Chapter III: Preface

Every reader turns with pleasure to those passages of Horace, and Pope, and Boileau, which describe how they lived and where they dwelt; and which, being interspersed among their satirical writings, derive a secret and irresistible grace from the contrast, and are admirable examples of what in Painting is termed repose.

We have admittance to Horace at all hours. We enjoy the company and conversation at his table; and his suppers, like Plato’s, ‘non solum in præsentia, sed etiam postero die jucundæ sunt.’ But when we look round as we sit there, we find ourselves in a Sabine farm, and not in a Roman villa. His windows have every charm of prospect; but his furniture might have descended from Cincin-natus; and gems, and pictures, and old marbles, are mentioned by him more than once with a seeming indifference.

His English Imitator thought and felt, perhaps, more correctly on the subject; and embellished his garden and grotto with great industry and success. But to these alone he solicits our notice. On the ornaments of his house he is silent; and he appears to have reserved all the minuter touches of his pencil for the library, the chapel, and the banquetting-room of Timon. ‘Le savoir de notre siècle,’ says Rousseau, ‘tend beaucoup plus à détruire qu’à edifier. On censure d’un ton de maitre; pour proposer, il en faut prendre un autre.’

It is the design of this Epistle to illustrate the virtue of True Taste; and to shew how little she requires to secure, not only the comforts, but even the elegancies of life. True Taste is an excellent Economist. She confines her choice to few objects, and delights in producing great effects by small means: while False Taste is for ever sighing after the new and the rare; and reminds us, in her works, of the Scholar of Apelles, who, not being able to paint his Helen beautiful, determined to make her fine.

ARGUMENT.

An Invitation, v. 1. The approach to a Villa described, v. 5. Its situation, v. 17. Its few apartments, v. 57. Furnished with casts from the Antique, &c. v. 63. The dining-room, v. 83. The library, v. 89. A cold-bath, v. 101. A winter-walk, v. 151. A summer-walk, v. l63. The invitation renewed, v. 197. Conclusion, v. 205.

