelt near this place--or memory I lack--
+  Yes! now I recollect--five summers back,
+  When to these parts for harvest-work I came,
+  How all the fields resounded with his fame.
+  The Bard I ne'er beheld; but heard the swains
+  Still, with delight, repeat his peerless strains:
+  Not less by Fortune, than the Muses, blest,
+  No cares of life disturb'd his peaceful breast;
+  For poesy alone his happy soul possest.
+  Did you not know that youth?
+
+    GILES.
+
+                      Full well I knew;
+  Nor is he, David, quite unknown to you;--
+  That Youth am I!--(with what surprize you gaze!)
+  Then was I blest indeed with golden days;
+  My parents' only child, at home I dwelt,
+  Indulged, caress'd, nor cares, nor wishes felt:
+  How did they joy my verses to peruse!
+  How praise each effort of my lisping Muse!
+  Then sweetly glided on the stream of time;
+  I tended flocks, or meditated rhyme.
+  Alas! my friend, those blissful hours are o'er,
+  My then-propitious stars now rule no more.
+  Long has my Father slept among the dead:--
+  With his last breath my joys, my hopes all fled.
+  The wealth he left, which might our woes have eased,
+  His greedy creditors unpitying seized:
+  My Mother and myself (our sole resource)
+  For livelihood to labour took recourse.
+
+    DAVID.
+
+  Affecting tale! I've heard it with a tear.
+
+    GILES.
+
+  No longer sit we idly chatting here;
+  The village clock has struck; come, let us up!
+  To-night, friend David, we'll together sup.
+
+
+
+
+  EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
+
+  Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd?
+  Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend
+  Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles,
+  Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel
+  His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane
+  With sacred awe, repentant, to confess
+  The Son of Venus is indeed a God?
+  I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd
+  His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd
+  And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.
+
+  The great, creating Parent, when she breathed
+  Into thine earthly frame the breath of life,
+  Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul
+  Of finer essence, capable to trace,
+  To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good,
+  Wherever found, through all her various works.
+  And is not Woman, then, her fairest work,
+  Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts
+  Potent to captivate, and softly rule
+  The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou,
+  By partial Nature favour'd from the birth?
+  Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess
+  The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf
+  Through half thy genial season to the voice
+  Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste
+  Felicity congenial to thy soul?
+  This was the secret cause:--inscrutable
+  To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd
+  To celibacy, for thyself alone
+  Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend--
+  The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast
+  A visionary flame; for, while retired
+  In solitude, on classic lore intent,
+  Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss
+  Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid,
+  With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd,
+  Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope
+  Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length
+  She dared to stand on disappointment's verge,
+  Anticipating such thy future bride.
+  What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks
+  Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes,
+  So darkly bright, should innocently glance,
+  Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame?
+  That many a Fair should unregarded pass,
+  So far unlike the picture in thy mind?
+  At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld
+  Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien,
+  Of artless manners, affable, and gay,
+  Yet modestly reserved, with native taste
+  Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart
+  Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught,
+  Well-principled in things of prime concern.
+  Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue
+  The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd
+  Upon thy ravish'd view:--'twas She!--'twas She!
+  Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live;
+  And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love;
+  And Nature was obeyed.--
+
+                      Yet still suspense
+  Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand
+  Between the realms of happiness and pain,
+  Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend!
+  What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid
+  With virgin blushes and approving smile
+  Received thy vows, consented to be thine?
+
+    Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot,
+  Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope
+  That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill
+  Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times,
+  Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend.
+
+
+
+
+  TO DELILLE.
+
+  Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng
+  I mark with transport some diviner song;
+  Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire,
+  Commanding silence to the vulgar quire;
+  Apollo smiles, and all the tongues of Fame
+  Through the poetic realm Delille proclaim.
+
+  O let a British Bard, admiring, greet
+  Thy glorious triumph, and thy praise repeat!
+  When merit claims the panegyric lay,
+  Envy he scorns, and joys the debt to pay.
+  Painter of Nature hail! to thee belong
+  Unrivall'd talents for descriptive song:
+  While others, fired with more ambitious views,
+  Invoke the Epic, or the Tragic Muse,
+  And, throned in Glory's temple, shine sublime,
+  Proud of their laurel-wreaths that fear not Time,
+  Thy Genius fondly stoops to softer themes,
+  The landscape's beauties--flowers, and groves, and streams,
+  And round his brows in modest triumph wears
+  A simple garden-wreath, but ever green, as theirs.
+
+  What though, some critics, in their taste severe,
+  Turn from thy subject a disdainful ear,
+  Demanding still, their duller minds to strike,
+  War, passion, plot, surprises--and the like?
+  Yet will true Taste, that ranges unconfined,
+  And feels the charms of every various kind,
+  Oft quit Voltaire, or Corneille, to peruse,
+  Delille! the milder beauties of thy Muse;
+  Oft love, with thee, through rural scenes to stray,
+  And sweetly study Nature in thy lay.
+
+  But, ah! what boldness does thy breast inspire?
+  Say, wilt thou dare to touch the Mantuan lyre?
+  Long has thy country wish'd that classic spoil,
+  Yet, of her tongue distrustful, shunn'd the toil;
+  O cease then!--but thy hand essays the strings,--
+  Amazement!--Fancy cries, 'tis Virgil sings!
+  The same thy numbers, so correctly free,
+  So full of sweetness, full of majesty!
+
+  Now, France, exult! nor view with envy more
+  Surrounding nations rich in Roman lore;
+  Delille has sung; then glory in his name,
+  Engraved, immortal, on the rolls of Fame.
+
+
+
+
+  ODE
+
+  WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS FOR
+    LORD HOWE'S VICTORY ON 1ST JUNE, 1793.
+
+        Whence the shouts of public joy,
+        Whence the galaxies of light,
+        That strike the deafen'd ear?
+        That charm the dazzled sight?
+    While Night, arrested in her highest way,
+  Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway?
+        Hark! Fame exalts her voice:--
+    'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice!
+    The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave,
+    Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave;
+    Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main,
+  His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.'
+
+    Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn!
+        O fly the giddy train!
+    From their inhuman transports turn
+        With pity,--with disdain!
+    Strip, strip, from Victory the fair disguise,
+    And let her own dire form appal thine eyes!
+    Ah, mark her triumphs in yon hideous scene!
+      Myriads of brother-men untimely slain;
+    Hear the deep groan, survey the dying mien,
+      Convulsed with agonies of pain;
+    And hark! what cries of wretchedness resound
+        Throughout the troubled air!
+    Widows and Orphans doom'd a helpless prey
+        To famine and despair!
+    And does ambition glory? Oh! the shame!
+    The direful outrage to the human name!
+  Nature herself is moved, the blushing stars retire,
+  And sudden storms denounce high heaven's awaken'd ire.
+
+      See the black firmament divide!
+    The almighty sword, with heavenly lustre bright,
+        Flashes on the sight
+    Terrific glory, dazzling mortal pride;
+    The parted concave closes, while around
+        Deep, rushing peals resound,
+    Scatter the clouds, in airy tempest hurl'd,
+    And shake the solid pillars of the world.
+        As breathing from the tomb,
+        A death-like stillness reigns,
+      Save that in Fancy's jealous ear
+      A sad, prophetic breeze complains
+        Of some impending doom,
+  While every soul is lost in vacancy and fear.
+
+    Now while Ambition lies in sleep unblest,
+    Portentous visions haunt his guilty breast:
+    Borne on a trophied car, sublime he goes
+        Amid the gazing crowd,
+        Who shout his triumphs loud;
+    With haughty bliss his flatter'd spirit glows:--
+        Sudden deserted and alone,
+    Confused, alarm'd, in dreary shades unknown,
+      He hears the wild waves beat the shore,
+        The din of battle roar:--
+    'Tis silence! frowning vengeful from the gloom,
+        Before his shrinking eyes
+        Unnumber'd spectres rise,
+  Point to their bleeding wounds, and sternly curse their doom:
+    The conscious Murderer starts, the thunders roll,
+  And hell's dread chaos yawns on his despairing soul.
+
+    But when the morn exerts her cheering power,
+    And guilt-alarming darkness disappears,
+    Wilt thou, Ambition! slight the warning hour,
+    And fondly strive to dissipate thy fears?
+        Yet wilt thou dare fulfil
+        The madness of thy will?
+    Kindle round earth the wasteful flames of strife,
+    And glut the fiends of war with human life?
+    Then mask with glory's name thy murderous cause,
+    While fond, deluded mortals shout applause?
+        Yet madly wilt thou dare?--
+        Devoted Wretch! forbear!--
+    Cries of the living, curses of the dead,
+        Have claim'd thy destined head;
+    And that same Power, whose mighty hand
+        Once humbled thine aspiring flight,
+        And hurl'd thee, with thy rebel band,
+        Down to the deeps of hell and night,
+  Now warns no more; that Power no longer spares,
+  Thy sentence he hath fix'd, thy fate he now prepares.
+
+
+
+
+  ODE
+
+  TO HORROR.
+
+    I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul,
+    Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw;
+    Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul,
+    And let my trembling hand the vision draw.
+
+    Lo! what terrific Forms around thee wait,
+    The monstrous births abhorr'd of Mind and Fate!
+    Murder, with blood of innocence defiled;
+    Despair, deep-groaning; Madness screaming wild;
+    Mid clouds of smoke, the fire-eyed Fury, War,
+  Through gore and mangled flesh whirl'd in her thundering car;
+      Plague, sallow Hag! who arms her breath
+      With thousand viewless darts of death;
+  And Earthquake, image of the final doom,
+  That, bursting fierce his anguish'd mother's womb,
+  Whelms nations in the yawning jaws of night,
+  And palsies mighty Nature with affright.
