Where smiling affluence spreads her verdant shade.
Not thee, Dependence’ torpid hand restrains,
Binding thy glowing soul in icy chains;
Her freezing breath nor bids thy warblings cease,
Nor blights the stainless lilies of thy peace;
Then, from its track wilt thou thy spirit force,
Though gleams of glory mark its happy course?
O! tell it not, ye bright Parnassian maids,[112]
On Hebrus’ bank, nor in the Lydian shades,
Lest Bacchanalian sons of Thrace rejoice,
Lest Midas’ daughters triumph in the choice!
The sagest magistrate on Derwent side!--
Is that the fame, to fire a Poet’s pride?
Shall MUNDY bid the lyric pæan pause,
That county-halls may murmur hoarse applause?
I know thy specious maxim, to delude
Thy mind’s strong impulse from sublimer good,
“Be useful.”--’Tis the motto of the wise,
But efforts surely should with talents rise;
Those efforts disproportion’d to the powers,
In one erroneous stream of lavish’d hours
Life glides,--and reason’s tear regretful flows,
Since no reflux the speedy current knows.
Most useful he, perhaps, who tills the soil,
Yet, to mean minds we leave that needful toil;
But MUNDY poises, through his wide command,
The scales of equity with even hand!--
We grant the purpose worthy, yet can see
Numbers as equal to that task as he.
Common humanity, and shrewd plain sense,
May gain each honour Sessions can dispense,
Acquire each art, by which his Worship knows
The petty wounds of equity to close.
Superior views the Poet’s labours claim,
Enduring good to man his glorious aim.
In that high hope he bids the kindling page
Illume with virtue’s ray, the distant age;
Till all of Great, of Amiable, and Wise,
In brilliant lights, and beauteous colours rise;
Gay imag’ry with moral precept blend,
Nature’s fine limner, Virtue’s ablest friend,
Such, as when standing in the forest green,
The Bard immortalized the wood-wild scene,[113]
And mix’d, with skill, amongst the traces bright,
Truth’s mellow tints, and Pity’s tender light.
O shall he cease to hymn great Nature’s stores,
Her vales irriguous, her resounding shores;
Her watry world, in azure curves display’d;
Th’ enamel’d mead, the forest’s pomp of shade;
All that the mountain’s steepy summits yield;
All that the morning’s ruddy blushes gild;
And all that basks in noon’s refulgent glare,
Or shadowy sinks beneath the evening star?
O! shall he cease, on Virtue’s charms serene,
On Sensibility’s enamour’d mien,
On mild Philosophy’s exploring care,
On Wisdom beauteous, yet severely fair,
On ardent Science, gentle Love, to throw
Poetic hues of ever-living glow?
Forbid the cold apostacy, ye powers
That shed Aonian roses on his bowers!
May Mundy’s hand, illum’d by all your fire,
Assert its claims, and reassume the lyre!
Then, while each neighbouring squire, and justice, post,
On Time’s fleet wing, to cold Oblivion’s coast,
Though rich, as ere the liveried suit display’d,
Though wise, as e’er the county-hall obey’d,
Thou, finer spirit, urge thy happier way,
Where shines, for Genius, Fame’s unsetting day!
Should coronets with stars and garters blend,
And, at the royal nod, in state descend,
Ah say, could Fortune, in her vainest mood,
Deck’d with these glittering types of airy good,
Vie with the powers, from Nature’s hand obtain’d,
By art and learning polish’d and sustain’d?
Powers, that, exalting o’er the titled throng
The glowing children of the deathless song,
With immortality’s bright meed reward
The exalted labours of the honour’d bard;
Such, MASON, as thy splendid verse displays,
Or stream, in varied course, through HAYLEY’S lays,
Or as, when BEATTIE, ’mid the lonely vale,
Breath’d all the soul of music on the gale,
Whose tuneful numbers sacred truths impart,
Fir’d the charm’d fancy, and exalt the heart.
