with the seats of noblemen and gentlemen of opulent fortune; but such a
vicinity to splendour cannot be rationally desired by us of the middle
station, and of moderate income. To such, the haughty condescension of
high-life gentry is a miserable recompense for the fuss of visiting, and
for the expence and trouble of entertaining them; since few of that
elevated class have sense enough to feel, and to shew that they perceive
what constitutes the real equality of human beings. Even of those who do
not carry about them the perpetual consciousness of their fine houses,
their menials, and their equipages, we may find their equals in worth
and ability in our own sphere. Never was there, or man, or woman,
possessed at once of a sound understanding and a generous heart, who,
born in private life, ever sought and preferred the society of the great
to that of people who were on a level with themselves. The desire of
being the fag-end, or the head of our company, is equally contemptible.
Disparity of age in marriage, disparity of understanding in friendship,
and disparity of rank in company, is always undesirable.
People of distinction, who see themselves sought and courted by those of
private birth and moderate fortune, generally know the precise value of
the homage they receive; that it is not paid to their abilities, or
their virtues, but to their rank and wealth; and if they suffer the
company of their silly worshippers, it is only to divert themselves with
such paltry ambition, and to ridicule it amongst their own class.
You remember the pompous parson of C----r and his foolish wife, whom we
heard their neighbour, Lord N----h, ridicule, for ordering their
servants to deny them in a morning to the ladies and gentlemen of the
town, and to admit only the country families.
So your fine people are all for the opera, and call oratorios a heavy
lumber of doleful noise; can bear no music but Italian; and assert that
Handel tears the ear with the profusion of his discords! They declaim
upon the power of the ancient music over the passions, which had no
discords, and to which all the combinations of harmony were unknown.
You have too much real feeling for the enchanting science, to credit the
slanders of vitiated taste, or to be dazzled by conclusions drawn from
mistaken facts. Collins finishes his beautiful Ode on the Power of Music
over the Passions, with a seeming preference of mere melody, grounded on
the vast effects which, we are told, it produced in ancient Greece.
Now we know, that all poems, whatever their length, even the Iliad, was
sung, instead of read, in their places of public resort. It must have
been but a sort of recitative, in which the twenty-four books of the
Iliad could have been sung. The effects of their meagre music, and of
their rich poetry, have been blended, and those effects attributed to
the first, which were, in reality, produced solely by the second, to
which it was probably little more than a vehicle.
There may certainly be harmony without discords; but its unvaried
sweetness would soon satiate. The desire of obtaining it is similar to
Queen Elizabeth’s request, that there might be no shades in her picture.
The most vivid pleasures of all our senses result from contrast. If we
delight in umbrageous vales, verdant fields, and crystal waters, we feel
the delight arise with treble poignance, when we find them at the foot
of rugged rocks, and encircled by barren mountains.
When Handel is harsh, the harshness is either picturesque of distress or
of horror; or else designed to prepare the ear and the soul to receive
more exquisite pleasure from the gay triumphant airs, or the soft
delicious melodies that succeed.
But needless, I am persuaded, this attempt to guard you from fashionable
heresy to the inimitable excellencies of the greatest musical composer
the world has ever produced. Your sensibilities have secured your
admiration. Were you condemned, in future, to listen only to the lazy
and monotonous sweetness of the Italian song, you would always recollect
the varied sensations and thrilling pleasures with which his dulcet
strains and sublime chorusses have inspired you, and to his surely
immortal fame be, like the seraph Abdiel, a
“----Faithful friend,
Amidst the many faithless.”
POEMS
BY
ANNA SEWARD.
THE VISIONS,
AN ELEGY.[10]
With languid step and heart by sorrow torn,
Haunt of my youth, I wander thro’ thy grove,
My loved ALINDA’s fate incessant mourn,
And drop my blighted garlands as I rove.
Yet e’en these rankling woes some respite find,
And on the smiling landscape sooth’d I gaze,
Where joy’s wild music cheers the drooping mind,
As Nature’s warblers swell the song of praise.