+      Amid that direful band
+      I see thee, Horror! stand,
+  With bloodless visage, terror-frozen stare,
+  Distorted, ice-bound limbs, and bristling hair,
+  Thy shivering lips bereft of speech and breath,
+  In monstrous union life combined with death.
+  I see thee still, O Horror! and in thee
+  Methinks an image of myself I see;
+  For, while I gaze with fear-fixed sight,
+      O Horror! thy Gorgonian might
+  Turns me to stone: dread tyrant, O forbear!
+      To view thee I no longer dare.--
+
+  I feel my throbbing heart respire.
+  Again my fancy with unquell'd desire,
+  O Horror! courts thee, trembling owns thy power.
+  Come, let us now, at this congenial hour,
+      While midnight tempests sweep
+  With bellowing rage the ship-ingulfing deep,
+  While thunders roar, and livid lightnings blaze,
+  Let us on that dread, watery chaos gaze.
+  Or from the peopled vale, below,
+  Uplooking, see, from lofty Alpine crown,
+      The rolling mass of snow,
+      Into a mountain grown,
+      Rush overwhelming down.
+    Or let us, in Numidian desert drear,
+  The roar of prowling beasts, and hiss of serpents hear;
+    Or bask by blazing city; or explore,
+    On Etna's brink, the sulphurous mouth of hell,
+    And hear the fiery flood tempestuous roar,
+    And hear the damn'd in hotter torments yell.
+    Or wilt thou, Horror! haunt the villain's breast,
+    In dismal solitude, by thought opprest;
+      Where guilty Conscience fetter'd lies,
+      Turn'd all her shrinking lidless eyes
+    Full to the blaze of truth's unclouded sun,
+  And struggles, still in vain, her pangs, herself to shun?
+      Ah!--now more hideous grows thine air;
+      With direr aspect ne'er dost thou appear,
+    To fright weak Beings in this earthly sphere;
+    Faint semblance of thy most tremendous mien,
+    As, in Tartarean gulfs of endless night,
+    By agonizing demons thou art seen:
+    But oh! what living eye could bear that sight?
+    To look on it e'en Fancy does not dare.--
+  Oh! may I ne'er be doom'd to see thee, Horror! there!
+
+
+
+
+  ODE
+
+  TO HOPE.
+
+  Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye
+  New joys, anticipated, ever play;
+  Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway
+  The moral elements of life comply;
+  At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,
+  And settle into order, beauty, peace;
+  How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour
+  Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!
+  Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,
+  Invested with her own all-cheering ray,
+  To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate
+  Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state,
+    What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,
+  Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:
+    Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,
+    And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.
+    From the veil'd awful future, to her view
+    Scenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose;
+    With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true,
+    Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes.
+
+
+      Thou Sovereign of the human soul
+      Whose influence rules without controul!
+      Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,
+  Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrains
+  The shuddering spirit in his icy chains:
+      O Hope! be thou for ever near;
+      Keep the dread tyrant far away,
+  And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.
+  Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,
+  In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,
+  And fondly passive to thy dictates, deem
+  Those smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:
+  Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,
+  With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,
+  And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,
+  Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,
+      With his well-tempered shield
+      To brave the threatening field.
+  Amid that scene of woes and mental strife
+    Let thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,
+    Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,
+    To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.
+       Do thou her glowing thought possess,
+      And let her fairy pencil draw,
+      Free, and unconscious of thy law,
+      Fair images of Happiness;
+    Of that celestial form which lives imprest
+    Indelible, eternal, in thy breast.
+      E'en in the dead calm of the mind,
+      When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;
+    O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,
+  The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!
+
+
+
+
+  ODE
+
+  TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
+
+    This, this is inspiration's hour!
+    Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul,
+    Rouses her every sense, her every power,
+    And with a force too mighty to controul
+    Inspires the warm, enthusiastic song:
+    Now will I sing, O Wellington! of thee;
+    To thee my plausive strains, of right, belong;
+  For thee my lyre shall pour its choicest harmony.
+    Long have I fondly mused the theme sublime;
+    And from my grateful heart of patriot flame
+    In secret, offer'd incense to thy name;
+    But dared not with unhallow'd rhyme
+      Profane the British Hero's fame.
+      Thrice welcome this propitious time!
+  Now, joining with my Country's minstrel-band,
+  Thy deeds, O Wellington! will I rehearse
+      In lofty never-dying verse,
+  To which Britannia's self shall deign
+      To lend a listening ear,
+  While in thy military, swift career
+  Triumphantly she leads thee by the hand,
+  And proudly thrones thee high in glory's fane.
+
+
+      In yonder eastern climes afar
+  What dawning light attracts the Muse's eye?--
+  She feels the influence of her ruling star,
+  And with an eagle's gaze, an eagle's wings,
+  As to Apollo's self, transported, springs--
+  'Tis Wellington in Victory's brilliant car,
+  Who his triumphal progress has begun;
+      Around him honour's sun
+      Shoots forth its orient ray:
+      In wondering India's sky
+      He rises like the God of day.
+  Greet him, O England! greet thy conquering Son!
+      O! could'st thou but foresee
+      The events of dark futurity,
+  How would'st thou, then, adore the name of Wellington!
+      Know!--he shall soon thy thunders wield
+      In many a European field,
+  Confound thy haughty foes with dread amaze,
+  And fill the dazzled world with his meridian blaze.
+
+      To Europe's frighten'd eyes
+      What scenes of horror rise!
+  See, from the darkness of the infernal world,
+  Where with the rebel demons he was hurl'd,
+  See, Revolution rears his hydra-head!
+  Ill-fated Gallia is his destined prey.
+  Thither the Monster makes his furious way;
+      And with a loud, ferocious yell,
+      That strikes the earth with dread,
+      And spreads delight through hell,
+      He summons all his hideous train,
+      To strengthen and support his reign.
+      Broke are the bonds of social life,
+      All kindred, all domestic ties;
+  Mid scenes of anarchy and civil strife,
+  Mid plots, cabals, and murderous rivalries,
+  Eager for prey, with licence unconfined
+  Range the fierce Passions of the human mind,
+  Ambition, Avarice, Anger, Vengeance, Hate:
+  With frantic men rejoicing devils howl,
+  And all hell's ravenous blood-hounds barking prowl.
+  O could oblivion veil that direst page of fate!
+      The revolutionary storm subsides.--
+  Lo! now, proud Gallia's Genius towers on high;
+      O'er half Europa he already strides,
+  And glorying in his might threats earth and sky;
+  The neighbouring nations, vanquish'd to his sway,
+  Like abject slaves his tyrant power obey.
+  What conqueror leads the Gallic armies on?
+  Fortune's loved child, Ambition's darling son,
+  'Tis the French Emperor, great Napoleon:
+  And subject to his high imperial will,
+  His warlike marshals his commands fulfil.
+  What can resist their overwhelming force?
+  Has Liberty no succour? no resource?
+  She has! she has! O save her, Wellington!
+  Ere yet unhappy Spain be forced to yield,
+  Fly with Britannic forces to the field,
+  And pluck the noblest palm thou yet hast won.
+
+  The memory of Talavera's day
+  Still strikes our foes with wonder and dismay;
+  There did the Briton soldier boldly claim
+  The honour due to his illustrious name.
+
+              On Torres-Vedras' height,
+  Like Jove upon the Olympian steep,
+  When he defied the Giant-race to fight,
+      Thy station calmly didst thou keep,
+  Despite the vengeful threats of boasting France.
+  How didst thou long to see her powers advance!
+  But no: the veteran Chief, Massena, fled.
+  Swiftly thy ardent troops his flight pursue;
+  His soldiers fall in crowds; Confusion, Fear,
+  And Slaughter dog them in the rear;
+  Famine and Desolation meet their van.
+  Spaniard with Portuguese in vengeance vies;
+  New toils they still encounter, dangers new,
+  Thus Fortune's Favourite, this unconquer'd man
+      Accomplishes his haughty boast:
+  Home he returns with less than half his host;
+  His baggage, ordnance, thine, brave Wellington!
+  And all his wreaths in former warfare won.
+
+  So Albion, throned upon her rocky seat,
+  Sees the proud-swelling billows idly beat;
+  Resistance needs not their assaults to foil;
+  Shrinking into themselves, they straight recoil,
+  Leaving foam, dirt, and sea-weed at her feet.
+
+              On Douro's banks
+  Methinks I view the hostile, threatening ranks;
+      The Lord of war to battle calls:--
+      Hark! through the affrighted sky
+        Bursts the dread cannons' roar;
+      While thousand slaughterous balls
+        In vollies whizzing fly.
+      See, see, the Gallic Captain falls!
+      His bold achievements now are o'er.
+  The Britons shout, and rush into the field;
+        The French dishearten'd yield:
+        What heaps of wounded, slain,
+        O'er all the encumber'd plain!
+        They now resist no more.--
+           Hail Wellington!
+           The battle's won!
+  The voices of Renown the tidings spread:
+  Exulting England echoes thy applause;
+  Ambitious Gallia hears thy name with dread;
+  While European Freedom lifts her head,
+  And hails the great Defender of her cause.
+  Hero of England, with admiring eyes
+  We trace in thee the noble qualities
+        That constitute the Chief complete:
+        In others, oft, they singly shine;
+        In thee they all united meet,
+  And in one galaxy their rays combine.
+
+  Nature has given thee an intrepid heart,
+  That ever glows with patriotic flame,
+  And with the impassion'd love of martial fame.
+      And gifted, too, thou art
+      With a strong, hardy frame,
+    Patient of toils and hardships. In thy mind
+    Deep judgment with sagacity we find;
+    Coolness and firmness in rare union join'd.
+    In tactics versed, in all the rules of art,
+  By long experience taught, thou play'st the Chieftain's part.