MUNDY, the Nine ordain thou should’st aspire
To share the sacred empire of the lyre;
That ceaseless round thy auburn brows entwine
Wit’s sparkling gems, and fancy’s rays divine.
And shalt thou with a chill’d and thankless soul,
Contemn their honours, and their fires controul?
Or to their shrines thy glowing wreath refuse,[114]
Who dipt its florets in their living dews?
Ah no! thy talents are thy country’s claim;
Her public press, the Rubicon of fame,
She bids thee pass;--and though its sable wave
Prepares for Dulness a disgraceful grave,
It must be past, ere Genius can attain
Its destin’d goal in Glory’s radiant fane.
Far on the opposing shore thy sharpen’d sight
May penetrate the altar’s blazing height,
And on its mystic tablet plainly see
These lines, poetic Fame inscrib’d for thee.
“To me, O MUNDY, give the indebted lay,
“Thy place is here,--my Minstrel, come away!”
THE
RED-BREAST <small>AND</small> SPARROW.
A FABLE.
As near a rural cot a Robin sung,
From the thatch’d roof an envious Sparrow sprung.
Dost thou, he cried, in emulation proud,
Vie with luxuriant Summer’s plumy crowd,
Who in gay bowers their various ditties weave,
Charm the bright morn, or sooth the fading eve?
O! why should’st thou thy feeble throat expand?
Why, shivering, take thy solitary stand
On the ice-crusted wall, or naked tree,
As if dull Winter could be cheer’d by thee?
Fastidious Critic, the mild warbler cried,
Who deem’st the wish to please, obtrusive pride,
Their strains adorn’d, while yet the year was young,
The reign of beauty with the charms of song.
Through wat’ry clouds when April sun-beams play’d,
On the spruce foliage of the half-blown glade,
At measur’d intervals, the Blackbird’s lay,
Sweet, though unvaried, hymn’d the crystal day;
In May’s bloom’d morn the Lark, with carol clear,
Pierc’d, as he soar’d, the roseate climes of air;
When through her copse with hawthorns flowering round,
The stealing moon-beams checquer’d all the ground,
Silver’d the sheety lakes, and winding brooks,
And shed their hoary light upon the rocks,
Silence and Night in rapt attention hung
On plaintive Philomel’s transcendent song;
Round the dark hills the melting cadence thrill’d,
And widely floated o’er the whiten’d field.
But ah! the choir of Summer chaunt no more,
And the pale Months their silent throats deplore.
Yet, nor from envy, nor ambition rise
My little songs, that cheer the wintry skies;
Superior lays, amid the vernal grove,
Sing the bright reign of Beauty and of Love;
And if my humble effort aught avails
To gladden yon grey glens, and drifted vales,
Weak, though I own the far inferior strain,
’Tis all I ask, nor have I sung in vain.
MOUNT ETNA.
WRITTEN AFTER HAVING READ MR BRYDONE’S TOUR THROUGH SICILY.
Imagination, while thy kindling eyes
Flame o’er the climes these faithful pages trace,
O may’st thou paint them, as sublime they rise,
In novel beauty, and horrific grace!
Swell the rich treasures of poetic fanes
With all the pomps that mighty ETNA boasts,
As, glaring o’er the affrighted deep, she reigns
The pride, and terror, of Ausonian coasts!
With thy keen glance the veils of distance pierce,
With thy firm step conduct my venturous way,
And on the texture of my proudest verse
The changeful glories of those heights display!
Now the proud steep climbing with toilsome tread,
We mark the wonders of its triple zone;[115]
Round the broad base see sultry Summer lead
The stores luxuriant of his glowing throne.
While, on the rising edges of his clime,
Emergent Spring her leafy mantle spreads,
Woods, waving wide, in hues of vernal prime,
Blue trickling rills and flower-embroider’d meads;
Till Winter, o’er each blooming plain and grove,
Draws the chill circle of his pallid line;
Dim fields of ice, and gelid rocks above,
And sleety gales, and dreary lakes combine.
