Love’s dark magnetic instantly can turn;
Behold the Bacchanal forsake his bowl,
The fierce grow gentle, and the stoic burn!
Sylvan Diana’s cruel sports
Too long thy graceful brother courts;
But ah! though deaf to JULIA’s lay,
Had one bright nymph adjured his stay,
Would the warm youth have sought the buskin’d train?
Ah no! attentive to her sigh,
Their echoing horns might wind in vain;
No shaft of his had fleeted thro’ the sky;
The victim in the sacrificer found,
Pierced by a keener dart, had spared the purposed wound.
And do not now the Nine successless plead,
From scenes, where only syren pleasures sing,
HILARIO’s steps they might assiduous lead
Back to his wonted haunt, their hallow’d spring?
In vain applause her pæan breathes,
And ardent knowledge twines her wreaths;
For him extracts each pedant thorn,
Ere yet his brows those wreaths adorn.
Ah me! the magic of enamour’d smiles,
The tender glance, disorder’d air,
With all the soft voluptuous wiles,
That wind round lofty souls the fatal snare,
Shall mock thy late proud boast, and force thee own
Thy baby Godhead sits despotic on his throne.
SONGS.
THE COUNTRY MAID,
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
An easy heart adorns the vale,
And gilds the lonely plain;
No sighs of mine increase the gale,
No peevish tears the rain.
From happy dreams, the orient beams
Awake my soul to pleasure;
With cheek that glows, I milk my cows,
And bless the flowing treasure.
To tend the flock thro’ summer’s day
Is surely no disgrace;
A wreath of leaves from noon-tide ray
Defends my shaded face.
Industrious heed the hours shall speed
On pinions gay and light;
The rising thought, with virtue fraught,
Shall consecrate their flight.
A maple dish, a cedar spoon,
Seem fair and sweet to me,
When, on a violet bank, at noon,
I sit, and dine with glee.
From crystal rill my cup I fill,
And praise the bounteous giver;
Nor with the great would change my state,
But dwell in vales for ever.
I love to mark the sultry hour,
When Phœbus ardent glows,
How deeply still are plain and bower
In undisturb’d repose;
All but the rills, that down the hills
Their glittering waters fling,
And round the bowers, on sweet, wild flowers,
The bees, that murmuring cling.
When eve’s grey mantle veils the sun,
And hill’s late gilded height;
When green banks whiten, as the moon
Sheds wide her milky light,
I mark the vales and shadowy dales,
In soft perspective showing;
Their winding streams, beneath her beams,
In trembling lustre flowing.
Then homeward my pleased steps I bend
To yonder ivied cottage,
Where parents dear and gentle friend
Prepare the savoury pottage.
The wholesome fare, the pious prayer,
Conclude my day so pleasant!
Ye rich and proud, confess aloud
Right happy such a peasant. (j.)
SONG.[38]
Florio, by all the Powers above,
“Plighted to me eternal love;
“And as a rose adorn’d my breast,
“He on its leaf the vow impress’d;
“But, while the winds did round us play,
“Vow, leaf, and promise blew away.”
For this, when summer mornings glow,
O! shall I veil their beams in woe?
And ’mid the rosy hours of youth,
Weep and repine o’er vanish’d truth?
No! let me hail the shining day,
Blithe as the lark, that meets its ray.
Beauty and Health have joys that prove
Balm for the wounds of slighted love;
And when a faithful lover gains
The heart, a false one now disdains,
Ungrateful Damon may deplore
What vain regret shall ne’er restore.
Celia to Florio then shall say,
“Vow, leaf, and promise, blew away;”
And to those winds I gave my grief,
That bore the love-recorded leaf;
Nor do I chide the gales, or thee,
Since thou art false--and I am free!
And, till return those hours of prime,
Borne on the onward stream of time;
Yes, till the spring restores to me
That very leaf inscribed by thee,
Scorning thy sighs, shall Celia say,
“Vow, leaf, and promise, blew away!”
ACHILLES,[39]
A
CANZONET.
RECITATIVE.
Achilles roams the damp and sounding shore,
Nor hears th’ approaching tempest’s sullen roar;
Indignant mourns, by rage and anguish toss’d,
His honour stain’d, his fair Briseis is lost!