When, with a REAUMUR’S skill, thy curious mind Has class’d the insect-tribes of human-kind, Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing, Its subtle, web-work, or its venom’d sting; Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, Point the green lane that leads thro’ fern and flowers; The shelter’d gate that opens to my field, And the white front thro’ mingling elms reveal’d. In vain, alas, a village-friend invites To simple comforts, and domestic rites, When the gay months of Carnival resume Their annual round of glitter and perfume; When London hails thee to its splendid mart, Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art; And, lo, majestic as thy manly song, Flows the full tide of human life along. Still must my partial pencil love to dwell On the home-prospects of my hermit cell; The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green, Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen; And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow, Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. Oft o’er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass[a] Browsing the hedge by fits the pannier’d ass; The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Whistling his dog to mark the pebble’s flight; And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. Far to the south a mountain-vale retires, Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires; Its upland lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung, Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung: And thro’ the various year, the various day,[b] What scenes of glory burst, and melt away! When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, And the furr’d Beauty comes to winter there, She bids old Nature mar the plan no more; Yet still the seasons circle as before. Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, Tho’ moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; As soon the sky-lark pours his matin song, Tho’ Evening lingers at the mask so long. There let her strike with momentary ray, As tapers shine their little lives away; There let her practise from herself to steal, And look the happiness she does not feel; The ready smile and bidden blush employ At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy; Fan with affected ease the essenc’d air, And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Be thine to meditate an humbler flight, When morning fills the fields with rosy light; Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, Repose with dignity, with Quiet fame. Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Yet modest ornament, with use combin’d, Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. Small change of scene, small space his home requires,[c] Who leads a life of satisfied desires. What tho’ no marble breathes, no canvass glows, From every point a ray of genius flows![d] Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, thro’ distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A MICHAEL’S grandeur, and a RAPHAEL’S grace! Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, And my low roof the Vatican recalls! Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies, To waking sense what brighter visions rise! O mark! again the coursers of the Sun, At GUIDO’S call, their round of glory run![e] Again the rosy Hours resume their flight, Obscur’d and lost in floods of golden light! But could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings; And still the Few best lov’d and most rever’d[f] Rise round the board their social smile endear’d? Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers![1] There, while the shaded lamp’s mild lustre streams, Read antient books, or woo inspiring dreams;[g] And, when a sage’s bust arrests thee there,[h] Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. —Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls, Which breathes a soul into the silent walls;[2] Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue,[i] All on whose words departed nations hung; Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; Guides in the world, companions in retreat! Tho’ my thatch’d bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Emblem of Life! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! The shadowy walls record, with Attic art, The strength and beauty that its waves impart. Here THETIS, bending, with a mother’s fears Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. There, VENUS, rising, shrinks with sweet surprize, As her fair self reflected seems to rise! Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, And all ‘the dull impertinence of life,’ These eyelids open to the rising ray, And close, when Nature bids, at close of day. Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows; There noon-day levees call from faint repose. Here the flush’d wave flings back the parting light; There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. When from his classic dreams the student steals,[3] Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels, To muse unnotic’d—while around him press The meteor-forms of equipage and dress; Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand A very stranger in his native land! And (tho’ perchance of current coin possest, And modern phrase by living lips exprest) Like those blest Youths, forgive the fabling page,[j] Whose blameless lives deceiv’d a twilight age, Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner’s spade Unclos’d the cavern, and the morning play’d. Ah, what their strange surprize, their wild delight! New arts of life, new manners meet their sight! In a new world they wake, as from the dead; Yet doubt the trance dissolv’d, the vision fled! O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth, Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health! Long, in this shelter’d scene of letter’d talk, With sober step repeat the pensive walk; Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please, The cheap amusements of a mind at ease; Here every care in sweet oblivion cast, And many an idle hour—not idly pass’d. No tuneful echoes, ambush’d at my gate, Catch the blest accents of the wise and great.[k] Vain of its various page, no Album breathes The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. Yet some good Genii o’er my hearth preside, Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide; And there I trace, when the grey evening lours, A silent chronicle of happier hours! When Christmas revels in a world of snow, And bids her berries blush, her carols flow; His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings; Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings, O’er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves; —Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues, What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes, Screen’d from the arrowy North; and duly hies[4] To meet the morning-rumour as it flies; To range the murmuring market-place, and view The motley groups that faithful TENIERS drew. When Spring bursts forth in blossoms thro’ the vale, And her wild music triumphs on the gale, Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile;[5] Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile, Framing loose numbers, till declining day Thro’ the green trellis shoots a crimson ray; Till the West-wind leads on the twilight hours, And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight, The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power! Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour, Thy closet-supper, serv’d by hands unseen, Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene,[l] To hail our coming. Not a step prophane Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain; And, while the frugal banquet glows reveal’d, Pure and unbought[6]—the natives of my field; While blushing fruits thro’ scatter’d leaves invite, Still clad in bloom, and veil’d in azure light;— With wine, as rich in years as HORACE sings, With water, clear as his own fountain flings, The shifting side-board plays its humbler part, Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot’s art.[m] Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught With mental light, and luxury of thought, My life steals on; (O could it blend with thine!) Careless my course, yet not without design. So thro’ the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide,[n] The light raft dropping with the silent tide; So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, The busy people wing their various flight, Culling unnumber’d sweets from nameless flowers, That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught thro’ St. James’s groves at blush of day; Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Thro’ trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease,[7] Tho’ skill’d alike to dazzle and to please; Tho’ each gay scene be search’d with anxious eye, Nor thy shut door be pass’d without a sigh. If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more, Some, form’d like thee, should once, like thee, explore; Invoke the lares of his lov’d retreat, And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet; Then be it said, (as, vain of better days, Some grey domestic prompts the partial praise) “Unknown he liv’d, unenvied, not unblest; Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest. In the clear mirror of his moral page, We trace the manners of a purer age. His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught, Scorn’d the false lustre of licentious thought. —One fair asylum from the world he knew, One chosen seat, that charms with various view! Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain. Thro’ each he roves, the tenant of a day, And, with the swallow, wings the year away!”[o]

[1]
—apis Matinæ
More modoque
Grata carpentis thyma. . .—HOR.