The blooming trees bend o’er the glassy stream,
In June’s gay pride they wave their flowing heads;
While, from the setting sun, a golden gleam
O’er these green fields the soften’d radiance sheds.
But ah! behold the transient glories fly,
And on the fair horizon steals a cloud,
A few cold drops fall from the louring sky,
And mute the plumy warblers, late so loud!
What means this sudden damp--this awful gloom,
This more than usual presage of the soul?
All things are silent as ALINDA’s tomb,
All but the death-bell’s melancholy toll!
From the rent earth why starts that horrid shade?
O! from its power my shrinking spirit save!
Why thus in dread funereal garb array’d,
The shroud,--the pall,--the vestments of the grave?
O’er the wan brow the shadowy crape is bound,
And withering flowers in mournful wreaths are twined,
That willows, yew, and cypress buds surround,
With dark, warp’d leaves unfragrant and declin’d.
Her cheek all bloodless, and all dim her eye,
With hollow tone, she cries,--“Behold Despair!
“She bids thee ceaseless heave th’ heart-rending sigh,
“And shed eternally the bitter tear.
“A glowing sun, in Summer splendour gay,
“Soft gales, that scatter fragrance as they rove,
“The beauteous flowers, that drink the humid ray,
“’Mid the wild transports of the vocal grove,
“Have they a charm for thee?--and still remains,
“Deep in thy breast, fond joy’s congenial tide?
“Springing at Beauty’s glance and Pleasure’s strains,
“Do her bright streams thro’ Sorrow’s mansion glide?
“See’st thou this rose? its gay, its crimson glow
Faded and gone, and all its fragrance fled!
“This sullied lily, once, with breast of snow,
“Was the chaste glory of its verdant bed.
“Yet this the lily, this the splendent rose
“ALINDA gather’d on her jocund way,
“When her fair cheek could rival bloom disclose,
“When her eyes beam’d with health’s enlivening ray.
“Beneath this shade she cropt the glowing flowers,
“Herself a fairer flower, that Death has cropt,
“From this lov’d bank, where oft, in happy hours,
“She raised each stem whose sickly blossom dropt.
“Mark’d every charm of Nature’s varying year,
“Of Fancy’s lucid orb each hue refined,
“And all that lifts the spirit, warm and clear,
“High o’er th’ inert, the common mass of mind.
“Where is she now?--within the narrow cell,
“Pale, cold, and sunk, she lies in dread repose!
“Then, JULIA, bid thy joys a long farewell!
“Young as thou art, in youth’s gay hours they close.”
I hear no more;--the spectre’s hollow tone
Sinks in the wind that howls along the glade,
And darkness o’er its ghastly form has thrown,
Gloom following gloom, impenetrable shade.
Cold as the falling dews, tear chasing tear,
Streams on my folded hands!--yet I remain,
Transfix’d with anguish at the doom severe,
While night and horror gather on the plain.
Silent and mournful has the lingering hour
Beheld me plunged in Sorrow’s deadly dreams;
But now, while soften’d winds forget to roar,
On a cloud’s edge the star of evening beams;
And now, emerging, all the stellar fires
Light the dark cope, as with unnumber’d eyes;
Yet soon, before night’s ample orb, retires
Each lesser glory that illuminates the skies.
Circled with shadowy hills the grassy vale[11],
Thro’ plenteous dews, shines silver’d by her light,
While the embosom’d lake, beneath the gale,
Reflects her lustre, tremulously bright.
Ah see! a form, than yon full orb benign
Of lustre more benevolent appears!
And, as she glides from an o’ershadowing pine,
My earnest eyes dispense their gathering tears.
“To the meek words of Patience listen calm,
“Lone child of Sorrow,” the kind vision cries;
“Receive on thy pierced heart my healing balm,
“And to my voice attune thy soften’d sighs!
“Wilt thou from Heav’n receive the nectar’d draught
“Of bliss, yet start if in the mingled bowl
“Rise the alloying griefs that fate has brought,
“Commission’d from above, to wean thy soul?