+
+      Lo, now! in vision rapt, I view
+      The far-famed plains of Waterloo.
+  As slowly, dimly dawns the morning-light,
+  Around the battle-field I cast my sight;
+  Thrill'd with delight severe, with awe opprest,
+  My labouring heart throbs wildly in my breast.
+  Hail fellow-countrymen! I trust in you,
+  And in your great Commander too;
+  Hail valiant Britons! hail brave Wellington!
+  Full many a conquest have ye gain'd;
+  O! may another, now, be soon obtain'd!
+  But yonder see the great Napoleon!
+  Secure of victory he proudly stands,
+  Surrounded by his choicest veteran bands,
+  Who welcome with loud shouts their long-loved Chief,
+  From Elba's isle return'd, from exile brief;
+  They idolize him as the warrior-God,
+  And burn with zeal to obey his voice, his nod.
+  The opponent armies on each other gaze,
+  And look defiance though the view dismays.
+
+  Sudden the French artillery rends the skies;
+  And the Britannic instantly replies;
+  Hundreds of brazen throats shoot forth afar
+  Their iron globes, those thunderbolts of war;
+  Hundreds of soldiers fall upon the plain;
+  Some shot, expire; more, wounded, writhe in pain.
+  The cavalries to combat fiercely dash,
+  And like two comets 'gainst each other clash;
+  Horses and men roll mingled on the ground,
+  Confusion, slaughter, horror all around.
+  Regiments of infantry form quick the square,
+  And the fierce-charging horsemen firmly dare;
+  In vain to break them every means they try,
+  The troops well-disciplined, the attempts defy.
+  Long time in dread suspense the strife remains,
+  While heaps of dead and wounded load the plains.
+
+  Angel of Britain! guard our Hero's life!
+  On that, on that depends the upshot of the fight.
+  How does Napoleon's soul indignant burn!
+  Resolving, now, his last resource to try,
+  And urge his desperate way to victory,
+  He straight commands a vast, o'erpowering force
+  Of infantry, artillery, and horse,
+  The centre of his stubborn foe to turn.
+  Ah! now tremendous grows the strife,
+  On either side they war as Furies now;
+  What deluges of blood! what waste of life!
+  How will the mighty struggle finish?--how?--
+  Thank heaven! 'tis o'er,--the French, driven back, retire;
+  Again I breathe--more freely I respire.
+  Lo! Bulow with the Prussian force appears!
+  The British Chief with joy his cannon hears,
+  And, flush'd with confidence, exulting cries,
+  We'll conquer yet; advance, my friends, advance!
+  Shouting they spring upon their enemies;
+  See, Wellington! the great Napoleon flies!--
+  Britannia, yet again, has triumph'd over France!
+
+
+
+
+  DESCRIPTION OF A CONFLAGRATION.
+
+  'Tis night:--the busy, ceaseless noise of day
+  No more is heard; the now-deserted-streets
+  Lie dark and silent;--London's weary swarms
+  Rest in profound repose. Hark! a loud cry
+  Frightens the silence;--'tis the cry of fire!
+  I hear the dissonance of rattling wheels,
+  The tread of hasty feet, the doleful sigh
+  Of sympathy, and terror's thrilling shriek:--
+  O mercy heaven!--
+
+                  Behold the fiery Pest!
+  See, how the flames climb up the lofty walls,
+  Involve their prey, and greedily devour:
+  The crowd exert their efforts to controul
+  The spreading bane; some labour to supply
+  The numerous engines; others bear aloft
+  The pliant tubes, guiding their watery store
+  Amid the fiercer fire; on ladders some
+  Ascending, scale the walls, and undeterr'd,
+  Their dangerous office ply; some wildly haste
+  To save their properties: 'tis bustle all,
+  And noisy tumult. Doubtful for a time
+  The strife remains; where'er the Burning winds
+  His flamy spires, the well-directed streams,
+  Incessant spouting, damp the sickening flames,
+  Repelling their advance; but, oft repulsed,
+  As oft they rally with recruited strength:
+  Alternate in the mind rise hope and fear.
+  Tumbles a roof with clattering noise, the sky
+  Lightens, a burst of clamour!--all is hush'd
+  In awful stillness, save that from beneath
+  The ruins fall'n is heard a muttering sound,
+  As if the Demon of the element
+  In indignation menaced dire revenge.
+  Ah! now, unchain'd by some mysterious Power,
+  Some Fiend of air, in league with That of fire,
+  The wind begins to howl; its breath awakes
+  The sleepy flames;--loud and more loud it howls,
+  And rushes on them with collected might;
+  Before the driving spirit burst the flames
+  In a redoubled tempest, and deride
+  Opposing man. See! how they proudly toss
+  Their many heads on high, and through the vault
+  Of darkness fling a sad, malignant day:
+  Look! with what fury, what resistless rage,
+  From street to street the fiery Deluge pours
+  His rapid billows, swallowing everything
+  In horrible destruction; lowly roofs,
+  And gorgeous mansions, lofty spires and domes
+  Capacious, on whose fair, majestic tops,
+  As on her throne exalted, Art assumed
+  Her noblest honours, whose firm pillars braved
+  Storms, and the still-corroding course of years;
+  These, these with all their wealth, the various stores
+  Of luxury and commerce, to the flames
+  Abandon'd, sink an undefended prey,
+  Swelling the general wreck; unheeded sink
+  By their possessors, flying for their lives:
+  Cries, groans, laments, on every side resound.
+
+  Sudden a magazine of nitrous grain
+  Bursts in a blazing column to the clouds;
+  The dread explosion shakes the solid ground,
+  And through the skies in lengthening thunder rolls:
+  Driven by the furious overwhelming blast
+  To distance round, the burning fragments fall
+  On every side; see, see, yon ships catch fire,
+  Their rigging's in a blaze; affrighted Thames
+  Shrinks from the sight; his waters cast a gleam
+  Portentous, dismal, like the light of hell.
+
+  Before the Conflagration numbers fly
+  Frighted, in throngs precipitate, to seek
+  A refuge in the distant fields secure,
+  Which, cover'd thick with victims of distress,
+  Present a wretched world. There Youth, surprised
+  By hard experience, learns, alas! too soon
+  The destiny of Man; and from those eyes
+  Where expectation and unclouded joy
+  Serenely shone, the streams of sorrow flow:
+  There helpless Age, robb'd of the scanty means
+  A life of labour earn'd, driven from his home
+  To wander, destitute, the vale of years,
+  Yields to despondence, tears his hoary locks,
+  Falls on the ground, and eagerly implores
+  Rest in the grave: there, gazing on the fires,
+  The tender Mother stands,--her frenzied soul
+  Glares from her look, her bosom heaves a groan,
+  She hugs her crying infant to her heart,
+  Despairing, lost: what countless forms of wo!
+  Lethargic some, and mute; some, giving loose
+  To their distracted feelings, rave aloud
+  In all the clamorous vehemence of grief.
+
+  The din subsides;--a voice, distinctly heard,
+  A frantic voice exclaims, my child! my child!
+  My child is in the flames!--Oh! horrible!--
+  What succour? what resource? the roaring wind
+  More fiercely blows, the Burning pours along,
+  The skies are lighten'd, Uproar opens wide
+  His thousand mouths, Danger and Ruin prowl
+  At large with boundless license, all is doubt
+  And consternation, one tempestuous sea
+  Of wretchedness, one chaos of despair.
+
+  Seized with wild fear Imagination sees
+  The elements broke loose, Time on the brink
+  Of dread Eternity, with all the signs
+  Of that tremendous period when the dead
+  Shall rise to judgment--hush'd in solemn awe--
+  Listening the trump of doom.--
+
+                      Thus raged the storm,
+  Till the great God of heaven in mercy bade
+  The wind be silent, bade the gathering clouds
+  Pour down abundant rain; the raging Fires,
+  In prompt obedience to the sovereign will
+  Of their Creator, dwindled and expired.
+
+
+
+
+  TO SPRING.
+
+  Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train
+  That o'er the varying year alternate reign;
+  Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire,
+  Fond Nature woos with ever-fresh desire,
+  Enchanting Spring! O let thy votary's lay
+  Invite thy angel smile, thy genial sway!
+
+  Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart,
+  Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart:
+  When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away              }
+  And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray,               }
+  First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display; }
+  Or when Aurora, to the lark's gay song,
+  Full of thy spirit, lightly trips along;
+  With joyful kisses greets the first-born flowers,
+  And o'er them breathes thy warm, refreshing showers;
+  Or when, on shadowy pillow in the west,
+  Fann'd by thy gentlest Zephyrs into rest,
+  Eve sweetly dozes, whilst, as in a dream,
+  She sees the glimmerings of the solar beam
+  O'er the dim landscape languishingly stray,
+  On ocean's smiling face reflected play,
+  Fade in the purple ether's darkening hues,
+  And vernal peace and joy o'er earth diffuse.
+
+  More grateful strains, O Spring! thy favours claim,
+  Shine on thy beauties, and endear thy name.
+  While Winter's winds thy new-born charms deface,
+  And the young Year starves in his cold embrace,
+  The Hours, by stealth advancing, bear away,
+  And on thy lap, with smiles of pleasure, lay
+  The shivering Babe; new vigour there he gains,
+  And spreads thy various treasures o'er the plains.
+
+  The joyous Naiades, from their icy bands
+  Unfetter'd, dance and warble o'er the lands;
+  The Dryads feel thy genial breath, and raise
+  Their heads, new-crown'd with leaves, and whisper praise;
+  The plumy warblers wake their amorous strains;
+  The herds and flocks sport o'er the fresh, green plains;
+  Fancy and Hope return the mind to bless,
+  A paradise she sees and dreams of happiness.