Then while, amaz’d, we lift exploring eyes
To the vast Cone, high in the lurid air,
We mark, in one eternal union, rise
The elements, that wage eternal war.
Deep in the snows, it has no power to melt,
View the dread gulph, in all its boiling ire,
Where sleet, and ice, and wintry waves, have felt
How weak their force to quench its raging fire.
Terrific Pinnacle! thy sides inclose
The unfathom’d Gulph, coeval with the world;
And by thy flames, that burst ’mid circling snows,
Up sightless heights the blazing rocks are hurl’d.
Their dire explosion rends the frozen mound,
Shakes the firm earth, and thunders o’er the deep;
While issuing deathful, from the fierce profound,
Rolls the red Lava down the icy steep!--
But we, in hours less terrible, prepare,
Adventurous, to pursue our faithless way,
And, though the drifted snows our steps ensnare,
Reach the extremest point, ere dawns the day.
Now long, pale gleams shoot thro’ the sky, and warn
Retreating darkness of the Solar glance;
And hills, rocks, plains, and seas, and night, and morn,
Blend, undivided, through the vast expanse.
But morning, by degrees, exerts her power;
The stars are quench’d!--the shadows melt away!
Forests, that late seem’d like black gulphs to lour,
Rise, in faint green, beneath the glimmering ray.
Wide spread the skirts of strength’ning light around;
And from the orient waves, that stretch serene,
And with their silver line th’ horizon bound,
While states and nations dimly intervene,
On plains, rocks, mountains, rivers, seas, and isles
Bursts the gay Sun!--his plastic beams are hurl’d!
And to our strain’d and startled senses, smiles,
New to our gaze, a whole illumin’d World!
While high exalted in the trackless air,
Alarm’d, and doubting if on earth we stand,
Scarce knows our sight to separate and compare
The countless objects of its vast command.
As on a map, o’er Sicily we look,
Trace all her rivers through their mazy sweep,
From their first source, a little gurgling brook,
Till, breadth’ning soon, they mingle with the deep;
But, rising at his spring a current wide,
Devoted Acis hurries through the plain,[116]
Speeds from the Giant’s voice with frighted tide,
And throws his icy waters in the main.
Here vine-clad Lipari, with her lucid streams,
Gay Alicudi, and Panari there,
While Strombola, a lesser ETNA, gleams,
And wreaths with spiral smoke the fields of air.
These, as by magic, in the visual rays,
Close drawn around the mountain skirts are shown,
Seeming as lifted up to meet our gaze,
Like medals in a watry bason thrown.[117]
Then o’er the space immense weak vision strains,
And feels its aching powers confus’d and lost,
Else, that might view hot Barca’s sandy plains,
And verdant Thessaly’s remoter coast.
Now turn we, sighing, from the boundless scene,
Mocking the feeble sight’s eluded ray,
While wonder mellows into thought serene,
As sinks, in evening shades, the garish day.
Here, while we rove beneath thy wayward skies,
Green Albion, zoned by Ocean’s azure wave,
To Nature let our heart’s thanksgivings rise
For all she banish’d, as for all she gave;
That not on our cold mountain-heights reside,
On SNOWDON or Helvellyn’s peak sublime,
The Etnean graces;--in their ardent pride,
And baleful charms, exil’d this happier clime.
Faithful if here their lineaments shall flow,
O, Brydone! may the praise be thine alone!
Since in thy traits arise, thy colours glow
The bright Destroyers, on their Burning Throne!
EPISTLE
TO
COLONEL ST. GEORGE.
WRITTEN APRIL 1783.
Sinec with the laurels, whose luxuriant bough
Oft veils the sternness of the warrior’s brow,
For thee the arts their varied foliage twine,
Their roses blossom, and their myrtles shine,
Why, St. George, should thy soul disdain the powers
So fondly cultur’d in the muses’ bowers?