“Medicinal, tho’ sharp, the blended woe.--
“Thou, who hast been most happy, bow resign’d!
“For man no more unfading roses blow,
“Winter lays waste his year, and grief his mind.
“But Heav’n, that sends abroad the breath of Spring
“T’ expand the foliage, and disclose the flowers,
“Shall to the sorrowing mind sweet comforts bring,
“And warmly renovate its fainting powers.
“Two sister-handmaids to the Will Divine,
“For this blest purpose, quit the seraph train;
“Thro’ me, thro’ Patience, first its mercies shine;
O gently listen, and no more complain!
“Yield to my influence, my behests obey,
“So shall the lenient hand of Time to thee
“Lead pious Cheerfulness, fair child of day,
“Whom the Dread Voice has bade succeed to me.
“Again her comforts shall thy breast pervade,
“Tho’ clouds of sorrow have eclipsed their ray,
“And she will chace each dark and deadly shade,
“Till life’s fresh paths shall brighten on thy way.
“Thy soul, humiliated, now feels and mourns
“The tarriance short of giddy joy below;
“But guard thee well, when jocund she returns,
“Against the meteor-fires that round her glow.
“To many a dangerous path those fires shall lead,
“While through luxuriant scenes with thee she roves,
“Where snares for Innocence infest the meads,
“Circean-banquets rise, and syren-groves.
“Stain’d is the spirit, following Luxury’s lure,
“Cold is the heart, by earthly pride made hard,
“And ’gainst the cold, the thankless, and impure,
“The everlasting gates of bliss are barr’d.
“While to the kind, warm heart, resign’d sedate,
“The blooming wreaths of happiness are given,
“For peace on earth and joys immortal wait
“Good-will to Man and confidence in Heaven.”
Now melts the vision in the moon’s pale beam,
And o’er my soul serener thoughts arise,
Grief prompts no more her ineffectual stream,
And swell no longer her convulsive sighs.
But let me haste the deeper woes to sooth,
That press so hard on life’s declining years,
With filial fondness sedulously smooth
My parents’ thorny pillow, steep’d in tears.
The bridal vestments waited to array,
In emblematic white, their duteous maid;
But ne’er for them arrived that festal day;
Their sweet, crush’d lily low in earth is laid.
O! she was all parental Hopes desire,
To gild declining life with softest light;
Ill can my frailer mind’s impetuous fire
Compensate her mild soul’s eternal flight!
And yet, on their lone couch, this heart sincere,
With tender love, shall shed some bless’d relief,
Watch for the moment when its voice may cheer,
And joy to mark the ebbing tide of grief.
And young HONORA[12], in each rising charm
Of form and mind, the pious task shall aid;
O! like their loved ALINDA, soft and warm,
Glows this transplanted flower that decks their shade.
Scarce o’er her head are thirteen summers flown,
Yet clear intelligence, unswerving truth,
And every soothing sympathy, have thrown
Meridian lustre o’er her morn of youth.
And dost thou stretch, dear maid, those gentle arms,
Smile through thy tears, in pity’s hallow’d guile?
Shield me, my love, from woe’s o’erwhelming harms,
Thy tears are balm, and peace is in thy smile.
Thy tender accents, on my grief-chill’d soul
Fall, like the vernal breath on wintry bowers,
When, from the fleecy clouds, that lightly roll,
Silent and mild descend the sunny showers.
And since in Thee, to every worth alive,
The sacred energies of Friendship burn,
Thy love, my dear HONORA, shall revive
The joys that faded o’er ALINDA’s urn. (j.)
KNOWLEDGE,
A POEM IN THE MANNER OF SPENCER.
Is there a joy that gilds our stormy days,
For which the soul of man so much should pine
As heaven-born Knowledge? Yet her sacred rays
Are as the diamond’s, and by art must shine;
The latent beams more exquisitely fine
In some of highest worth, yet all require
Industrious care, or lost the light divine
Ordain’d to wake each elegant desire
That shall to all that’s fair, and great, and good aspire.