+
+  Come, then, indulgent Ruler of the year,
+  Sweet Spring! to grateful Nature ever dear!
+  From the blest regions of Elysian day,
+  Climes favour'd high with thy perennial sway,
+  O deign to come! and let our raptured eyes
+  View thee, as through a veil, in these obscurer skies.
+
+  Methinks, I see thee coming from afar,
+  Thy beauty decks Apollo's mounting car;
+  The tyrant of the north with dazzled sight
+  Beholds, and, yielding, meditates his flight;
+  His dread, petrific rod he long has broke,
+  And freed glad Nature from his icy yoke;
+  She lifts her head, and hails the approaching hour
+  When she shall feel thy more propitious power.
+
+  O haste thy progress, and exert thy sway!
+  In all thy charms, on some thrice-hallow'd day,
+  When the soft-whispering air to Fancy's ears
+  Wafts the celestial music of the spheres,
+  While Pleasures, Loves, and Graces round thee fly,
+  Glide on a sun-beam down the clear, blue sky;
+  Crown'd with a myrtle-wreath, begin thy reign;
+  Bid lingering Winter fly with all his train;
+  Pour forth thy favours o'er this western isle,
+  And let each grateful eye reflect thy smile.
+
+
+
+
+  TO WINTER.
+
+  No longer Beauty's many-colour'd robe
+  Adorns the autumnal scene; no longer play
+  The Zephyrs with her tresses; she has fled
+  To happier regions, and has left the year
+  Naked and void of charms; the leafless woods
+  Tremble no more with rapture at the voice
+  Of harmony: ah! how is Nature changed!
+  Silent, and sad, she anxiously awaits
+  Thy coming, mighty King! and, as the sun
+  Less bright, less ardent, more and more declines
+  Towards the horizon, with alarm she marks
+  Thy shadow lengthening in the nightly shade
+  And towering o'er her, prostrate as she lies,
+  More threatening, more gigantic; till, at length,
+  Boreas, thy harbinger, forth-rushing fierce,
+  Tears from chill'd Autumn's head the withering Crown,
+  And blustering loud in her affrighted ear,
+  O Winter! tells thy terrible approach.
+
+  Behold! in awful majesty thou comest!
+  On huge, black clouds, that through the encumber'd sky,
+  Before the northern blast, sail slowly on,
+  Thou ridest sublime; aloft in ether towers
+  Thy giant form; thy formidable frown
+  Blackens the night; thy threatening voice, sent forth
+  Upon the impetuous winds, affrights the world.
+  Yet dare I welcome thee, terrific Power!
+  Dread Winter, hail! thy terrors fill my soul
+  With a delightful awe; I love to trace
+  Thy varying scenes, the wonders of thy reign.
+  Thy Ministers await thy sovereign will,
+  And, in the secret regions of the air,
+  In cloudy magazines prepare thy stores
+  Of snow, and rain, and hail. At thy command
+  Frost, that invisible, mysterious Power,
+  Breathes upon Nature, and thou see'st her soon
+  An unresisting captive, bound in ice;
+  Vainly she mourns, till, at thy bidding, Thaw
+  With his damp, misty standard, from the south
+  Comes creeping silently, and sets her free;
+  She weeps for joy. Ah! now thou dost unchain
+  The Demon of the tempest, to exert
+  On tortured Nature thy tyrannic might;
+  Fierce on the whirlwind's wing he rushes forth
+  With dreadful bellowings, hurling all around
+  Destructive deluges of rain, snow, hail,
+  In wildest discord, and chaotic war
+  Mingling earth, sea, and sky. All-potent Lord!
+  Dread Winter! though Sublimity appears
+  Thy chief attendant, and partakes thy throne;
+  Yet Beauty often visits thee, and dares,
+  In many a scene, with the more powerful charms
+  Of her majestic sister to combine
+  Her pleasing graces: I delight to view
+  Thy snowy robe of purest, glowing white,
+  The clear, blue skies, the cheerful evergreen
+  Amid the wintry desert, from whose boughs
+  The little redbreast chirps; the trees and herbs
+  With snow and hoarfrost fringed, to fancy's eye
+  Presenting pictured shapes, and, when the sun
+  Sheds o'er them his effulgence, sparkling keen
+  With million living particles of light.
+
+  But with far nobler transport I survey
+  Thy nightly scene, O Winter! when by frost
+  Refined and clear'd, the pure transpicuous air
+  Through her thin, azure veil, to wondering man
+  Displays the unclouded heavens, myriads of stars
+  Shining in all their glory: at the view
+  Rapt Contemplation, in her car of light,
+  Expatiates in the interminable space,
+  Ranging from world to world, from sun to sun,
+  O'erwhelm'd with wonder and astonishment,
+  And sacred awe, till lifting up her eyes,
+  She sees Religion, from the opening gate
+  Of heaven itself, on her seraphic wings
+  Smiling descend; she feels her power divine,
+  And raptured hymns the great Creator's praise.
+
+
+
+
+  THE DESPERATION AND MADNESS OF GUILT.
+
+  In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
+  Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
+  While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
+  Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!
+  Still, ever still the same where'er I fly;
+  No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpse
+  Through all the blackness of eternity!
+  Monster of direst guilt! this mother's hand
+  Murder'd my babe, my new-born innocent.
+  I seek not mercy, no!--long sought in vain
+  While conscience prey'd upon my secret heart,
+  Wasting its life in agonizing groans,
+  And floods of scalding tears,--but now no more;
+  Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead!
+  Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench;
+  'Twould taint creation were it not confined.
+  Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice,
+  A mountain of impenetrable ice,
+  In whose unfathom'd centre lies my soul,
+  Imprison'd, numb'd, buried in conscious death.
+  O could I cease to think! cease quite to be!
+  O could I live in torments! writhe in hell!
+  Raptures to this! Rouse, rouse to life, my soul,
+  In madness of despair, O burst thy tomb;
+  Call God and devils to behold thy guilt,
+  And blast thee.  (_It lightens._)
+            See, what sudden blaze! they come!
+  Welcome, O welcome! follow me, look there!
+  There lies my murder'd babe:--now strike!--avenge!
+                                    (_It thunders._)
+  Overwhelming stroke!
+          (_She falls upon the ground insensible:--
+                   at length, coming to herself_)--
+                Ah! am I conscious still?
+  Not blasted then?--does this one little spark
+  Amidst a universe of solid gloom
+  Still live? I'll try to quench it with my blood.
+  Come, dagger, pierce, pierce deep; I feel thy point;
+  My blood flows fast, it animates my heart.
+  The gathering cloud of death grows thick and dark,
+  It hangs oppressive on my swimming sight:
+  See, see, the Spirit of my murder'd child
+  Comes with a troop of demons to conduct
+  My soul to hell;--they seize me for their prey,
+  They drag me down: Oh! horror! horror! oh!
+                                (_She dies._)
+
+
+
+
+  ON HEARING THE NIGHTINGALE.
+
+  Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song!
+  O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost
+  As in a blissful dream! how has my soul
+  Been wafted in a sea of melody!
+  Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself:
+  Still with the enchanting music's dying breath
+  The air is kept in motion, and conveys
+  Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear;
+  Or is it but an echo from the cell
+  Of memory that deludes my doating sense?
+  Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway,
+  And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web;
+  But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature,
+  More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd
+  With the departed soul of harmony.
+
+  Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves
+  All my heart's gratitude; for it has still'd
+  Its anxious throbbings, and removed the load
+  Of sadness that oppress'd the springs of life:
+  More lightly now it beats, and welcomes back
+  The glowing tide of health, and conscious feels
+  The blessing of existence. It imparts
+  To all my frame reanimating force;
+  My nerves partake of its elastic spring;
+  No longer falsely sentient, they receive
+  The just impression from external things,
+  Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch,
+  And in her general concert bear a part.
+
+  Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale!
+  How by the magic influence of thy song,
+  How am I changed from what, of late, I was!
+  And every object, too, how seems it changed!
+  This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'd
+  To Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy,
+  Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood,
+  The Goddess loved to dwell;--'twas lonesome gloom,
+  And awful stillness all: I felt her power;
+  The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'd
+  With a mysterious load of shapeless feeling:
+  Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart;
+  Upon the ground I sank,--scarce sensible,
+  And buried, as it were, in conscious death.
+
+  With what soft influence, what resistless power,
+  Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel!
+  Insinuate itself into my ear,
+  Melting its dull unwillingness to listen,
+  And opening soon a passage to my heart!
+  But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul!
+  O wondrous power of heavenly harmony!
+  See, Philomel! the Goddess of the night,
+  Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws,
+  And pays thee with a smile of gratitude;
+  A smile that to her beauty adds new charms,
+  Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy,
+  Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head,
+  And, gazing on her tutelary Power
+  With eyes reflecting soft her dewy light,
+  Feels her divinest inspiration steal
+  Into her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven.
+  My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows.
+  Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song!
+  Long on this night shall grateful memory doat;
+  And oft to this loved wood will I return.
+
+
+
+
+  TO PAGANINI.
+
+  Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame,
+  O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name;
+  Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise,
+  And swell the general chorus of thy praise.
+  Though not so loud, more dear the applause to thee
+  Of all the favour'd sons of harmony,
+  Who, with one full consent, admiring own   }
+  Thee as their master--monarch--thee alone; }
+  And humbly bow before thee on thy throne.  }
+
+  O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart;
+  Thou hast created for thyself an art.
+  As, in the natural world, around the sun
+  The planets their career of brightness run,
+  Each moving in an orbit of its own,
+  And all obeying laws to science known.
+  Musicians thus, each blest with his degree
+  Of talent by the God of harmony,
+  Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways,
+  While every one the rules of art obeys.
