Untimely dimm’d by Gaul’s o’ershadowing pow’r—
And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?
Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:
Thy gallant virtues all are fled;
Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.
O Gaul, Oppression’s blood-stain’d heir,
Let me not tell how, taught by thee,
England’s rude sons smote Liberty
On Vincent’s sable rock, her Indian throne:—
Not unavenged; for in her cause the sky
Storms and fiery vapours pour’d,
While Pestilence waved wide his tainted sword
To smite[15]...
EPODE.
Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shell
Wake the lofty sounds that swell
With rapture unreproved the patriot breast!
Robed in her many-colour’d vest
On Isis’ banks shall Science stand,
Waving in her bounteous hand
A wond’rous chaplet; high reward
Of toils, by public virtue dared:
And while to claim the envied meed
Fair Fame her vot’ries leads, thy voice,
O Muse, shall join th’ applauded choice
That fix’d the glorious wreath on FREDERICK’s honour’d head!
[15] The remainder of this, and the whole of the second antistrophe, were
not repeated in the theatre, having been suppressed by the academical
authorities, on account of their political sentiments, and subsequently
lost.
VERSES INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE TO THE DUKE OF
PORTLAND, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,
IN THE YEAR 1793.
In evil hour, and with unhallow’d voice,
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, He, first who sung
Of arms and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on th’ embattled plain, and raised
Th’ aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence!—For since that time
Th’ imperious victor oft, unsatisfied
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The poet, bending low, to lawless pow’r
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams clearest of th’ Aonian fount to wash
Blood-stain’d Ambition. If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else,
If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,
And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow;
Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell
The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent,
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards
The widow’s tears, the friendless orphan’s cry,
And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of War?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing, o’er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,
O’er the destruction of his gracious works!
Hymns to the Father, o’er his slaughter’d sons!
Detested be their sword! abhorr’d their name,
And scorn’d the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,
Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course
Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well pleased:—For Fame can enter Heaven,
If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
She rises not above this earthy spot;
And then her voice, transient and valueless,
Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise
And worthier duty may She tend on Thee,
Follow thee still with honour, such as time
Shall never violate, and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.
ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOK.
I will not meditate in idle show
Of labour’d lines my sorrow to relate;
All artless as the tears my verse shall flow
That good men weep for his untimely fate.
The friends of peace and friends of human kind
To mourn thy loss, adventurous Chief, agree;
And all who love the bold or generous mind,
And all who science love must weep for thee.
By thee to soft Taheite’s sultry clime,
By thee to chill Kamschatzcha’s frozen zone,
And Isles ne’er view’d till George’s golden time
Britannia’s mighty name at length was known.
O how unlike Magellan! he who bent
His daring sail to untried winds, and first
The world encompass’d—save in sad event
Of timeless death by savage hands accurst.
The Arts of Peace He cared not to extend;
For gold th’ untravel’d sea his bark explored,
For lust of gold he rashly strove to bend
The free-born Indian to his lawless sword.
Not such the generous purpose of thy will;
With zeal untired and patient toil it strove
To make th’ untutor’d savage learn thy skill,
And the fierce-manner’d tribes embrace thy love.
For this thy vessel plough’d the stormy wave,
For this the pendent globe thrice circled round,
When the rude hand of some unconscious slave
With brutal fury dealt the fatal wound.
Hold! hold, Barbarian! shall the guilty strife
Provoke to mortal acts thy frantic hand?
Let fall thy stroke on some less-valued life;
But save, O! save the Chieftain of the band!
E’en hostile kings bade spare his honour’d head,
The bloodless trophies of his fame bade spare;
And Peace and Science wide their influence spread
To guard him from the wasteful rage of war:
In vain—he falls—he dies—behold him bleed—
Ah wretched Isle! ah murderous, murderous race!
The guilt, the memory of this ruffian deed
What pains can expiate, or what time efface?
Henceforth no ship shall spread her canvas wing
To visit that inhospitable strand;
Save that in after times if chance shall bring
Some bark storm driven near the hateful land;
Ev’n then the hardy mariner shall mourn;
And as he views it rising from the main,
Far from the inhuman shore his prow shall turn,
Cursing the murderous isle where Cook was slain.
ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF DR. W. HAYES, PROFESSOR OF MUSIC IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF OXFORD.
_Set to Music by his Son and Successor, P. Hayes._
SYMPHONY.
These sounds of grief, this solemn air,
To thee I sing, dear, honour’d shade!
Hear, spirit of my father, hear!
To thee these mournful rites are paid.