O! shall the etherial dews, by Genius shed,
In full libation, on thy favour’d head,
Be scorn’d, for that their joy-dispensing flood
Feeds not the wreath that vegetates on blood?[118]
Not so the warrior, who, like thee, surveys
Heroic glory with an eagle’s gaze,
Great FREDERIC!--Form of steel, and soul of flame,
Who shares with Swedish CHARLES the palm of fame!
See him, the toils of camps and battles done,
Pant for the softer wreaths by Fancy won,
Spring to the muses’ lists, and ardent dare
The lyric contest with the gay Voltaire!
Thou, whose high soul with kindred fires has glow’d
Whose generous blood in fuller stream has flow’d,
Whose finer fancy takes an ampler range,
Sublime, and humourous, in graceful change,
Ah! learn, like him, to prize the gentler powers,
That brighten languid life’s oppressive hours,
Light with the torch of joy the social board,
When Peace in lilies hides the sated sword.
And pardon if beyond the deeds, that gain
The loudest pæan on the martial plain,
Each grace in thee my female sense admires,
Of softer texture, and of milder fires,
And, far beyond them all, the virtues bland,
The melting heart, the unwithdrawing hand,
That seek the Child of Want, and bounteous throw
Sweet balm of comfort on the mourner’s woe.
Then, gallant St. George, let thy feeling heart
Conceive how deeply pain’d reflection’s smart,
When I was taught to fear offence might spring
Late that I rashly touch’d a grating string,
By jealous honour proudly taught to jar,
When he, that wears the garland of the war,
Disgusted listens to the trivial voice,
Whose warm applause shall make an humbler choice;
Since, ah! too great of soul, the Hero says,
“Praise not heroic is unvalued praise.”
ODE ON TIME.
O’er him, by health and fortune crown’d,
Time steals with step so light,
Scarce are his faint impressions found
On the gay forehead’s open round,
Or shining orb of sight.
Smooth as the young Camilla borne,
With printless step and fleet,
O’er plenteous fields of ripen’d corn,
Whose bending stalks the gales of morn
Bow on the passing feet.
But o’er the dim form, press’d by woes,
He treads with heavy pace,
Sweeps his broad scythe, and, as he goes,
Down falls the summer pride, and shows
Worn Nature’s furrow’d face.
LOUISA.
A POETICAL NOVEL,
IN FOUR EPISTLES.
The ensuing epistolary poems contain a description rather of passions
than of incidents. They resulted from an idea of its being possible to
unite the impassioned fondness of Pope’s ELOISA, with the chaster
tenderness of Prior’s EMMA; avoiding the voluptuousness of the first,
and the too conceding softness of the second. It is hoped the reader
will distinguish between the apprehended possibility of exhibiting in
verse a more faultless female character than the ELOISA of Pope, or the
EMMA of Prior, and the rash and vain design of equalling, much less of
surpassing, the transcendent poetic excellence of either of those
compositions.
The LOUISA of the following pages has all that enthusiasm which springs
from an heart warmly affectionate, joined to a glowing and picturesque
imagination. Her sensibilities, heightened, and refined in the bosom of
retirement, know no bounds, ex-p pcept those which the dignity of
conscious worth, and a strong sense of religion, prescribe. It is feared
the modern young ladies will have little sympathy with her, since she is
unfashionably enthusiastic, and unfashionably tender.
An ingenious friend, after reading the first epistle, remarked, that
LOUISA might have described with more interesting particularity her
lover’s declaration of his passion, and the manner in which she received
that declaration: but the author thought the present method of conveying
that circumstance to the mind of the reader more poetic. Pope’s ELOISA
is minute in her description of the awful scenery, formed by the rocks,
the streams, and mountains of Paraclete, but by no means minute
concerning the amorous eclaircissement between herself and Abelard.
LOUISA discriminates her lover’s early attentions to her, though she
leaves the manner of his declaring their source very much to the
imagination. Her application of the beautiful scenic objects, by which
she was at that interval surrounded, to her own, and to her lover’s
situation; and the passing suddenly to their present altered appearance,
contrasts the charms, and bloom of the first, with the chill dreariness
of the second. There it was that the author had in view that striking
letter in the 3d vol. of the Nouvelle Héloïse, which describes St.