+  We calculate the merits of their name,
+  And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.
+  Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st;
+  Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st,
+  Like comet, blazing in its bold career,
+  That leaves behind the planetary sphere,
+  And rushes towards the centre of the sun
+  Till with Apollo's self it seems but one.
+
+  A Genius, an Original, art thou,
+  Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.
+  When thou dost take thy magic bow in hand
+  What mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?
+  Transported, we admire thy peerless skill;
+  Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will;
+  With fear we tremble, we with anger glow,
+  Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow;
+  Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain,
+  From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?
+  Such is thy music's power to rule the heart,
+  Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.
+
+
+
+
+  TO FANCY.
+
+  O! what a nameless feeling of delight
+  Stole o'er my wondering spirit, like a gleam
+  From opening heaven!--dost thou, then, Fancy, deign
+  Once more to visit me? thou dost! thou dost!
+  That breath of extacy, that heavenly light,
+  Flow'd from the wafture of thy angel wings,
+  And from thy smiling eyes: divinest Power!
+  Welcome, thrice welcome! O vouchsafe to make
+  My breast thy temple, and my heart thy shrine!
+  Still will I worship thee, and thou shalt keep,
+  In peace, thy new abode, nor fear the approach
+  Of aught profane or hostile, to disturb
+  Thy holy mysteries; for I will chase
+  Far from the hallow'd precincts where thou dwell'st
+  Each worldly passion, every grovelling thought,
+  And all the train of Vice; striving to make
+  The shrine well-worthy its celestial guest.
+  Still will I worship thee, and oft invoke
+  Thine inspirations, and with transport yield
+  To thy sweet, magic influence all my soul:
+  The slightest breath of thine inspiring voice
+  Shall wake my nerves, most feelingly alive,
+  And bid them tremble with poetic bliss.
+
+  The frown of Reason thou no more shalt fear;
+  Did I say Reason's frown?--no!--'twas the frown
+  Of false Philosophy, her foolish pride.
+  Reason and Thou are sisters, born to rule
+  Unitedly, in happiest harmony,
+  The mind of man; and in the heaven-sent hour
+  Of inspiration, from the self-same source
+  Ye pour the stream of mingled light and flame
+  That animates, illumes, and warms the soul.
+  How could I e'er desert thee, loveliest Nymph!
+  To court thy rival, false Philosophy?
+  How could I quit thy verdant, flowery walks,
+  To tread with painful toil the briary maze
+  Of metaphysic lore? Indulgent Power!
+  The offence forgive. Lured by the specious name,
+  Philosophy, and by her meteor rays
+  Misled, with fond presumptuousness I strove
+  To penetrate the dark, unfathom'd depth
+  Where Truth in awful mystery resides.
+  Not deigning in thy mirror to behold
+  Her image, though in loveliest beauty clad,
+  With lawless curiosity I sought
+  To view the Goddess in her naked form.
+  But heaven to man, nor angel gives to scan
+  Truth's very self; she lives for ever hid,
+  Shrined in the bosom of Divinity.
+  Long wandering mid the chaos, I at length
+  Approach'd the border of the cold, dark waste,
+  The bottomless abyss, the dreadful void
+  Of scepticism; affrighted, back I shrunk.
+
+  O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more,
+  Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye,
+  Melting thy fairy visions into air.
+  Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove,
+  There study nature, and with grateful heart,
+  In thy serene, translucent stream behold
+  The light of truth reflected, and the smile
+  Of heaven's benevolence, and in that glass
+  The loveliness of every Virtue woo
+  And every Grace. There let me, too, behold
+  In all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy,
+  That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart;
+  And let the love of glory fire my breast;
+  And let me see, to stimulate my powers,
+  The new-born crescent of my fame ascend,
+  While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope,
+  On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wings
+  To fan its beams and joyful hails the hour
+  When in its full-orb'd glory it shall shine.
+
+
+
+
+  A SUMMER-EVENING.
+
+  Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill,
+  The prospect, from its height, will well reward
+  The toil of climbing; thence we shall command
+  The various beauties of the landscape round.--
+  Now we have reached the top. O! what a scene
+  Opens upon the sight, and swallows up
+  The admiring soul! She feels as if from earth
+  Uplifted into heaven. Scarce can she yet
+  Collect herself, and exercise her powers.
+  While o'er heaven's lofty, wide-extended arch,
+  And round the vast horizon, the bold eye
+  Shoots forth her view, with what sublime delight
+  The bosom swells! See, where the God of day,
+  Who through the cloudless ether long has rid
+  On his bright, fiery car, amidst a blaze
+  Of dazzling glory, and in wrath shot round
+  His burning arrows, with tyrannic power
+  Oppressing Nature, now, his daily course
+  Well-nigh completed, toward the western goal
+  Declines, and with less awful majesty
+  Concludes his reign; his flamy chariot hid
+  In floods of golden light that dazzles still,
+  Though less intense. O! how these scenes exalt
+  The throbbing heart! Louisa, canst thou bear
+  These strong emotions? do they not o'erpower
+  Thy tender nerves? I fear, my Love, they do;
+  Those eyes that, late, with transport beam'd so bright,
+  Now veil their rays with the soft, dewy shade
+  Of tenderness. Let us repose awhile;
+  The roots of yonder tree, cover'd with moss,
+  Present a pleasing seat; there let us sit.
+  Hark! Zephyr wakes, and sweetly-whispering, tells
+  The approach of Eve; already Nature feels
+  Her soothing influence, her refreshing breath;
+  The fields, the trees, imbibe the cool, moist air,
+  Their feverish thirst allay, and smile revived.
+  The Soul, too, feels her influence, sweetly soothed
+  Into a tender calm. O! let us now,
+  My loved Louisa! let us now enjoy
+  The landscape's charms, and all the nameless sweets
+  Of this, our favourite hour, for ever dear
+  To Fancy and to Love. Cast round thy sight
+  Upon the altered scene, nor longer fear
+  The dazzling sun; his latest, lingering beams
+  Where are they? can'st thou find them?--see! they gild
+  The glittering top of yonder village-spire;
+  Upon that distant hill they faintly shine;
+  And look! the topmost boughs of this tall oak
+  Majestic, which o'ercanopies our heads,
+  Yet catch their tremulous glimmerings:--now they fade,
+  Fade and expire; and, as they fade, the Moon,
+  The full-orb'd Moon, that seem'd, erewhile, to melt
+  In the bright azure, from the darkening sky
+  Emerging slow, and silent, sheds around
+  Her snowy light, that with the day's last, dim
+  Reflection, from the broad, translucid lake,
+  Insensibly commingles, and unites
+  In sweetest harmony, o'er all the scene
+  Diffusing magic tints, enchanting power.
+  How lovely every object now appears!
+  Each in itself, and how they all combine
+  In one delightful whole! What eye, what heart,
+  O Nature! can resist thy potent charms
+  When thus in soft, transparent shade half-veil'd?
+  Now Beauty and Sublimity, methinks,
+  Upon the lap of Eve, embracing sleep.
+  Mark the tree-tops, my Love, of yonder wood,
+  Whose moonlight foliage fluctuates in the breeze,
+  Say, do they not, in figure, motion, hue,
+  Resemble the sea-waves at misty dawn?
+  What shadowy shape along the troubled lake
+  Comes this way moving? how mysteriously
+  It glides along! how indistinct its form!
+  Imagination views with sweet surprise
+  The unknown appearance--breathless in suspense.
+  The Spirit of the waters can it be,
+  On his aerial car? some fairy Power?
+  Pants not thy heart, Louisa, half-alarm'd?
+  It grows upon the sight,--strange, watery sounds
+  Attend its course;--hark! was not that a voice?
+  O! 'tis a fishing-boat!--its sails and oars
+  I now discern. The church-clock strikes! how loud
+  Burst forth its sound into the startled air,
+  That feels it still, and trembles far around!
+  My dearest Love! it summons us away;
+  The dew begins to fall; let us depart:
+  How sweetly have we spent this evening-hour!
+
+
+
+
+  PROLOGUE.
+
+  The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind,
+  For which the appropriate name is hard to find;
+  No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be,
+  With strictest truth, pronounced a Tragedy;
+  Since, though predominant the tragic tone,
+  It reigns not uniformly and alone;
+  Then, that its character be best proclaim'd,
+  A Tragic-drama let the piece be named.
+
+  But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude,
+  'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude,
+  Where incidents in strange confusion blend,
+  Without connexion, interest, or end:
+  Not so;--far different was the bard's design;
+  For though, at times, he ventures to combine
+  With grave Melpomene's impassion'd strain
+  The gay Thalia's more enlivening vein;
+  (As all mankind with one consent agree
+  How strong the charms of sweet variety,)
+  Yet Reason's path he still with care observes,
+  And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves,
+  His plot conducting by the rules of art:
+  And, above all, he strives to touch the heart;
+  Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire,
+  Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.
+
+  Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent;
+  The poet means not here to represent
+  The tragic Muse in all her terrors drest,
+  With might tempestuous to convulse the breast;
+  Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien,
+  To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene;
+  But with an air more mild and versatile,        }
+  Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile, }
+  Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style,   }
+  Resembling in effect an April-night
+  When from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light;
+  And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease,
+  Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.
+
+  But, in few words our author ends his plea,
+  Already tending to prolixity,
+  To paint from Nature was his leading aim;
+  Let then, the play your candid hearing claim:
+  Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws;
+  If good, reward it with deserved applause;
+  If bad, condemn; yet be it still exempt
+  From your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.
+
+
+
+
+  PROLOGUE.
+
+  Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight,
+  The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night;
+  How on this blissful night, while yet remote,
+  Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat!
+  Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky,
+  With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high,
+  To greet the appearance of the poet's name,
+  Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame.