_Here followed an Organ Movement, being a Psalm Tune
of the Professor, Dr. Wm. Hayes._
Such the last strains by thee were tried,
Strains that to holy Choirs belong;
While Age, that wasted all beside,
Yet spared the sweetness of thy song.
So pass’d he: nor approved alone
In science; like his gentle art,
His life was Music, and in tone
With Virtue’s harmony his heart.
O! let thy tuneful Spirit, to hear
The melancholy strains we raise,
Now stoop from that celestial sphere
Where Music is the voice of Praise!
THE WORLD[16].
INTENDED AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT WRITING.
BY A LADY.
Wide Habitation of the Sons of Men,
Wherein the seeds of vice and virtue lie
Mix’d, like the undigested Elements
Ere Chaos lost his kingdom; where blind Chance
With Passion holds divided anarchy;
O! who can rightly scan thee, or describe?
Subject ill suited to a Virgin’s Muse,
That cannot praise, and is to blame untaught:
Wherefore from this unprofitable theme
She turns, leaving unsung its argument;
Save that with careless hand her lute she strikes
Lightly, nor hoping that the myrtle wreath
Shall crown her unpremeditated lay.
[16] This was among the subjects for a Prize Poem, given out by Sir John
and Lady Miller at Bath Easton.
THE BRITISH THEATRE.
WRITTEN IN 1775.
When first was rear’d the British Stage,
Rude was the scene and weak the lay;
The Bard explored the sacred Page,
And holy Mystery form’d his Play.
Th’ affections of the mortal breast
In simple Moral next he sung,
Each Vice[17] in human shape he drest,
And to each Virtue[17] gave a tongue.
Then ’gan the Comic Muse unfold
In coarser jests her homely art:
Of Gammer Gurton’s[18] loss she told,
And laugh’d at Hodge’s awkward smart.
Come from thy wildly-winding stream,
First-born of Genius, SHAKSPEARE, come!
The listening World attends thy theme,
And bids each elder Bard[19] be dumb:
For thou, within the human Mind
Fix’d, as on thy peculiar throne,
Sitt’st like a Deity inshrined;
And either Muse is all thine own!
Yet shall not Time’s rough hand destroy
The scenes by learned Jonson writ;
Nor shall Oblivion e’er enjoy
The charms of Fletcher’s courtly wit:
And still in matchless beauty live
The numbers of that Lyric Strain
Sung gayly to the Star of Eve
By Comus and his jovial Train.
Here sunk the Stage:—and dire alarms
The Muse’s voice did overwhelm;
For wounded Freedom call’d to arms,
And Discord shook the embattled Realm.
But Peace return’d; and with her came
(Alas! how changed!) the tuneful Pair:
Thalia’s eye should blench with shame,
And her sad Sister weep to hear
How the mask’d[20] Fair, in Charles’s reign,
Her lewd and riotous Fancy fed
At Killigrew’s debauchful scene,
While hapless Otway pined for Bread.
Thus the sweet Lark shall sing unheard,
And Philomel sit silent by;
While every vile and chattering bird
Torments the grove with ribald cry.
And see what witless Bards presume
With buskin’d fools to rhyme and rage;
While Mason’s idle Muse is dumb,
And weary Garrick quits the Stage.
[17] Personification of the passions in the moralities.
[18] Gammer Gurton’s Needle is the oldest English comedy; the distress of
it arises from the loss of the needle, which at last is discovered in her
man Hodge’s breeches.
[19] There were no plays of any note before Shakspeare.
[20] The custom of that time, for fear of hearing indecencies, otherwise
too gross to be supported.
ON TWO PUBLICATIONS, ENTITLED EDITIONS OF TWO OF OUR POETS.
When Critic Science first was known,
Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground
The PRUNING KNIFE OF WIT was thrown;
Not that which Aristarchus found:
That had a stout and longer blade,
Would at one stroke cut off a limb;
This knife was delicately made,
Not to dismember, but to trim.
With a short harmless edge a-top,
’Twas made like our prize-fighting swords;
Pages and Chapters ’twould not lop,
But cut off syllables and words.
Well did it wear; and might have worn
Full many an age, yet ne’er the worse;
Till Bentley’s hand its edge did turn
On Milton’s adamantine verse.
Warburton seized the blunted tool,
Scarce fit for Oyster-opening Drab:
For Critic use ’twas now too dull,
But tho’ it would not cut, ’twould stab;
Then Shakspeare bled, with every friend
That loved the Bard:—he threaten’d further;
And God knows what had been the end,
Had not Tom Edwards cried out “Murther!”