While yet unknown the principles of art,
Impervious veils must shroud its radiance clear;
When sluggish ignorance surrounds the heart
No lustres can pervade the darkness drear,
But all as colours to the blind appear;
Where Pleasure’s tint, celestial, rosy red,
Majestic purple, scarlet, hue of war,
The undulating mantle of the mead,
And Heaven’s gay robe, a dark, unmingled mass is spread.
There glows in man a principle innate,
Of powerful bias, which to good, or ill,
Low, or exalted, must direct his state,
And one fixed purpose of the soul fulfill,
As early choice, to habit grown, shall will;
If, like the lark that mounts the orient beam,
His wing he not expand, aspiring still
To Wisdom’s sun, whence light and beauty stream,
He sinks in murky caves, where owls and ravens scream.
Youth is life’s spring, the seed-time, when the mind
Fosters each new idea planted there;
If we neglect to sow the grain refined,
No future pains can raise a harvest fair;
And memory, warm and soft in early year
As yielding wax, disused, grows cold and hard,
Nor aught retains of each impression rare,
Which, when retain’d, acquire the high reward
Bestow’d by star-crown’d Fame on timely studious bard.
Mild Sensibility, whose trembling light
Has rarely fail’d to shine in youthful breast,
Resisted, chill’d, withdraws her influence bright,
From the dull spirit, in its stagnant rest;
She flies!--and with her flies each lovely guest,
From her deriving all their noblest powers,
Genius and Truth, in sun-gilt mantle drest,
Love, Friendship, Pity, all that speed the hours,
And strew the path of life with ever blooming flowers.
PORTRAIT
OF
MISS LEVETT.[13]
Tho’ lovely Stella’s pleasing features show
Nor Phydian symmetry, nor Titian glow,
Yet Mind imparts, their transient charms to foil,
Life to her glance, and magic to her smile.
When serious tender, and when gay serene,
Consummate elegance in all her mien,
To her the youth from vaunted beauty flies,
And for the Graces, in their favourite, sighs,
They, in the very ribbons that o’ershade
Her lively brows, her auburn tresses braid,
Infuse, with playful spirit, all their own,
The power resistless of the Cyprian zone.
Her dress, her air, her accent to attain,
See emulative fair-ones strive in vain!
While sires and matrons in attention vie,
And watch the rising archness in her eye.
E’en envious maids, in life’s deserted wane,
Look half as pleased as if beloved again;
Lose, as they listen, all their sullen cares,
Remit their scandal, and neglect their prayers.
Round the grave Scholiast as her spirit plays,
Behold him chace it thro’ its brilliant maze,
And, sexual pride subdued, at length disown
The Salique Law for Wit and Fancy’s throne! (j.)
ELEGY
ADDRESSED TO CORNET V----,
IN THE AUTUMN 1765.
Ere yet thou seek’st Ierne’s jocund shore,
Pensive I wave this tributary lay;
Confess thy Julia must the fate deplore,
That soon shall lead thee o’er the wat’ry way.
Tinged with no blush, she boasts herself thy friend,
That gentle name, from dangerous wishes free!
Yet will no merit from the boast pretend,
For who, who would not be the friend of thee?
While youth and bloom, and dignity combine,
All that can interest, all that can adorn,
To manly grace attempering softness join,
Life’s noon-tide lustres in her orient morn.
The lights of intellect around thee thrown,
Thy modest virtues every where the theme!--
Strange, if the coldest maid should blush to own
Desert so high awakes her owed esteem.
Love’s fairy visions for a while are gay,
A little, little while, when they are new,
But soon the sweet enchantment fades away,
Transient as summer morn’s exhaling dew.
Ah, then approach a throng of secret woes,
To faithless hope the varied pang succeeds;
The thorny pillow banishes repose;
The wounded heart inevitably bleeds.
Yes, bleed it must, and bleed at every vein,
When the pale brood, of Disappointment born,
Attendants oft on Love’s tyrannic reign,
Teach the lost maid her living death to mourn.