+
+  Alas! they soar not now;--the demon, Fear,
+  Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere:
+  Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;--
+  The world of torment opens on her eyes,
+  Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;--
+          (_The speaker pauses--the audience are
+             supposed to clap, when he continues,_)
+  But Hope, returning to dispel her fears,
+  Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and light
+  At once have forced their dreaded foe to flight,
+  Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round,
+  And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground.
+
+  Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly?
+  Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky,
+  To greet the appearance of the poet's name,
+  Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame;
+  Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise,
+  Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes,
+  Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere,
+  On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear;
+  O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws,
+  Fondly anticipate your kind applause.
+
+
+
+
+  EPILOGUE.
+
+  Perplexing case!--your pardon, Friends, I pray,--
+  My head so turns, I know not what to say;--
+  However, since I've dared to come before ye,
+  I'll stop the whirligig,--
+      (_Clapping his hand to his forehead_,)
+                  and tell my story:
+  Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction
+  It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.
+
+  Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,
+  That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,
+  Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:
+  The devil take him for neglecting it!
+  Nay though,--'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd
+  From certain motives--which were most absurd;
+  For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,
+  And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,
+  He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,
+  To set about it when the play began;
+  Thus purposing the drama's fate to know,
+  Then write his epilogue quite à propos.
+
+  The time at last arrives--the signal rings,
+  Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs,
+  And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene,
+  With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,--
+  Watches opinion's breezes as they blow,
+  To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.
+
+  Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite
+  Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write,
+  And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose,
+  Could not forbear, at times, to cock my nose
+  Over his shoulder, curiously to trace
+  His progress;--zounds! how snail-like was his pace!
+  Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken,
+  Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken:
+  'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!
+  As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun,
+  My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded;
+  He was--excuse the pun--with grape high-loaded.
+  Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar,
+  Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.
+
+  But lest, here too, like hazard I should run; }
+  I'll end my story. When the play was done,    }
+  The epilogue was--look! 'tis here--begun:     }
+  Such as it is, however, if you will,
+  I'll read it; shall I, Friends?       (_They clap._)
+                         Your orders I fulfil.
+
+                      (_He reads._)
+
+  'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell
+  Summons me--Duncan-like, to heaven or hell;
+  See, see, the curtain draws;--it now commences;
+  Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses:
+  But let me to my task:--what noise is this?
+  They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss!
+  Now then, to work, my pen:--descend, O Muse!
+  Thine inspiration through my soul infuse;
+  Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before
+  Has been imagined,--never will be more.
+
+  What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise,
+  I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies
+  Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:--
+  They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.
+  Again they clap, O extacy!--
+  Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein,
+  He halts,--reads,--curses,--and begins again;
+  But not a single couplet could he muster;
+  How should he, with his soul in such a fluster,
+  All rapture, gratitude, for your applause?
+  Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!
+
+
+
+
+  LINES
+
+  ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. B.
+  (SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MISS B***, HIS SISTER.)
+
+  At God's command the vital spirit fled,
+  And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.
+  Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare
+  To gaze on thee;--dread sight! death, death is there.
+  How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief!
+  But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief.
+  Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:--
+  Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell;
+  Thy tender friendship felt so long for me,
+  Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity,
+  Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence,
+  Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense,
+  Thy patriot love of genuine liberty,
+  Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy;
+  And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feel
+  Thy firm religious faith and pious zeal,
+  Enlighten'd, liberal, free from bigotry,
+  And, that prime excellence, thy charity.
+  Farewell!--for ever?--no! forbid it, Heaven!
+  A glorious promise is to Christians given;
+  Though parted in this world of sin and pain,
+  On high, my Brother! we shall meet again.
+
+
+
+
+  LINES TO AN INFIDEL,
+  AFTER HAVING READ HIS BOOK AGAINST CHRISTIANITY.
+
+  Your book I've read: I would that I had not!
+  For what instruction, pleasure, have I got?
+  Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt
+  Long, long I wander'd, striving to get out;
+  Your thread of sophistry, my only clue,
+  I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through:
+  That spider's web entangled me the more:
+  With desperate courage onward still I went,
+  Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent:
+  Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er.
+  I've been a child, who whirls himself about,
+  Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round;
+  Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out,
+  He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.
+
+
+
+
+  LINES
+
+  ON HEARING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO IS BOTH LAME
+  AND BLIND, BUT IN OTHER RESPECTS VERY HANDSOME,
+  SING AND PLAY ON HIS VIOLIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.
+
+  Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes;
+  I view the youth, and feel compassion rise.
+  He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze
+  I listen,--listen, and admiring gaze.
+  Still, as he catches inspiration's fire,
+  Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings,
+  That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings,
+  He pours into the music all his soul,
+  And governs mine with strong, but soft controul:
+  Raptured I glow, and more and more admire.
+  His mortal ailments I no longer see;
+  But, of divinities my fancy dreams;
+  Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire;
+  And lame the powerful Deity of fire;
+  His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems;
+  And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.
+
+
+
+
+ LINES TO A PEDANTIC CRITIC.
+
+  Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,
+  Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:
+  Now, cold correctness!--I despise the name;
+  Is that a passport through the gates of fame?
+  Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;
+  Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?
+  Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;
+  My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.
+  When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,
+  Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,
+  Onward they rush with unresisted sway,        }
+  Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away    }
+  Who would with obstacles their progress stay. }
+  As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply
+  With the great luminaries of the sky,
+  So Genius, to direct his course aright,
+  Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.
+
+
+
+
+  LINES ON SHAKSPEARE.
+
+  (SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
+
+  Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed
+  The name of Shakspeare!--
+                What a glorious theme
+  For never-ending praise! His drama's page,
+  Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view
+  Displays the living image of the world,
+  And all the different characters of men:
+  Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay,
+  We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel
+  All the strong sympathies of real life.
+  To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent
+  Her magic wand, potent to conjure up
+  Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd,
+  Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.
+
+  The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane,
+  Majestic as the canopy of heaven,
+  Embracing all created things, a fane
+  His superhuman genius has upraised,
+  To Nature consecrate? The Goddess there
+  For ever dwells, and from her sanctuary,
+  By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest,
+  Reveals her awful mysteries to man,
+  And with her power divine rules every heart.
+  At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sons
+  Of learning, and of art! ye men, endow'd
+  With talent, taste! ye nobler few who feel
+  The genuine glow of genius! bow down all
+  In admiration! with deep feeling own
+  Your littleness, your insignificance;
+  And with one general voice due homage pay
+  To Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!
+
+
+
+
+  LINES ON MILTON.
+
+  (SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
+
+  Milton!--
+            the name of that divinest Bard
+  Acts on Imagination like a charm
+  Of holiest power;--with deep, religious awe
+  She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd
+  The relics that enshrined his godlike soul.
+
+  O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,
+  With what astonishment, will all the sons
+  Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse
+  His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride
+  Will England ever boast her Milton's name,
+  The Poet matchless in sublimity!
+  E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound
+  The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;
+  Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,
+  They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power
+  No longer treads the guilt-polluted world,
+  But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air:
+  Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour,
+  When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake
+  With frames resuscitated, glorified:
+  Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard,
+  Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs,
+  Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir,
+  And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.
+
+
+
+
+  ANACREONTIC.
+
+  Still, as the fleeting seasons change,
+  From joy to joy poor mortals range,
+  And as the year pursues its round,
+  One pleasure's lost, another found;
+  Time, urging on his envious course,
+  Still drives them from their last resource.
+  So butterflies, when children chase
+  The gaudy prize with eager pace,
+  On each fresh flower but just alight,
+  And, ere they taste, renew their flight.
+
+  Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess
+  A constant source of happiness,
+  And am not poorly forced to live
+  On what the seasons please to give.
+  Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole,
+  What care I, while I quaff the bowl?
+  In that secure, I can defy
+  The changeful temper of the sky.
+  No weatherglass, or if I be,
+  Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.
+
+
+
+
+  ANACREONTIC.
+
+  Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
+  While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
+  His form erect, his stately pace,
+  His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
+  His scowling brows, his ken severe,
+  His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
+  Some high Philosopher declare:--
+  Hush! let us hear him from the chair:
+
+  'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
+  How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
+  Know ye not well the fate of man?
+  That death is certain, life a span?
+  That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
+  Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
+  Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
+  That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'
+
+  Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
+  Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
+      Since mortals must die,
+      Since life's but a span,
+      'Tis wisdom, say I,
+      To live while we can,
+      And fill up with pleasure
+      The poor little measure.
+      Of fate to complain
+      How simple and vain!
+      Long faces I hate;
+      They shorten the date.
+      My Friends! while ye may,
+      Be jovial to-day;
+      The things that will be
+      Ne'er wish to foresee;
+      Or, should ye employ
+      Your thoughts on to-morrow,
+      Let Hope sing of joy,
+      Not Fear croak of sorrow.
+  But see! the Sage flies, so no more.
+  Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.
+
+
+
+
+  ANACREONTIC.
+
+  Why must Poets, when they sing,
+  Drink of the Castalian spring?
+  Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;
+  Witness many a modern strain:
+  Poets! would ye sing with fire,
+  Wine, not water, must inspire.
+  Come, then, pour thy purple stream,
+  Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.
+  How within thy crystal frame
+  Does the rosy nectar flame!
+  Not so beauteous on the vine
+  Did the clustering rubies shine,
+  When the potent God of day
+  Fill'd them with his ripening ray;
+  When with proudness and delight
+  Bacchus view'd the charming sight.
+  Still it keeps Apollo's fires;
+  Still the vintage-God admires.
+  Hail sweet antidote of wo!
+  Chiefest blessing mortals know!
+  Nay, the mighty powers divine
+  Own the magic force of wine.