Confounded at the fearful word,
Awhile he hid the felon steel;
Now gives it Mason, lends it H—;
Ah! see what Gray and Cowley feel!
THE SPLEEN.
I am not of their mind who say
The World degenerates every day;
Nor like to hear a churl exclaim,
In rapture at Queen Bess’s name,
And cry, “What happy times were those
“When Ladies with the sun uprose,
“And for their breakfast did not fear
“To eat roast-beef and drink strong-beer!
“Then buxom health and sprightly grace
“Enliven’d every blooming face,
“Blooming with roses all its own;
“And rouge, tea, vapours, were unknown.”
Nature, still changing, still the same,
Hath so contrived this worldly frame,
That every age shall duly share
The good or ill that flows from Her.
Thus we, a spleenful race, are free
From magic and from sorcery;
While those who lived with good Queen Bess
(As they that know the truth confess)
Tho’ Spleen and Vapours there were none,
Had Imps and Witches many a one;
And he who, ’cause he has not seen,
Will not believe, hath ne’er, I ween,
With due attention mused upon
Thy page, O BRITISH SOLOMON!
Thus far in preface—Now I’ll tell
How Spleen arose, when Witchcraft fell.
By vengeful laws the Wizard brood
Long harass’d and at last subdued,
Their black Familiars all repair
Before the throne of Lucifer,
With sad petitions, setting forth
Their many grievances on earth,
What torments they were doom’d to bear
While tending on their Witches there:
Some drown’d, to prove their innocence,
Or, ’scaping, hang’d on that pretence;
Some burnt within their steeple hats,
Some nine times murder’d in their Cats:
Brief, they petition’d to enjoy
Some less adventurous employ,
Since witchcraft now was thought so common
They were not safe in an old woman.
Their suit was granted—up they came
New-liveried in sulphur flame,
With licence thro’ the realm to range;
But, with their pow’r, their name they change.
Magic no longer now is seen,
And what was Witchcraft once, is Spleen:
Yet still they most delight to vex,
As first they did, the female sex;
And still, like an old witch’s charm,
They tease, but have no power to harm.
Tho’ Doctors otherwise have told,
The tale is true that I unfold:
And with my system suits the name,
For Spleen and Vapours are the same;
And all the country people know
That these, ascending from below,
Are DEVILS of peculiar hue,
And from their colour call them BLUE.
LINES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN A LADY’S ALMANAC.
Go happy lines, yet fearful go,
To meet Louisa’s secret eye!
Tell what I wish her heart should know,
Yet, rather than declare, I die.
Perhaps she’ll scorn ye, and despise
The tribute of a heart so poor—
Too valueless to be the prize
Of Beauty, proudest conqueror.
Then tell her that her touch alone
Destroys your pencil’d forms with ease;
And say your fate is like my own,
To be or not, as she shall please.
But should her gentleness now spare,
Pass one short year, and ye are not!
A little year shall send you where
You’ll perish among things forgot;
Yet so, how envied should you be!
For who is he would not prefer
Before an immortality,
To live a year, a day with Her?
I fear she’ll turn ye all to jest:
Then let her know I’ve made my prayer,
That, when by beaux, smart beaux, carest,
She ne’er may feel a tender care!
But while they sigh, or kneel, or vow,
Think it all done in sport and play;
Or write love-rhymes (as I do now),
Laugh, but not trust a word they say.
TO A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN, WITH THOMSON’S SEASONS, DOUBLED DOWN AT THE STORY
OF PALEMON AND LAVINIA.
Anna, when you shall read in this true tale
How young Lavinia from her lowly state
Was led to splendor, wealth, and dignity,
By generous Palemon wooed and won
To be his bride, (such happy fortune found
Her virtues, and deserved no less)—so think
Your beauty, temper’d with sweet bashful grace
Of modesty and native elegance,
So think these charms—not sparingly bestow’d
But in the pride and prodigality
Of liberal Nature, fashioning her work
To a rare excellence,—these shall inflame
Each generous heart with love, and the dear hope
To win your gentle favour, and possess
A lovelier Lavinia found in you.
SONNET.
Ah! where is hid, if still it may survive
The canker’d tooth of Age and Time’s despight,
Ah! where is hid that Orb of glass so bright,
That Merlin for King Ryence did contrive;
That wond’rous Orb so bright, wherein did live,
Or ever Time had brought them into light,
The forms of things unborn, which to the sight
Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!—
For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass,
Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind,
Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye,
That Reason’s self forgets her majesty
To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass,
And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind.