[2] Postea verò quàm Tyrannio mihi libros disposuit, mens addita videtur meis ædibus. CIC.

[3] Ingenium, sibi quod vacuas desumsit Athenas, Et studiis annos septem dedit, insenuitque Libris et curis, statuâ taciturnius exit Plerumque. . .—HOR.

[4] Fallacem circum, vespertinumque pererro Sæpe forum.—HOR.

[5] Tantôt, un livre en main, errantdans les préries— BOILEAU.

[6] Dapes inemtas. . .—HOR.

[7] Innocuas amo delicias doctamque quietem.

NOTES.

[a] _Oft o’er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass_

Cosmo of Medicis took most pleasure in his Apennine villa, because all that he commanded from its windows was exclusively his own. How unlike the wise Athenian, who, when he had a farm to sell, directed the cryer to proclaim, as its best recommendation, that it had a good neighbourhood. PLUT. in Vit. Themist.

[b] _And, thro’ the various year, the various day,_

Horace commends the house, ‘longos quæ prospicit agros.’ Distant views contain the greatest variety, both in themselves, and in their accidental variations. GILPIN.

[c] _Small change of scene, small space his home requires,_

Many a great man, in passing through the apartments of his palace, has made the melancholy reflection of the venerable Cosmo: “Questa è troppo gran casa à si poco famiglia.” MACH. Ist. Fior. lib. vii. “Parva, sed apta mihi,” was Ariosto’s inscription over his door in Ferrara; and who can wish to say more? “I confess,” says Cowley, “I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a very little feast.” Essay vi. When Socrates was asked why he had built for himself so small a house, “Small as it is,” he replied, “I wish I could fill it with friends.” PHÆDRUS, 1. iii. 9. These indeed are all that a wise man would desire to assemble; “for a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.” BACON’S Essays, xxvii.

[d] _From every point a ray of genius flows!_

By this means, when all nature wears a lowering countenance, I withdraw myself into the visionary worlds of art; where I meet with shining landscapes, gilded triumphs, beautiful faces, and all those other objects that fill the mind with gay ideas, &c. ADDISON. It is remarkable that Antony, in his adversity, passed some time in a small but splendid retreat, which he called his Timonium, and from which might originate the idea of the Parisian Boudoir, that favourite apartment, _ou I’on se retire pour étre seul, mais ou l’on ne boude point_. STRABO, 1. xvii. PLUT, in Vit. Anton.

[e] _At GUIDO’S call, &c_.

Alluding to his celebrated fresco in the Rospigliosi Palace at Rome.

[f] _And still the Few best lov’d and most rever’d_

The dining-room is dedicated to Conviviality; or, as Cicero somewhere expresses it, “Communitati vitæ atque victûs.” There we wish most for the society of our friends; and, perhaps, in their absence, most require their portraits. The moral advantages of this furniture may be illustrated by the pretty story of an Athenian courtezan, “who, in the midst of a riotous banquet with her lovers, accidentally cast her eye on the portrait of a philosopher, that hung opposite to her seat: the happy character of temperance and virtue struck her with so lively an image of her own unworthiness, that she instantly quitted the room; and, retiring home, became ever after an example of temperance, as she had been before of debauchery.”

[g] _Read antient looks, or woo inspiring dreams;_

The reader will here remember that passage of Horace, _Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno, &c_ which was inscribed by Lord Chesterfield on the frieze of his library.