If my presaging soul aright divine,
Such the sad lot I am ordain’d to prove,
Should I, rash votary at that dangerous shrine,
Receive the rose-deck’d chains of guileful love!
No wreaths of amaranth he weaves for me,
Then guarded rise my gay, my youthful hours!
Calm be my thoughts, my artless bosom free
From the sharp thorns of transitory flowers!
But, happier amity, pervade my breast,
With tranquil empire, thro’ these vernal years,
While, in Horatio’s trusting friendship blest,
Mine his prosperity, and mine his cares.
This sympathizing heart implores the task
To sooth thee, drooping in thy native clime;
Give then the precious confidence I ask,
The tender records[14] of the vanish’d time!
My pitying spirit shall partake thy pains,
And griefs divided lose their power to blight;
Watch the lone sigh, that steals to Gallia’s plains,
Where Beauty mourns thy much unwilling flight.
Ah! pale no more thy star of love should gleam,
Could my soul’s wishes its soft orb command,
But point in purest light each languid beam,
And on the azure zenith shining stand.
O! may unblemish’d Honour guard thy fame,
And plumy Conquest triumph on thy sword;
Thine be each meed the milder virtues claim,
Health, Peace, and Plenty, hand-maids of thy board!
When ardent Youth, and rosy Love are flown,
O! e’en thy graces cannot bribe their stay!
As Joy had brighten’d in thy radiant noon,
May soft Contentment gild thy closing day!
And when thou soarest from these veering spheres,
From busy Life, and from its silent bourne,
Thine be the bliss, that change nor period fears,
In the blest regions of the nightless morn. (j.)
THE
HAY-FIELD,
A MORNING SCENE.
The joys, gay Spirit of the social plain,
And useful labours, renovate my strain,
Rising, it vibrates to thy oaten reed,
And sings the artless pleasures of the mead.
No frown the Muse from Truth and Nature fears,
Tho’ pale Refinement sicken as she hears.
Now is it June’s bright morn, and Beauty twines
The glowing wreaths that deck her thousand shrines;
On the lark’s wing, sweet music hails the day,
And o’er the sun-beam pours his liquid lay;
While the blithe Spirit of the social plain
Leads Health, and Love, and Gladness in his train.
Crown’d with her pail, light rocking as she steps,
Along the fresh moist grass, young Lucy trips.
The rustic vest is from her ancle drawn,
Yet catches many a dew-drop of the lawn.
Warm on her downy cheek health’s deepest glow,
And in her eyes its lavish lustres flow;
And in her voice its wildly-warbled song
Floats, and returns the echoing glades among.
Her nut-brown tresses wanton on the gale,
Her breath perfumes afresh the blossom’d vale.
Nine blooming maidens meet her in the grove,
And ask and tell the tender tale of love;
With their prone fork and mystic scroll they frame,
Tracing on sand each heart-recorded name.
O’er the bared shoulder hangs the idle rake,
And busy Fancy paints the coming wake;
But from the lip th’ unfinish’d periods break,
And joy’s warm blushes deeper tinge the cheek;
For, see th’ expected youths, in manhood’s pride,
Stoutly are striding down the mountain’s side;
High o’er the rapid brook at once they bound,
And gay good-morrows thro’ the plain resound!
And now is Labour busy in the dale;
The cow stands duteous by the cleanly pail,
Where the rich milk descends in eddying tides,
Pure as the virgin hands thro’ which it glides.
The youths, with short’ning arm and bending head,
Sweep their bright scythes along the shiver’d mead;
Three blithsome maids the grassy treasure shake,
Three draw, with gentle hand, the thrifty rake;
And three, ’mid carol sweet and jocund tale,
Scatter the breathing verdure to the gale.
Where yonder cottages’ ascending smoke,
In spiral columns, wreaths the sun-gilt oak;
The careful parents of the village dwell,
And dress the savoury pottage in the cell;
Their little rosy girls and boys prepare
The steaming breakfast thro’ the vale to bear.