SONNET TO PETRARCH.
O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,
Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream
Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,
Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around
High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound
That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam
From some rich incense rising, to the extreme
Of desolate Hesperia did rebound,
And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,
Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like
In sad complaint of ill-requited love,
So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike
Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,
And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.
TO A LADY, WHO DESIRED SOME SPECIMENS OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.
Let not Eliza bid me now rehearse
The unvalued rhymes that long forgotten lie:
For all unfit is my rude-fashioned Verse
To meet the censure of her curious eye:
But for her sake a subject could I choose
To draw down fame and envy on the Bard,
Thy lovely Self should be my theme and Muse,
And thy sweet smile, Eliza, my reward.
EPITAPH ON A CHILD WHO DIED OF A SCARLET FEVER IN THE FIFTEENTH MONTH OF
HIS AGE. 1802.
Though thou wert dear, for lovely was thy form,
And fair thy mind, and hopeful from thy birth;
Though sudden was the pestilential storm
That beat thy tender blossom to the earth;
For thee we grieve not; certain that the soul
Yet sinless, bursting from its earthy clod,
Is borne on angel wings beyond the pole,
Where infant innocence hath place with God.
EPITAPH ON SIR CHARLES TURNER, BART. IN THE FAMILY MAUSOLEUM AT KIRK
LEATHAM, YORKSHIRE.
Beneath this hallow’d vault, this awful shade,
Amidst his generous Forefathers laid,
Lo TURNER sleeps, the latest of his race,
In prime of manhood given to Death’s embrace.
Heir of their name, and of their virtues heir,
His heart was liberal, courteous, brave, sincere.
Nor that his only praise; his patient mind,
Cheerful in grief, in agony resign’d,
Long bore the tedious hours of cureless pain,
Which Love and Friendship strove to soothe in vain.
Farewell, dear Consort of my happier days!
To Thee this duty thy THERESA pays,
Lamenting still for Thee, ’till fate shall join
Her kindred spirit and her dust with thine.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM, IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.
Wykeham, around thy venerable tomb
With fond affection still thy children come;
And tho’ no more the loud-voiced hymn they sing,
Still silent prayers and heartfelt wishes bring,
That thy departed Spirit, secure and blest,
May with the destined heirs of glory rest;
And, for thy pious bounty here bestow’d,
Treasure in Heaven may have, and joy in God!
TRANSLATION OF A GREEK INSCRIPTION UPON A FOUNTAIN[21].
Αγροτα συν ποιμυαις, κ. τ. λ. Vitruvius, Lib. 8. c. 3.
Shepherd, if thirst oppress thee, while thy flock
Thou lead’st at noon by this Arcadian spring,
Here freely drink thy fill, and freely bring
Around my Naïads all thy fleecy stock:
But in the water wash not, lest thou feel
Loathing, and strange antipathy to wine;
Such power it hath to make thee hate the vine,
E’er since my fount did Prœtus’ daughters heal;—
For here Melampus bathed them, here he cast
A spell to purge their madness off, and hold
The secret taint; what time from Argos old
To rough Arcadia’s mountain heights he past.
[21] There was a fountain in Arcadia, which had the reputation of
creating an aversion to wine in whoever happened to bathe in it, although
the water was innocent and wholesome to drink: and the tradition was,
that it had received this singular property from Melampus, a celebrated
physician of antiquity, when he made use of it to cure certain Arcadian
princesses, the daughters of Prœtus, of a strange species of madness.
These young ladies fancied themselves to be changed into cows. The story
is frequently alluded to by the poets; both Ovid and Virgil mention it.
FROM LUCRETIUS.
sæpius olim
Religio peperit scelerosa.—Lib. I. v. 83.
Yet Superstition has of old brought forth
More impious wickedness; witness that time
In Aulis, when at Dian’s temple met
Th’ associate Princes, Chiefs, the prime of Greece,
And stain’d her altar with the virgin blood
Of Iphigenia: o’er her youthful locks
They bound the fillets; on her cheeks she felt
The dress of sacrifice: but when she saw
Beside the altar her dear father stand
In sorrow, and for his sake the ministers
Hiding their knife, and all the assembly round
Weeping at sight of her; when this she saw,
Struck mute with terror, on her knees she sunk.
Ah! then in vain she called upon her king,
Her father, urged him by a parent’s love
To save his wretched child; while ruthless hands
Bore her all trembling to the altar’s base;
Not for her nuptials, not for holy rites
Of Hymen, tended on with dance and song;
But for a foul and bloody sacrifice.