[h] _And, when a sage’s lust arrests then there_,

Siquidem non solum ex auro argentove, aut certe ex ære in bibliothecis dicantur illi, quorum immortales animæ in iisdem locis ibi loquuntur: quinimo etiam quæ non sunt, finguntur, pariuntque desideria non traditi vultus, sicut in Homero evenit. Quo majus (ut equidem arbitror) nullum est felicitatis specimen, quam semper omnes scire cupere, qualis fuerit aliquis. PLIN. Nat. Hist. Cicero speaks with pleasure of a little seat under Aristotle in the library of Atticus. “Literis sustentor et recreor; maloque in illa tua sedecula, quam habes sub imagine Aristotelis, sedere, quàm in istorum sella curuli!” Ep. ad Att. iv. 10. Nor should we forget that Dryden drew inspiration from the “majestic face” of Shakespeare; and that a portrait of Newton was the only ornament of the closet of Buffon. Ep. to Kneller. Voyage à Montbart. In the chamber of a man of genius we

Write all down: Such and such pictures;—there the window; …..the arras, figures, Why, such and such. CYMBELINE.

[i] _Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue_,

Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hospitibus, exclaims Petrarch. —Spectare, etsi nihil aliud, certè juvat.—Homerus apud me mutus, imò verò ego apud illum surdus sum. Gaudeo tamen vel aspectû solo, et sæpe ilium amplexus ac suspirans dico: O magne vir, &c. Epist. Var. Lib. 20.

[j] _Like those blest Youths_,

See the Legend of the Seven Sleepers. GIBBON, c. 33.

[k] _Catch the blest accents of the wise and great_.

Mr. Pope delights in enumerating his illustrious guests. Nor is this an exclusive privilege of the poet. The Medici Palace at Florence exhibits a long and imposing catalogue. “Semper hi parietes columnæque eruditis vocibus resonuerunt.” Another is also preserved at Chanteloup, the seat of the Duke of Choiseul.

[l] _Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene_,

At a Roman supper statues were sometimes employed to hold the lamps.

—Aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per ædeis,
Lampadas igniferas manibus retinentia dextris.
LUCR. ii. 24.

A fashion as old as Homer! Odyss. vii. 100. On the proper degree and distribution of light we may consult a great master of effect. Il lume grande, ed alto, e non troppo potente, sarà quello, che renderà le particole de’ corpi molto grate. Tratt. della Pittura di LIONARDO DA VINCI, c. xli. Hence every artist requires a broad and high light. Hence also, in a banquet-scene, the most picturesque of all poets has thrown his light from the ceiling. Æn. i. 726.

And hence the “starry lamps” of Milton, that
….from the arched roof
Pendent by subtle magic,….
……yielded light
As from a sky. Paradise Lost, i. 726.

[m] _Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot’s art_.

At the petits soupés of Choisy were first introduced those admirable pieces of mechanism, afterwards carried to perfection by Loriot, the Confidente and the Servante; a table and a side-board, which descended, and rose again covered with viands and wines. And thus the most luxurious Court in Europe, after all its boasted refinements, was glad to return at last, by this singular contrivance, to the quiet and privacy of humble life. Vie privée de Louis XV. tom. ii. p. 43.

[n] _So thro’ the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide_,

An allusion to the floating bee-house, or barge laden with bee-hives, which is seen in some parts of France and Piedmont.

[o] _And, with the swallow, wings the year away!_

It was the boast of Lucullus that he changed his climate with the birds of passage. PLUT. in Vit. Lucull. How often must he have felt the truth here inculcated, that the master of many houses has no home!

ODE TO SUPERSTITION.[1]

I. 1.

Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence!
Thy chain of adamant can bind
That little world, the human mind,
And sink its noblest powers to impotence.
Wake the lion’s loudest roar,
Clot his shaggy mane with gore,
With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine;
Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine!
Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steel’d the breast,[2]
Whence, thro’ her April-shower, soft Pity smil’d;
Has clos’d the heart each godlike virtue bless’d,
To all the silent pleadings of his child.
At thy command he plants the dagger deep,
At thy command exults, tho’ Nature bids him weep!