See, with pleased looks, gay Ceres’ happy train
Watch their young donors loaded on the plain,
Inhale the grateful fumes that round them rise,
Mark their slow, heedful step and earnest eyes,
The chubby hands that grasp the circling rim,
Where health’s warm viand rises to the brim.
Light on the violet bank recline the band,
And take the present from the willing hand;
With eager appetite, and poignant taste,
Thank the kind bearers, and enjoy the feast.
Yon tall white spire, that rises ’mid the trees,
Courting, with golden vane, the passing breeze,
A peal, far heard, sends merry down the dale,
The notes of triumph tell a bridal tale.
The hallow’d green sod the swift river laves,
Dark alders trembling o’er the sunny waves;
Its ripling breast receives each measured round,
Mellowing the shrillness of the silver sound.
Our youthful lovers hail th’ harmonious noise,
And Hope anticipates their bridal joys;
Pours all her magic influence on the scene,
Laughs in their eyes, and triumphs in their mien.
Sportful their infant friends around them rove,
And all is frolic, innocence, and love.
May equal bliss the varying year adorn,
And gild the labours of each future morn!
Whether the wanton hours, that lead the spring,
Catch silver rain-drops from her shining wing,
Or zoneless Summer, flaunting o’er the meads,
Empurpled bloom, and richest fragrance sheds;
Or auburn Autumn, from her full lap, throws
The mellow fruits upon the bending boughs;
Or Winter, with his dark relentless train,
Wind, snow, and sleet, shall desolate the plain;
Howl o’er the hill, and as the river raves,
In drear stagnation warp th’ arrested waves.
Yes, may the days of bloom and ripeness find
Such joys rewarding each untainted mind;
And, in the rage of the severer hours,
May balmy Comfort, with assuasive powers,
Present the stores by former toil amass’d,
Pile the warm hearth, and dress the neat repast;
Bid sport and song prepare the gladsome rite,
Then smooth the pillow through the stormy night!
Thus Health and Love the varying year shall crown,
While Truth and Nature smile, tho’ pale Refinement frown.
INSCRIPTION
For an Urn in a Gentleman’s Garden, amid the Mountainous Parts of
Scotland, where two Lovers had been killed by the fall of an
impending Precipice.
Blow, Winter-wind, these desert rocks around,
No blight from thee my cypress garland fears!
Away ye months, with light and roses crown’d!
But, melting April, steep it in thy tears!
Here the fond lover to his fair one told
The tale of tenderness and gay delight,
When, from its base, th’ incumbent mountain roll’d,
And Beauty, Youth, and Love, were whelm’d in night.
Ah! gentle stranger, pensive o’er me bend,
Who, in these deathful scenes, am doom’d to prove,
A sad memorial of the timeless end,
And living grave, of Beauty, Youth, and Love!
LOVE ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.[15]
EVANDER TO EMILLIA.
ELEGY.
Dreary and dark, in autumn’s wane,
The mournful evening falls,
And hollow winds and chilling rain
Beat fast upon the walls.
From the drench’d caves’ incumbent tops,
With wet and weltering sound,
At intervals, the heavy drops
Plash on the wat’ry ground.
Time was, ah, well-remember’d time!
When wintry blasts severe,
More welcome than the vernal prime,
Were music to my ear.
When many an evening’s stormy hour,
Emillia, pass’d with thee,
I thank’d the rain, and wind’s loud roar,
That banish’d all but me.
Now my sick soul these wintry glooms
Oppress with cruel sway,
Since my life’s light no more illumes
Dark eve, or sullen day.
With folded arms, by waning fires,
I hear the howling wind,
And sigh that faithful fond desires
Congenial winter find.
Yes, long I sit by waning fires,
And heavy eave-drops count;
My heart no sprightlier sound requires,
Or listless spirits want.
For sprightly sounds discordant rise,
Where cherish’d woes are dear,
They but insult the lover’s sighs,
Insult his starting tear.