So fell this chaste and tearful victim, slain
Ev’n in her marriage hour; and all to free
Their wind-bound Navy from the fancied let
Of adverse Deities, to such a guilt
Could Superstition prompt a father’s heart.
FROM LUCRETIUS.
Suave, mari magno turbantibus.—Lib. II. v. 1.
Sweet is it, when the stormy winds have roused
The boisterous ocean, from on shore to view
The toiling mariner; not that the pain
Of others gives us pleasure, but for that
To see what ills we ’scape ourselves is sweet:
And it is sweet, when armies on the plain
Array’d for battle join in mortal strife,
To stand aloof from danger and look on:
But nothing sweeter is, than all serene
In the strong towers of wisdom high to dwell,
And thence look down upon the wandering race
Of men, that vainly seek the path of life;
Vying in genius, or nobility;
With unabated labour, night and day
Striving to rise supreme in wealth or power.
FROM LUCRETIUS.
Avia Pieridum peragro loca.—Lib. IV. v. 1.
Pierian heights, the Muses’ trackless haunts
And wilds untrodden erst by mortal feet,
O’er these I wander, haply there to find
New flowers and fountains new; I love to drink
Of the pure stream fresh-welling, and to cull
A wreath of orient hues and odours rare,
Whence never poet yet his chaplet wove.
PSALM LXXII. ABRIDGED, AND ADAPTED[22] TO A PARTICULAR TUNE.
Lord, to the King thy judgments give,
Give to his Son thy righteousness:
So shall thy people safely live,
So he thy chosen flock shall bless.
Great his dominion, large his sway
O’er earth and ocean shall extend:
Him shall remotest isles obey,
Him the wide sea from end to end.
War and the battle then shall cease,
Then righteous men in favour stand;
Peace shall return, a lasting peace;
Plenty again shall store the land.
While He, with choicest blessings crown’d,
Long on his throne shall sit sublime;
Honour’d by all the nations round,
Honour’d by Kings of every clime.
Blest be our God for these fair days,
These happy days that rise again!
O may his glorious name and praise
Fill all the earth! Amen, amen.
[22] By adapted, is here meant, partly, that the accented syllables in
the verse coincide with the accented notes of the tune.
MIDNIGHT DEVOTION.
WRITTEN IN THE GREAT STORM, 1822.
When the storm’s increasing roar,
In the fearful hour of night,
And the blast that rives my door
Start the sleepers with affright;
While the fierce descending rain
And the warring winds of heaven
All embattled rush amain
On my fragile window driven;
I, for those who bide this pelting,
Breathe a prayer of charity,
And, my soul with pity melting,
Heavenly Father, call on Thee.
SILBURY HILL[23].
O thou, to whom in the olden time was raised
Yon ample Mound, not fashion’d to display
An artful structure, but with better skill
Piled massive, to endure through many an age,
How simple, how majestic is thy tomb!
When temples and when palaces shall fall,
And mighty cities moulder into dust,
When to their deep foundations Time shall shake
The strong-based pyramids, shall thine remain
Amid the general ruin unsubdued,
Uninjured as the everlasting hills,
And mock the feeble power of storms and Time.
[23] Silbury Hill is a Barrow of the largest size. It stands close by the
road from London to Bath: 80 miles west from Hyde-Park Corner.
TO THE DAISY.
Gentle flower, young April’s pride,
Say not Nature hath denied
Thee her bounty or her grace,
Though thou lack the Rose’s face.
Where she spreads her carpet green
There thy maiden form is seen,
Drest in robes of purest white,
Ever constant in her sight,
But at will to wanton wild,
Like a playful darling child.
Thee she tends in summer days,
And the nibbling ewes that graze
Spare to crop her favourite:
And the Fairies, when by night
Their green paths they quaintly tread,
Walk not o’er thy sleeping head.
FRAGMENT.
King Richard in the gray Tower sate,
Captive of Austria’s haughty Lord,
In a strange land, unhonour’d, unexplored,
To felon durance changed his royal state.
Pale was his haggard eye,
And sunk his cheek, to stern captivity
In all—all but in his Lion heart subdued:
He sate in melancholy solitude,
And sadly gazed upon the setting sun,
As down the heavenly road,
That all with purple glow’d,
It wested toward his realm of Albion.
FROM PURCHASE’S PILGRIMAGE, VERSIFIED AND DESIGNED AS A MOTTO TO “VOYAGES
FOR THE DISCOVERY OF A N. W. PASSAGE.”