I. 2.

When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,[3]
Thou dartedst thy huge head from high,
Night wav’d her banners o’er the sky,
And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth.
Rocking on the billowy air,
Ha! what withering phantoms glare!
As blows the blast with many a sudden swell,
At each dead pause, what shrill-ton’d voices yell!
The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb,
Points at the murderer’s stab, and shudders by;
In every grove is felt a heavier gloom,
That veils its genius from the vulgar eye:
The spirit of the water rides the storm,
And, thro’ the mist, reveals the terrors of his form.

I. 3.

O’er solid seas, where Winter reigns,
And holds each mountain-wave in chains,
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer[4]
By glistering star-light thro’ the snow,
Breathes softly in her wondering ear
Each potent spell thou bad’st him know.
By thee inspir’d, on India’s sands,[5]
Full in the sun the Bramin stands;
And, while the panting tigress hies
To quench her fever in the stream,
His spirit laughs in agonies,[6]
Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam.
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,
Blooming in her bridal vest:
She hurls the torch! she fans the fire!
To die is to be blest:[7]
She clasps her lord to part no more,
And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar.
O’ershadowing Scotia’s desert coast,
The Sisters sail in dusky state,[8]
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,
Weave the airy web of fate;
While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,[9]
Sees o’er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.

II. 1.

Thou spak’st, and lo! a new creation glow’d.
Each unhewn mass of living stone
Was clad in horrors not its own,
And at its base the trembling nations bow’d.
Giant Error, darkly grand,
Grasp’d the globe with iron hand.
Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light
Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height.
The statue, waking with immortal powers,[10]
Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the spheres;
The indignant pyramid sublimely towers,
And braves the efforts of a host of years.
Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind;
And bright-ey’d Painting stamps the image of the mind.

II. 2.

Round their rude ark old Egypt’s sorcerers rise!
A timbrell’d anthem swells the gale,
And bids the God of Thunders hail;[11]
With lowings loud the captive God replies.
Clouds of incense woo thy smile,
Scaly monarch of the Nile![12]
But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee?[13]
Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.
Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,
Lock’d up in characters as dark as night?[14]
What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore,[15]
To which the parted soul oft wings her flight;
Again to visit her cold cell of clay,
Charm’d with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay?

II. 3.

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright[16]
With purple ether’s liquid light,
High o’er the world, the white-rob’d Magi gaze
On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire;
Start at each blue, portentous blaze,
Each flame that flits with adverse spire.
But say, what sounds my ear invade[17]
From Delphi’s venerable shade?
The temple rocks, the laurel waves!
“The God! the God!” the Sybil cries.
Her figure swells! she foams, she raves!
Her figure swells to more than mortal size!
Streams of rapture roll along,
Silver notes ascend the skies:
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song,
Oh catch it, ere it dies!
The Sybil speaks, the dream is o’er,
The holy harpings charm no more.
In vain she checks the God’s controul;
His madding spirit fills her frame,
And moulds the features of her soul,
Breathing a prophetic flame.
The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths unclose!
And, in the thunder’s voice, the fate of empire flows.

III. 1.

Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
Ev’n whisper to the idle air;
Rites that have chain’d old Ocean on his bed.
Shiver’d by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero’s lance.
Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,[18]
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark, the bard’s soul inspires the vocal string!
At every pause dread Silence hovers o’er:
While murky Night sails round on raven-wing,
Deepening the tempest’s howl, the torrent’s roar;
Chas’d by the morn from Snowdon’s awful brow,
Where late she sate and scowl’d on the black wave below.

III. 2.

Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!
The red-cross squadrons madly rage,[19]
And mow thro’ infancy and age:
Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.
Veiling from the eye of day,
Penance dreams her life away;
In cloister’d solitude she sits and sighs,
While from each shrine still, small responses rise.
Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell
Swings its slow summons thro’ the hollow pile!
The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell,
To walk, with taper dim, the winding isle;
With choral chantings vainly to aspire,
Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture’s wing of fire.