+  Wearied with the world's affairs,
+  Jove himself, to drown his cares,
+  Bids the nectar'd goblet bear:
+  Lo! the youthful Hebe fair
+  Pours the living draught around;--
+  Hark! with mirth the skies resound.
+  'Tis to wine, for aught I know,
+  Deities their godship owe;
+  Don't we mortals owe to wine
+  Manhood, and each spark divine?
+  Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl,
+  Who thy heavenly treasure stole?
+  Not the hand that stole Jove's fire
+  Did so happily aspire;
+  Tell the lucky spoiler's name,
+  Worthy never-dying fame.
+  Since it must a secret be,
+  Him I'll praise, in praising thee.
+  Glory of the social treat!
+  Source of friendly converse sweet!
+  Source of cheerfulness and sense,
+  Humour, wit, and eloquence,
+  Courage and sincerity,
+  Candour and philanthropy!
+  Source of--O thou bounteous wine!
+  What the good that is not thine?
+  Were my nerves relax'd and low?
+  Did my chill blood toil on slow?
+  When thy spirit through me flows,
+  How each vital function glows!
+  Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy,
+  Answer to the touch of joy:
+  On the steams, that from thee rise,
+  Time on swifter pinions flies;
+  Fancy gilds them with her rays;
+  Hope amid the rainbow plays.
+  But behold! what Image bright
+  Rises heavenly to my sight!
+  Could such wondrous charms adorn
+  Venus, when from ocean born?
+  Say, my Julia, is it thou,
+  Ever lovely, loveliest now?
+  Yet, methinks, the Cyprian Queen
+  Comes herself, but takes thy mien.
+  Goddess! I confess thy power,
+  And to love devote the hour,
+  Let me but, with grateful soul,
+  Greet once more the bounteous Bowl.
+
+
+
+
+  SONG.
+
+  Ere Reason rose within my breast,
+    To enforce her sacred law,
+  Still would some charm, in every maid,
+    My veering passions draw.
+
+  But now, to calm those gales of night,
+    The morn her light displays;
+  The twinkling stars no more I view,
+    For only Venus sways:
+
+  The spotless heaven of genuine love
+    Unveil'd I wondering see,
+  And all that heaven, transported, claim
+    For Julia and for me.
+
+
+
+
+  SONG.
+
+  Yes, I could love, could softly yield
+  To passion all my willing breast,
+  And fondly listen to the voice
+  That oft invites me to be blest;
+
+  That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss,
+  Stands gazing on the form divine,
+  So sweetly whispers to my soul,
+  O make the heavenly Julia thine!
+
+  But hush, thou fascinating voice!
+  Hence visionary extacy!
+  Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear
+  She would not deign to smile on me.
+
+
+
+
+  SONG TO BACCHUS.
+
+  Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay;
+  See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd?
+  See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay
+  Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around?
+  O come then, propitious to our invocation,
+  To preside of thy rites at the solemnization.
+
+  Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free,
+  And the music of glasses that merrily ring,
+  Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee;
+  With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King!
+  To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation,
+  And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation.
+
+  On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee,
+  Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine;
+  While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see,
+  We greet thy munificence boundless, divine.
+  From these we already inhale animation,
+  Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation.
+
+  As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows,
+  We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane;
+  Each breast with thy own godlike character glows;
+  There truth, generosity, happiness reign.
+  Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation;
+  Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration.
+
+
+
+
+  ON SEEING THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
+
+  What majesty! what elegance and grace!
+  The form how perfect! how divine the face!
+  In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:--
+  Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?
+  No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;
+  I feel the presence of the Deity.
+
+
+
+
+  INSCRIPTION FOR THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
+
+  O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight
+  Behold this image of the God of light;
+  Admire its whole, admire its every part;
+  'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.
+  Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere
+  The God appears, than in his Image here.
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON NELSON.
+
+  Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;--
+  Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here,
+  And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade
+  The noble homage of a patriot tear.
+
+  Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain,
+  Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd;
+  Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main,
+  And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.
+
+  His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame,
+  With loud applause, to latest ages tell;
+  Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name,
+  Where last he conquer'd, where--alas! he fell.
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON HOWARD.
+
+  Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread,
+  Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead,
+  To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame,
+  And pay just worship to each godlike name;
+  (If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo,
+  And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,)
+  Midst all the monuments that court your view,
+  And claim the debt to buried merit due,
+  Mark chiefly this;--on this with tearful eyes
+  More fondly gaze;--beneath it Howard lies!
+
+  O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn;
+  Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn;
+  Benevolence sits weeping on his stone;
+  Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON VOLTAIRE.
+
+  Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name
+  Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame.
+  On him what various gifts did heaven confer!--
+  Poet, historian, wit, philosopher;
+  But ah!--peruse it, Christian, with a tear--
+  The chief of infidels lies buried here:
+  Lament the abuse of such rare talents given;
+  Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven.
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON NAPOLEON.
+
+  Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,
+  From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,
+  Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!
+  Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!
+
+  Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;
+  Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;
+  On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;
+  And on his eagles Victory waited still.
+
+  By battles won, by policy profound,
+  Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:
+  England alone, of all the nations round,
+  His power opposed, disdaining to obey.
+
+  Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,
+  Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.
+  Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;--
+  There sunk his glory's sun;--ne'er more to rise.
+
+  Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,
+  Pause!--while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;--
+  'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart,
+  Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON LORD BYRON.
+
+  Lo! Byron's tomb!--
+                Here, deeply pensive, scan
+  The greatness,--and the littleness of man.
+  In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,
+  Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.
+  The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,
+  Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,
+  Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.
+  Thus human Glory ends its bright career.
+  To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!
+  An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;
+  But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,
+  Hurried him irresistibly along
+  Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;
+  No law could bridle his own proud self-will.
+  O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,
+  Byron had been--the first of human kind!
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.
+
+  What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
+  Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
+  Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
+  O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
+
+  Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!--
+  His frantic hand--O horror!--doom'd to bleed?--
+  His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes--
+  'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'
+
+  His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;--
+  Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
+  He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
+  Into the holy presence of her Sire.
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH ON WILBERFORCE.
+
+  Champion of justice and humanity,
+  He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free:
+  At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word--
+  Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard!
+  Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven,
+  Thy task was done,--it was thy call to heaven!
+
+
+
+
+  EPITAPH.
+
+  Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,
+  Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!
+  Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,
+  In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,
+  All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,
+  Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.
+
+  Mortal take heed!--in awful silence think,
+  Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;
+  O listen to Religion's warning cry!--
+  'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'
+
+
+
+
+  TRANSLATED FROM ANACREON.
+
+  Though thou hast seen my locks are gray,
+  Ah! do not, Julia, turn away;
+  Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine,
+  Disdainfully my love decline.
+  Behold yon wreath!--how lovely shows
+  The snowy lily with the blushing rose!
+
+
+
+
+  EPIGRAMS.
+
+
+  ON HEARING OF THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.
+
+    May European Liberty
+  In Moscow's flames her torch relume!
+    And Gallic Tyranny
+  In Moscow's ruins find a tomb!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Locke says--the soul may slumber;--
+  Lavater says--the soul is seen
+    Reflected in the mien;--
+    The last assertion true,
+    Proofs of the first we view
+    In faces without number.
+
+
+  TO A HYPOCRITICAL CALVINIST.
+
+  By faith alone, you say, not works,
+    Man must obtain salvation;--
+  If you are saved, the doctrine needs
+    No better confirmation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof,
+    What all believe, denies;
+  Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny,
+    That she is wondrous wise.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  'The dullest ass may write
+    In verse, that jingling stuff!'
+  Indeed, Sir? have you tried?
+    'I have.' That's proof enough.
+
+  Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddle
+  That he excels in tragic declamation;
+  Kemble's the favourite, and the model,
+  That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation;
+  Now, that the praise is just, none can deny;
+  But the imitation gives that praise the lie:
+  Decide, ye Critics! for 'tis hard to know,--
+  Is he to Kemble's fame a friend or foe?
+
+
+
+
+  TO JULIA.
+
+  Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns,
+    Averts her blushing face;
+  Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns
+    To meet his warm embrace:
+  Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,
+  Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.
+
+  The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.
+  This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;
+  But there's a deep-laid policy in it;
+  For, did the Chancellor not--that conscience keep,
+  It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;
+  Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree.
+  'Pat!'--cries an Englishman--''tis clear to me,
+  More grateful for the union you should be;
+  Think what an honour is to Ireland done:
+  Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!'
+  "Murther!"--cries Pat--"he wedded her by force,
+  And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."
+
+
+
+
+  ON THE NEW EXPERIMENT OF LIGHTING THE HOUSE
+  OF COMMONS BY MEANS OF GAS-PIPES PLACED
+  BETWEEN THE TWO CEILINGS.
+
+
+  Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
+  Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
+  Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
+  For blind debate might love that darkness still,
+  'Tis well the new experiment to try:
+  A stronger, purer light--none can deny--
+  Will then illume the House--light coming from on high.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'
+  Cried Hal,--'can play the part of Bottom.'
+  "Play it yourself;"--retorted Ned,--
+  "You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."
+
+
+
+
+  ON SEEING MR. NUTES,
+  A SENSELESS, UNFEELING FELLOW, WEEP AT THE
+  REPRESENTATION OF KING LEAR.
+
+  Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?
+  No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,
+  Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
+  Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,
+  Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+        A quack, a mere anatomy,
+        Wanting to buy a nag,
+        Questions his friend, a wag,
+        What colour it shall be:--
+  'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,
+  For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'
+
+
+
+
+  ON THE
+  LATE REFORM AND THE WHIG ADMINISTRATION.
+
+
+  Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;--
+  The people hail their own-elected House;
+  On tiptoe stands the general expectation:--
+  What the grand doings of the Administration?