Prieux accompanying Mrs Wolmar to the rocks of Meillerie, then covered
with the richness of summer luxuriance; and painting to her the
situation of that very scene, when he had visited it alone, amidst the
horrors of winter, and found those horrors congenial to the temper of
his soul.
This poem has little chance to be popular. A feeling heart, and a
fondness for verse must unite to render it interesting. A feeling heart
without a glowing imagination will be tired of the landscape-painting,
somewhat luxuriantly interspersed. An imagination that glows, while the
heart is frozen, has a propensity to fancy every thing prosaic which is
not imagery, and will probably yawn over the reasoning of these lovers,
and sicken over their tenderness.
If, however, this little work has the honour to interest and please the
few, in whom the kind and sweet affections are blended with poetic
taste, the end for which it is published will be obtained.
Except some slight alterations, which have been made since the two first
editions, the hundred and fifty-six lines, with which the poem opens,
were written when the author was only nineteen. They had been mislaid
during a long interval. It is sixteen months since they were
accidentally recovered. Some few friends, to whom the fragment was
shewn, thought it worth being extended into a regular work. The first
and third of these epistles are designed to be descriptive, and
sentimental; the second, and last, dramatic.
LOUISA
TO
EMMA,
HER FRIEND IN THE EAST-INDIES.
OCTOBER 21, 1779.
Thee, EMMA, four slow circling years have seen
Press, with thy pensive foot, savannas green;
Seen thee, with fond affection’s moisten’d gaze,
And the low-warbled song of former days,
Wind round the shadowy rock, and shelving glade,
Where broad Bananas stretch their grateful shade;
Bend o’er the West thy longing eyes, and chide
The tardy breeze that fans the unfreighted tide.
Now, as with filial care thy light step roves,
Through India’s palmy plains, and spicy groves,
To bless thee, exil’d thus in youth’s gay prime,
May sprightly health resist the torrid clime,
Temper the sickly blast, the fever’d ray,
And peace, and pleasure, lead the shining day!
Yet, when thou know’st, for me that sorrow shrouds
Hope’s crystal mirror with impervious clouds,
The sighs, and tears, that tenderest pity speak,
Shall swell thy breast, and chill thy glowing cheek;
Since one have been our pleasures, one our cares,
From the first dawn of those delicious years,
What time, inspir’d by joy’s enlivening powers,
We chas’d the gilded insect through the bowers;
And oh! I fondly tell my anxious heart,
The dearest truth experience can impart,
That yet, to quench this sympathy of soul,
Time, and the world of waters, vainly roll.
O’er this deep glen, departing Autumn throws,
With kind reverted glance, a short repose,
Ere yet she leaves her ENGLAND’S fading scene,
Where sickly yellow stains the vivid green,
And many an icy morn, and stormy gale,
Embrown the pathway of the winding vale.
Now, while I seek the bosom of the glade,
And the thin shelter of the impoverish’d shade,
Unequal steps, and rising sighs, disclose
The thorny pressure of tyrannic woes;
And where the incumbent rock, with awful face,
Bends o’er the fountain, gurgling from its base,
And marks the limit of the silent dell,
Sadly I sit, my bosom’d griefs to tell;
Invoke thy spirit, those fond griefs to soothe,
And bid, alas! their surging tide be smooth.
It will not be;--since here, with yearning thought,
By weak, involuntary impulse brought,
Where love and memory bear resistless sway,
And all the weakness of the soul betray!
O ye known objects!--how ye strike my heart!
And vain regrets, with keener force, impart!
Slow, through the faded grove, past pleasures glide,
Or sadly linger by the fountain’s side.
Dear, awful witness of a broken vow,
Steep rock, how sternly frowns thy rugged brow!
But, if the frequent blast shall bend thy pines,
Clear at thy foot the crystal water shines!