AIR.--BASS.
Mix’d with the rising wind his groan;--
Mark it, proud Troy! the welcome sound
Respites thine altars and thy throne,
Tho’ fierce Tydides thunder round.
AIR.--AMOROSO.
ACHILLES.
“My Maid, my black-eyed Maid,” deprived of thee,
Life has no joy, and love no charm for me!
AIR.--BRAVOURA.
Tyrant, ’tis well!--in baffled combat long
Thy vanquish’d myriads shall avenge this wrong!
PRECEDING AIR RESUMED.
But ah! nor love, nor glory, now I boast,
Brightly they shone, now darken’d each, and lost.
CHORUS.
Hero, to thee shall great revenge remain,
And Grecian armies strew the Trojan plain!
SONG.
The mute grey fields, and leafless bowers
Now vainly wait the vernal hours;
Yet vernal hours to them will come,
Awake the song, and ope the bloom.
To me more dear than vernal hours
To mute grey fields and leafless bowers,
Were Damon’s accents, Damon’s strain,
But Damon speaks, nor sings again!
On him hath closed the silent door
Shall never, never open more,
And on my heart, by nought consoled,
The trembling hand of Hope is cold!
And bleak fields suit, and suits this iron sky
The lonely spirit of departed joy.
SONG.
RECITATIVE.
My Stella sleeps, the sultry hour
Seals her soft eye-lids in the bower,
And see, the snowy rose she wore
Is fallen upon the verdant floor.
AIR.
Ah Rose, thou hast fled from a throne
Where thy fairness and scent are out-done,
And the graces that rival thy own
Thy envy has taught thee to shun.
And O! since thy thorns might annoy
A breast all the graces adorn,
To the mansion of love and of joy,
Pale Rover! thou shalt not return.
SONG.
On a mount a cottage stands
Half way down the sunny side,
And a little vale commands
Where the glassy waters glide.
There ascends a curtain’d hill,
From the stormy north it shields;
At its foot a church and mill,
Clustering hedgerows, narrow fields.
Pleasant, pleasant is the scene
When the spring and summer shine,
Yet within that cot, I ween,
Dwells a fairer love of mine.
Her sweet smile a spirit pours
Which, when blooming seasons fail,
Lovelier makes than summer bowers
Winter’s grey and naked vale.
BALLAD.
I wake and weep, when wintry winds
Are howling loud upon the lea,
And louder blasts my fancy finds
For William, on the foaming sea;
But, calming soon the pictured storm,
Sweet hopes into my bosom creep,
And tell me, summer breezes warm
Shall waft him safely o’er the deep.
Four years, on India’s sultry coast,
Has war’s rude voice my love detain’d;
While here, to every pleasure lost,
His Mary’s languid form remain’d;
And o’er the steep rock still to lean,
Still eager watch each gliding sail,
That languid form is duly seen,
At ruddy morn, and evening pale.
But ah! no handkerchief I mark
Stream from the deck in crimson dye!
Dear signal! wanting thee, the bark
Is hail’d by many a mournful sigh.
Its shouts discordant seem to me,
That echo from the stony pier,
Since William’s face I cannot see,
Since William’s voice I cannot hear.
SONG
OF THE
FAIRIES TO THE SEA-NYMPHS.
Hasten, from your coral caves,
Every nymph that sportive laves
In the green sea’s oozy wells,
And gilds the fins, and spots the shells!
Hasten, and our morrice join,
Ere the gaudy morning shine!
Rising from the foamy wave,
Instant now your aid we crave;
Come, and trip like our gay band,
Traceless on the amber sand.
Haste! or we must hence away,
Yet an hour, and all is day!
At your bidding, from our feet
Shall the ocean monsters fleet,
Sea-nettle and sting-fish glide
Back upon the refluent tide.
Haste! the dawn has streak’d the cloud,
Haste! the village cock has crow’d.
See! the clouds of night retire,
Hesper gleams with languid fire!
Quickly then our revel join,
The blush of morn is on the brine!
Loiterers, we must hence away,
Yonder breaks the orb of day.