+  Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Metaphysical Sages
+    Have writ many pages,
+    To decide if the Mind
+    Be Spirit or Matter:--
+  How strange! that in the pages
+  Of these metaphysical sages
+    We so seldom can find
+    Mind, Spirit, or Matter!
+
+
+
+
+  TO A
+  CONCEITED & AFFECTED, BUT HANDSOME WOMAN.
+
+  Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat,
+    All flattery you despise?--
+  Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,
+    And I am sure he lies.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  What a strong contrast to most modern sages
+  Were some philosophers of ancient ages!
+  E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too,
+  Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew.
+  Now! vain pretenders such presumption show,
+  They seem to fancy that they all things know.
+  Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity,
+  Would that ye knew but half as much as he!
+
+
+
+
+  ON TWO SISTERS WHO ARE ALWAYS QUARRELLING.
+
+  Pale is Amelia's face,
+  And red Lavinia's nose is;
+  The sisters ever jar:
+  'Tis like the civil war
+  Between the rival roses.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  On that dark theme, man's genealogy,
+  How strangely people's notions disagree!--
+  Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace
+  Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:--
+  My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find
+  Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:--
+  Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses
+  Into their minds,--to prompt opinion--passes.
+  Would-be philosophers have tried to scan
+  The pedigree of that odd creature, man.
+  'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.
+  Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;
+  (I, for my part, the compliment decline)--
+  But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine?
+  'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!'
+  Is't possible?--Yet, when I look on you,--
+  I, verily, begin to think so too.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache--so bad!
+  I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.'
+  "I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had,
+  You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."
+
+
+
+
+  ON THE CONDUCT OF SOME FEW CLERGYMEN,
+  WHO ARE A DISGRACE TO THEIR SACRED PROFESSION.
+
+  Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,
+  Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.
+  What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?
+  To guard his flock against the tempter's power.--
+  Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em:
+  To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em:
+  Like a devouring lion is the priest;
+  Or--give the devil his due--you'll own, at least,
+  He has the marks about him of the beast.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.?
+  'It means I'm member of the Faculty.'
+  Hum!--from your practice else one might infer
+  It meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.
+
+
+
+
+  ON THE MARCH OF INTELLECT.
+
+  'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,
+  Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!
+  March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,
+  That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle,
+  Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle.
+  'What shall we play for?'--Edwin quickly cried;
+  "Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied.
+  'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.'
+  He wins the game, and straight demands his pay.
+  "No"--'Yes'--"I wont"--'You shall'--"I wont be kiss'd:
+  I'll pay you with a check--if you persist."
+
+
+
+
+  ON HEARING MR. **** BOAST THAT HE COULD
+  TRANSLATE VIRGIL.
+
+  Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!
+  Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?
+  To a far higher intellectual state,
+  Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  A lady had a sickly son;
+  A skeleton but for his skin:--
+  Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;--
+  The mother chid him for his sin.--
+  'Her charms were not to be withstood,
+  Too tempting for frail flesh and blood!
+  As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.'
+  "That's no excuse for skin and bone."
+
+
+
+
+  ON DR. ****,
+  A MERE PRETENDER TO MEDICAL SCIENCE,
+  OFFICIOUSLY OFFERING ME HIS SERVICES.
+
+  'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;
+  To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,
+  Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'--
+  Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;
+  I'd accept--but for something--the vast obligation.
+  'But for what, pray?'--The instinct of self-preservation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mind
+  Nastiest ideas we are sure to find,
+  Then--equal to his humour and his wit
+  Swift's delicacy we must all admit.
+
+
+
+
+  ON HEARING A PARSON READ VERY BADLY
+   A SERMON HE HAD BOUGHT.
+
+  That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought,
+  To save your idle brain the toil of thought,
+  You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,
+  It seems almost as stupid as your own.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:--
+  To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.--
+  What moralist can gratitude condemn?
+  They, formerly, have done so much for him;
+  Ought he not, now, to do his best for them?
+
+
+
+
+  TO MR. BURY, AN EMINENT SURGEON IN COVENTRY,
+
+  ON HIS HAVING PERFORMED A SUCCESSFUL OPERATION, IN A
+  CASE OF DEEPLY-SEATED INFLAMMATION IN THE NECK,
+  WHEN THE PATIENT WAS IN EXTREME DANGER OF
+  IMMEDIATE SUFFOCATION.
+
+  Bury, for practice bold and skill
+    Deserves to be of note;
+  He cures by means that well might kill,--
+    He cuts his patient's throat!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  When Satan tempts a priest to rise,
+  'It is the call of heaven!' he cries,
+  And mount's ambition's ladder:--
+  To heaven's own call that bids him be,
+  Like Christ, full of humility,
+  He's deafer than an adder.
+
+
+
+
+  AFTER HAVING SEEN SEVERAL BAD PAINTINGS
+  OF THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
+
+  Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!
+  But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Man's owl-eyed reason--Popish Priests assert--
+  Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light;
+  Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their best
+  To keep their flocks in unillumined night.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  'The brokers of the Stock-Exchange
+  Are nicknamed bears and bulls;--how strange!
+  What reason, Sir, to call them so?'
+  Ma'am, see their manners, you will know.
+
+
+
+
+  ON HEARING A LADY TALK VERY FAST
+  AND UNINTELLIGIBLY.
+
+  Words upon words impetuous rush along,
+  And tread each other's brains out as they throng.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'--
+  Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries--
+  'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?
+  And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?
+  Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:
+  Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me;--what then?
+  Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?
+  'I cannot say your poem I admire;
+  It wants originality and fire;
+  Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;
+  You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'
+  "What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"
+  'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.'
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  A worthy man of rags
+  Intreats for charity
+  A rogue of money-bags.
+  'Pshaw! it at home begins.'
+  Then serve thyself and me;
+  For it will be no less
+  A cover to thy sins,
+  Than to my nakedness.
+
+  The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprest
+  The ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast:
+  'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might;
+  I must, to-day, be laced up very tight;
+  For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:--
+  Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire!
+  Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced,
+  That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.'
+  'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake;
+  You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  In altering thus and shortening his oration,
+  Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong;
+  It well may fill his Lordship with vexation,
+  When he has toil'd so hard to make it long.
+  'I've writ an epigram;--here, read it, do.--
+  The critics praise it highly:--what think you?'
+  "I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.'
+  "It may be to your taste--'tis not to mine."
+  'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!--
+  The point may be too fine for me to see it."
+  'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.'
+  "Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit,
+  They fain would tear the tree up by the root.
+  Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted,
+  But old ones can't;--'tis by all gardeners granted.
+  'Twill die;--and when the good old tree is dead,
+  What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?
+
+  The Squire has long imagined that his son
+  Is deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton.
+  They meet.--'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.--
+  How get you on in Law? my clever boy!
+  In practice too?--But Tom, what bills you draw!
+  Expensive work this studying of the law!'
+  The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:--
+  "O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire;
+  In chamber-practice I have much to do."--
+  His answer--in a certain sense--is true.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  To move her lover, a coquetish Miss
+  Began to sob, pretending she should faint;--
+  Her maid restored her straight by whispering this:
+  'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'
+
+
+
+
+  ON THE MANY VIOLENT DISPUTES AMONG
+  THE PREACHERS OF THE GOSPEL.
+
+  The labourers in the vineyard toil
+  (So numerous are their creeds)
+  Far less to cultivate the soil,
+  Than break each others' heads.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.
+  I would be bound--the merest scribbler could--
+      To write one in a minute.'
+  No doubt you could--but then there would
+      Indeed, be nothing in it.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls,
+  With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.
+
+
+
+
+  ON HEARING A CLERGYMAN PREACH A DULL
+  SERMON IN A LOUD, SHRILL VOICE.
+
+  Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head;
+  Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view;
+  O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!
+  Ye marble statues! how I envy you!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  To hear him preach the Methodistic creed,
+  What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed!
+  His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens;
+  Like heaven itself--says Fame, he thunders, lightens.
+  I go to hear him;--Fame has made a blunder;--
+  I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder.
+
+  For flowery sermons Doctor Drudge
+    Of preachers at the top is;--
+  If from their influence we may judge,
+    His flowers are only poppies.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Sir! you're both fool and knave!--to Frank, Blunt cries--
+  I know I am, Sir, Frank to Blunt replies:--
+  Now, in self-knowledge if all knowledge lies,
+  A fool, like Frank, must be extremely wise!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Vice is a mouse-trap, pleasure is the bait,
+  Like mice, enticing mortals to their fate;
+  And of this truth experience leaves no doubt;--
+  'Tis far more easy to get in than out.
+
+  Old maids their spleen on marriage vent;--
+    The reason would you know?
+  'Tis not, that others are made wives,
+    But that they can't be so.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  How grave he looks! how mighty wise!--
+  He seems Minerva's sacred bird:--
+  He speaks! our ears refute our eyes--
+  The cackling of a goose is heard.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  How came that Jew, deform'd and old,
+  To wed the youthful, fair Coquette?--
+  Ben had a purse well-stored with gold!
+  He caught her in't;--'twas Hymen's net!
+  Flirtilla's teeth, well-form'd and white,
+  Were Hymen's pincers, and could bite!
+  When the Royal Exchange to the flames fell a prey,
+  All the Monarchs and Queens from their niches were thrown;
+  Lackaday! on the pavement in fragments they lay,
+  Every one except Charley the Second alone.
+  Strange event! O my Muse! to blind mortals below
+  Clear this mystery which none but immortals can know.
+  "Cytherea and Momus pray'd Vulcan to spare
+  The blithe, amorous King:--Vulcan granted their prayer."
+
+
+            H. MERRIDEW, PRINTER, COVENTRY.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poetry, by Thomas Oldham
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42181 ***