Though drizzling clouds the misty mountains veil,
Yet the mild sun-beam gilds the narrow dale!
Though vernal flow’rs this bank no more adorn,
Nor Summer’s wild rose blushes on its thorn,
Yet shelter’d, mossy, dry, and warm, it draws
The heedless roving step to quiet pause.
Thus the pale year, though Nature’s edicts urge
Her step to Winter’s desolating verge,
Sedately passes to the drear domain,
And breathes, e’en yet, soft comforts o’er the plain;
But oh! for me, in youth’s luxuriant glow,
Hope’s lovely florets wither as they blow!
No grief my bosom at our parting knew,
But that of bidding thee a long adieu;
And the sweet tears, that such soft sorrows bring,
Fall, as light rain-drops in the sunny spring;
For youthful hope, subduing tender fears,
Bounds o’er the gulf of interposing years;
While, through their course, her airy hands avert
Misfortune’s arrow from the wanderer’s heart.
Soon then did cheerfulness the morn illume,
And peace descend with evening’s grateful gloom;
They saw my breast in that clear spirit gay,
Which speeds the social hour so fast away.
Now expectation’s fervour rose, to hail
The youthful master of this quiet vale,
My blooming brother--from Oxonia’s towers,
Who sought, with tender haste, his native bowers.
’Twas noon, and ripen’d summer’s fervid ray
From cloudless ether shed oppressive day.
As on this shady bank I sat reclin’d,
My voice, that floated on the waving wind,
Taught the soft echoes of the neighbouring plains
Milton’s sweet lays, in Handel’s matchless strains.
Presaging notes my lips unconscious try,
And murmur--“Hide me from day’s garish eye!”
Ah! blest, had Death beneath his sable shrine
Hid me from all the woes that since were mine!
Beneath my trembling fingers lightly rung
The lute’s sweet chords, responsive while I sung.
Faint in the yellow broom the oxen lay,
And the mute birds sat languid on the spray;
And nought was heard, around the noon-tide bower,
Save, that the mountain bee, from flower to flower,
Seem’d to prolong, with her assiduous wing,
The soft vibration of the tuneful string;
While the fierce skies flam’d on the shrinking rills,
And sultry silence brooded o’er the hills!
As on my lip the lingering cadence play’d,
My brother gaily bounded down the glade,
And, while my looks the fire of gladness dart,
With ardour press’d me to his throbbing heart;
Then to a graceful stranger turn’d, whose feet,
With steps less swift, my coyer welcome meet.
O’er his fine form, and o’er his glowing face,
Youth’s ripen’d bloom had shed its richest grace;
Tall as the pine, amidst inferior trees,
With all the bending osier’s pliant ease.
O’er his fair brow, the fairer for their shade,
Locks of the warmest brown luxuriant play’d.
Blushing he bows!--and gentle awe supplies
Each flattering meaning to his downcast eyes;
Sweet, serious, tender, those blue eyes impart
A thousand dear sensations to the heart;
Mild as the evening star, whose shining ray
Soft in the unruffled water seems to play;
And when he speaks--not music’s thrilling pow’r,
No, not the vocal mistress of the bow’r,
When slow she warbles from the blossom’d spray,
In liquid blandishment, her evening lay,
Such soft insinuating sweetness knows,
As from that voice in melting accent flows!
Yet why, fond memory! why, in tints so warm,
Paint’st thou each beauty of that faultless form?
His specious virtues surely might impart
Excuse more just for this devoted heart.
Oh! how each noble passion’s seeming trace
Threw transient glories o’er his youthful face!
How rose, with sudden impulse, swift, and strong,
For ev’ry secret fraud, and open wrong,
The oppressor acts, the helpless feel, or fear,
Disdain’s quick throb, and Pity’s melting tear!
So well its part each ductile feature play’d,
Of worth, such firm, though silent promise made,
That to have doubted its well-painted truth,
Had been to want the primal grace of youth,
Credulity, that scorns, with gen’rous heat,
Alike to practise, or suspect deceit.