SONG
ADAPTED TO THE NEW AIR
IN PLEYEL’S GRAND CONCERTANTE.
Bleak gloomy winds will surely rise,
When autumn hastes away;
Ah! so shall swell my rising sighs,
So wintry grow my day.
Lost to my view, when Cloe’s form
No more adorns this shade;
Then, O then, must Sorrow’s storm
My drooping soul invade.
Fast falling tears bedew the ground
When dark November lours,
Nor yet less lavish will be found,
These eyes’ descending showers.
Doom’d when I feel my sick’ning heart
To wail its vanish’d joys;
Now, e’en now, the dreaded smart
My present bliss destroys.
Cease, Fancy, cease the golden prime
Of Love’s delights to veil;
Cease to present the cruel time
When every joy must fail!
Live while we may,--’tis all we can,
And shun the thought that mourns!
Crown with roses life’s short span,
But lean not on their thorns!
SONG.
In sylvan scenes, when Laura hails
The flowers that deck the grove,
Ye Dryads, in the passing gales,
O! whisper to my love!
And tell her, as she smiling views
The beauteous vernal train,
How short a time their splendid hues
And breathing sweets remain.
Soft in the dells, when silver streams
From bubbling fountains stray,
Ye Naiads, guide the waking dreams
That o’er her fancy stray!
And when she sees, thro’ meads and groves,
The waters swiftly glide,
Inspire the thought, that youthful hours
No longer tarriance bide!
Then, Venus, come! and tell the Fair
Those rosy hours are thine;
And bid her snowy hands prepare
The marriage wreath to twine.
Since flowers and streams, and youth and love,
So rapid fleet away,
O teach my Laura to improve
The time that will not stay!
BALLAD.
Hast thou escaped the cannon’s ire,
Loud thundering o’er the troubled main?
Hast thou escaped the fever’s fire,
That burnt so fierce on India’s plain?
Then, William, then I can resign,
With scarce one sigh, the blooming grace,
Which in thy form was wont to shine,
Which made so bright thy youthful face.
That face grows wan by sultry clime,
By watching dim those radiant eyes;
But Valour gilds the wrecks of Time,
Tho’ youth decays, tho’ beauty flies;
An honest heart is all to me,
Nor soil, nor time, makes that look old;
And dearer shall the jewel be
Than youth, or beauty, fame, or gold.
SONG.
I.
The stormy ocean roving,
My William seeks the foe;
Ah me! the pain of loving,
To war when lovers go!
II.
O! why my locks so yellow,
Should rosy garlands bind,
When trembles yonder willow,
As blows the sullen wind?
III.
Ye nymphs, who feel no anguish,
My garlands gay ye wove,
But I in absence languish,
And fear for him I love.
IV.
Nor yet the sprays of willow
Shall wave my temples o’er,
But weeds, that ocean’s billow
Leaves dark upon the shore.
V.
Pale willows suit the sorrow
The fair forsaken knows;
Fierce War has wing’d the arrow
That wounds my soul’s repose.
VI.
Sad on the beach I linger,
And watch the altering sea;
But no cold doubts shall injure,
My love is true to me!
VII.
Yet, till rest crown my pillow,
Till peace my love restore,
Be mine the weeds yon billow
Leaves dark upon the shore!
ADDRESS TO HOPE.
SONG.
Thou sun of the spirit, dispersing each cloud,
When the sad sense of danger my bosom would shroud,
Not Spring, as she chases the Winter’s loud storm,
Ever blest the chill earth with a lustre so warm.
O! how had I borne the dire thoughts of the fray,
When War’s cruel voice call’d my lover away,
Had’st not thou, gentle Hope, veil’d the battles’ increase,
And bent thy soft beams on the harbour of Peace!
To cheer and irradiate a bosom like mine,
Can the splendour of Glory be potent as thine?
It plays on the crest of the hero, but shews
Red traces of danger thro’ legions of foes;
It gilds e’en destruction, I know, to the brave,
But to love, what can brighten the gloom of the grave?
Then do thou draw a veil o’er the battle’s fierce gleams,
And on Safety’s dear harbour O! bend thy soft beams!
And now, gentle Hope, art thou faithful as kind,
Not false were thy fires while they shone on my mind;
My hero returns!--the dread danger is o’er,
And, crown’d with new laurels, he speeds to the shore;
Yet to light the dim Future, sweet Hope, do not cease,
Thro’ life let thy torch be the guard of my peace;
That still it may gild the warm day-spring of youth,
As it shone on his safety, now shine on his truth.
SONG.
My Celia vow’d, at early dawn,
To meet me on the blossom’d lawn;
And now the dewy light of morn,
Arising, gems the silver thorn;
But, hush’d in sleep, my fair one now
Forgets, alas! her tender vow!
Gay linnets carol from the hill,
And sparkling flows the mountain rill;
Wild rose and woodbine scent the gale,
And breathe their perfumes thro’ the vale;
But, hush’d in sleep, my charmer laid,
Forgets the tender vow she made.
Come, lovely nymph, they seem to say,
Adorn with us the rising day!
For charms like thine alone can bring
The joys that crown the breathing Spring;
In vain her songs, her beauties rise,
If faithless Slumber seals those eyes!
SONG.
Here is the bank I loved so well,
But all its flowers are shrunk away!
And here the lately verdant dell,
Where I and Henry used to stray!
Ah me! I sigh, and look around,
No marks of what it was remain,
Save yon rude rock, that wept and frown’d,
When gay the bower, and green the plain!
While happy, under summer skies,
We gazed upon its dropping brow,
I little thought how soon these eyes
With as perpetual tears should flow.
If once this heart to love were cold,
And man’s base falsehood could divine,
O! I would sell my youth for gold,
My marriage vow at Plutus’ shrine.
Then alter’d looks I should not mourn,
The faithless glance I should not see;
The false one leave me, or return,
’Twould then be all the same to me.
’Tis not the blast, that piercing blows,
’Tis not the rains, that beating pour;
I mourn not what their rage may do,
To thin my flock, and blight my bower.
Nor nightly were my bosom bare
To all their wild inclemency,
I would not shed this bitter tear,
But Henry’s love grows cold to me!
Pass a few months, and we behold
Time lead again the blooming Spring,
But ne’er shall Time to hearts grown cold,
Again the vanish’d kindness bring.
SONG,
FROM METASTATIO.
Mild breeze, when thou shalt fan my fair,
Tell her a sigh augments thy gales;
But to reveal the source forbear,
From whence thy gentle breath exhales.
Clear stream, if thou her step shalt meet,
Say, with a tear thy currents swell,
But do not to the nymph repeat,
From whose enamour’d lid it fell.
SONG.
In the mid-day of summer, and far from the shade,
Beneath a steep rock, a young shepherd was laid;
The roses of beauty had paled on his face,
Yet each look was expressive, each motion was grace.
Thus flow’d his soft numbers;--and strange that a swain,
With such eyes, and such numbers, should languish in vain!
Ye fierce beams of noon, on my bosom that dart,
How languid your heat to the flames in my heart!
The breezes attemper the fervours of day,
But what can my passion for Chloris allay?
Not the wild breath of Anger its fires can assuage,
Not the ice of Indifference extinguish its rage.
That frozen indifference unpitied I mourn,
Neglected I leave her, unmark’d I return
No sigh for my pain, and no smile for my joy,
No transport can melt her, no anger annoy;
Yet still, self-supported, tho’ hopeless my flame,
Like the lamp monumental, ’tis ever the same.
SONG
OF A NORTHERN LOVER, IN WINTER.
The dark winds are blowing around the rude hill,
And the ice of the evening has crusted the rill;
Thy waves, O Loch Lomond! can glitter no more,
But in dim, stony fragments incumber thy shore.
And now for the moon, looking mild on the brook,
Swift lights of the north thro’ the zenith are struck;
Those flashes, pale streaming, will guide my lone way,
And the steps of a lover in safety convey.
Then louder the wings of the winter may sound,
And the frost’s cutting arrows dart keener around,
So the white shrouding flakes of the snow[40] are withheld,
From the mine of the heath, and the lake of the field.
SONG.
If stormy, o’er enamell’d vales,
Keen Eurus sweeps with blighting sway,
When Zephyr’s mild and balmy gales
Had waked the bloom of orient May,
That orient bloom at once is lost,
She droops forlorn in silent bowers;
And sighs, amid untimely frost,
For glowing suns and silver showers.
So droops my heart, that trembling feels
The power of Stella’s icy scorn;
Each rising joy her frown repels,
And wintry grows my summer morn.
Ah, Stella! cold and cruel maid!
Eternal shall that winter prove?
And wretched in the lonely glade
Must injured Truth despair of Love?
PASTORAL BALLAD.
O! share my cottage, dearest maid!
Beneath a mountain, wild and high,
It nestles in a silent glade,
And a clear river wanders by.
Each tender care, each honest art,
Shall chase all future want from thee,
If thy sweet lips consent impart
To climb these craggy hills with me.
Far from the city’s vain parade,
No scornful brow shall there be seen;
No dull Impertinence invade,
Nor Envy base, nor sullen Spleen;
The shadowy rocks, that circle round,
From storms shall guard our sylvan cell,
And there shall every joy be found
That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.
When late the tardy sun shall peer,
And faintly gild yon little spire;
When nights are long, and frosts severe,
And our clean hearth is bright with fire,
Sweet tales to read! sweet songs to sing!
O! they shall drown the wind and rain,
E’en till the soften’d season bring
Merry spring-time back again!
Then hawthorns, flowering in the glen,
Shall guard the warbling feather’d throng;
Nor boast the busy haunts of men
So fair a scene, so sweet a song.
Thy arms the new-yean’d lamb will shield,
And to the sunny shelter bear,
While, o’er the rough and breathing field,
My hands impel the gleaming share.
Ne’er doubt our wheaten ears will rise,
And full their yellow harvest grow;
Then taste with me the sprightly joys
That Love and Industry bestow!
Their jocund power can banish strife,
Her clouds no passing day will see,
Since all the leisure hours of life
Shall still be spent in pleasing thee.
SONG.
From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly;
From the rocks, that are lash’d by their tide;
From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they,
Has wreck’d my warm hopes by her pride!--
Yet lonely and rude as the scene,
Her smile to that scene could impart
A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vale--
But away, thou fond dream of my heart!
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly!
Now the blasts of the winter come on,
And the waters grow dark as they rise!
But ’tis well!--they resemble the sullen disdain
That has lour’d in those insolent eyes.
Sincere were the sighs they represt,
But they rose in the days that are flown!
Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My spirit is proud as thine own.
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly!
Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread
To escape the loud storm by their flight;
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat
From the winds and the billows of night;
Like them, to the home of my youth,
Like them, to its shades I retire;
Receive me, and shield my vex’d spirit, ye groves,
From the pangs of insulted desire!
To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!
GLEE.
Now Spring wakes the May-morn, the sweetest of hours
Calls the lark to the sun-beam, the bee to the flowers;
Calls Youth, Love, and Beauty to hail the new day,
And twine their gay garlands in honour of May;
Yet hope not, amid the soft pleasures they bring,
That moments so jocund will pause on their wing!
Obey, my fair LAURA, the summons that breathes
In the hue of the trees, in the scent of the wreaths,
In the song of the woodlands, for love is the lay,
And lustre and perfume are types of his sway;
More tuneful his accents, more rosy his spring,
And O! not less rapid the flight of his wing!
ODE TO EUPHROSYNE,
AN EPITHALAMIUM
ON THE MARRIAGE OF DOCTOR D--AND MISS M--.
Daughter of Heaven, and friend of earth,
Who fear’st no cloud upon thy rosy light,
Parent of Health, and Wit, and Mirth,
Dispensing permanence to gay delight,
EUPHROSYNE, this sacred hour,
Consecrate the mutual vow!--
Impassion’d Love must twine his wreath in vain,
And vainly gild the nuptial chain,
If thou should’st rove more favour’d scenes among,
Goddess of my rising song!
Of texture frail then would each joy be form’d,
And care must chill the hearts enamour’d transport warm’d.
Queen of the dimpled smile, be near,
Thy influence on the bridal garland breathe!
Since oft the buds of nightshade darkly peer
Beneath the sprays of that envermeil’d wreath,
Too prone are Grief, Disease, and Care,
To slide those mournful emblems there;
And oft, with pallid lip and furrow’d brows,
Jealousy remorseless throws
Fires on the marriage flame, which soon expand,
And change it to a livid brand;
But thou, gay Goddess, with auspicious mien
Hymen’s bright torch can’st guard, his blooming garland screen.
Come then, on the morning gale,
Chasing every demon pale!
So flies the mist when Phœbus gleams,
Pierced thro’ and thro’ with arrowy beams
Come then, and the lovers hail,
Worthy all thy dear caressing,
Liveliest smile, and fondest blessing!--
Venus bade the youth inherit
Love, and virtues that endure;
Flames, which fired the lover’s spirit,
When time was young, and faith was pure.
Not gay LEANDER with more ardour warm
When his firm nerves each rising dread withstood;
When, braving night,--the sea,--the howling storm,
He plough’d the billows of the Euxine flood.
This plighted pair should midnight waves divide,
As bold an arm would stem the loud, conflicting tide.
A deep glen hides his chosen maid,
The tender flower of that sequester’d vale;
In the sweet lily’s charms array’d,
When from the sun its folding leaves conceal
The bending cups of purest snow,
Whence its lavish perfumes flow.
So dwells, beneath that modest air,
A soul, as her complexion fair,
As her quick blush, and sunny tresses warm;
Mindless to fear, or practise harm,
No cold distrust repels its fervent glow,
Closes her liberal hand, or shades her smiling brow.
Credulity, of Virtue born,
With the swift-springing drop of pity’s dew,
In mild simplicity, adorn,
And shed o’er her ripe youth their freshest hue;
While Taste, arranging Fancy’s stores,
A clear libation gently pours
Incessant on the texture of her mind;
By the sparkling streams refined
From rust opake, and from the misty stains
Which languid indolence retains.
Haste then, EUPHROSYNE, and bless the shrines,
Where the dear artless maid her plighted hand resigns!
Be the faithful, generous pair,
Goddess, thy incessant care!
Wave thou still, with jocund mirth,
Thy light wand o’er their glowing hearth,
Where drops no briny tear!
Wave it, when wintry storms are yelling
Loud around their cheerful dwelling;
When summer rays, the year adorning,
Bless each mountain, dale, and plain,
Light again the crystal morning,
Gild the splendent noon again;
Or tinge the purple clouds of beauteous eve,
Slowly that fade into the stealing night.--
O! may each veering scene from thee receive
White tints of peace, and pleasure’s ruddy light!
Since absent thou, how dim our youthful days,
Thou, who canst more illume the gorgeous, solar blaze!
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN FOR THE TRAGEDY OF BRAGANZA.
On Britain’s stage, when Roman Portia charms,
And female grace with manly courage arms,
Each sex alike her daring virtues fire,
The fair exult, and all the brave admire.
Beyond her Brutus’ life the public weal
Nobly she loves, and animates his zeal,
But soon the o’er-strain’d cords of courage break,
And fatal madness triumphs o’er the wreck.
More self-sustain’d, pride of a recent age,
LOUISA’s radiance gilds the historic page,
Her portrait here, display’d in faithful light,
A virgin muse exhibits to your sight.
She pleads the unpractised hand of truant Youth,
But boasts the sacred patronage of Truth.
Oft have you wept ELFRIDA’s fancied woes,
Charm’d with each virtue that her bard bestows;
While Truth indignant fled the varnish’d theme,
He cloth’d the faithless fair with worth supreme;
Each shrinking voice confess’d the touch refined,
That chased the Ethiop blackness of her mind.
O! let those tears for bright LOUISA stream,
Around whose brows the genuine virtues beam!
Contempt of death, in Freedom’s glorious cause,
By sterner manhood shown, demands applause;
Such glorious heights when softer woman soars,
Awaken’d Sympathy her tribute pours;
The heart’s quick throb, sweet sigh, and raptured tear,
For Love and Beauty, that so greatly dare.