III. 3.

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
Hence, with the rack and reeking wheel.
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball!
While gleams of glory open round,
And circling choirs of angels call,
Can’st thou, with all thy terrors crown’d,
Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Destin’d to shine when suns are dark?
Thy triumphs cease! thro’ every land,
Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease:
Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Benignly points to piety and peace.
Flush’d with youth her looks impart
Each fine feeling as it flows;
Her voice the echo of her heart,
Pure as the mountain-snows:
Celestial transports round her play,
And softly, sweetly die away.
She smiles! and where is now the cloud
That blacken’d o’er thy baleful reign?
Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,
Shrinking from her glance in vain.
Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above,
And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.

[1] Written in the year 1784.

[2] An allusion to the sacrifice of Iphigenia.

[3] Lucretius, I. 63.

[4] When we were ready to set out, our host muttered some words in the ears of our cattle. See a Voyage to the North of Europe in 1653.

[5] The Bramins expose their bodies to the intense heat of the sun.

[6] Ridens moriar. The conclusion of an old Runic ode.

[7] In the Bedas, or sacred writings of the Hindoos, it is written: “She, who dies with her husband, shall live for ever with him in heaven.”

[8] The Fates of the Northern Mythology. See MALLET’S Antiquities.

[9] An allusion to the Second Sight.

[10] See that fine description of the sudden animation of the Palladium in the second book of the Æneid.

[11] The bull, Apis.

[12] The Crocodile.

[13] So numerous were the Deities of Egypt, that, according to an antient proverb, it was in that country less difficult to find a god than a man.

[14] The Hieroglyphics.

[15] The Catacombs, in which the bodies of the earliest generations yet remain without corruption, by virtue of the gums that embalmed them.

[16] “The Persians,” says Herodotus, “reject the use of temples, altars, and statues. The tops of the highest mountains are the places chosen for sacrifices.” I. 131. The elements, and more particularly Fire, were the objects of their religious reverence.

[17] An imitation of some wonderful lines in the sixth Æneid.

[18] See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29.

[19] This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. Hume, I.221.

VERSES WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.[1]

Yes, ’tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain! I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where I died last—by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. To drop all metaphor, that little bell Call’d back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman—scarce restrains her own! Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part assign’d? Ah, No! she scorns the trappings of her Art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart! But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Is here no other actress? let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Know every Woman studies stage-effect. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. First, how her little breast with triumph swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the _rage_, Along the carpet’s many-colour’d stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there—in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father’s gout, and mother’s vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp! that _longest_ of perpetual motions! —Till tam’d and tortur’d into foreign graces, She sports her lovely face at public places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor, MAN. Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain’d, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain’d! Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set PORTLAND-PLACE on fire; Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, A Meteor, trac’d by none, tho’ seen by all; And, when her shatter’d nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen—rehearse the girls at home. Last the grey Dowager, in antient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle Knelt for a look, and duell’d for a smile. The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, ‘nodding to its fall!’ Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns controul, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chain’d by coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! —And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage—thro’ every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir’d! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspir’d? _Thus_ from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, uncheck’d, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears—to you she owes.

[1] After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795.

To - - - - -

Go—you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away. There’s such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay.

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy.

THE SAILOR.

The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, As all its lessening turrets bluely fade; He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recall’d and cherish’d in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view; Its colours mellow’d, not impair’d, by time,

True as the needle, homeward points his heart, Thro’ all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life depart, To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or Eve’s grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, Still, still he views the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o’er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul.

Carv’d is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plaintain-forest, waving wide; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o’er-arch the golden tide.

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! Lo, o’er the cliff what eager figures bend! And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale! In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

—’Tis she, ’tis she herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl’d; Soon thro’ the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

TO AN OLD OAK.

Immota manet; multosque nepotes,
Multa virûm volvens durando sæcula, vincit.

VIRG.

Round thee, alas, no shadows move! From thee no sacred murmurs breathe! Yet within thee, thyself a grove, Once did the eagle scream above, And the wolf howl beneath.

There once the steel-clad knight reclin’d, His sable plumage tempest-toss’d; And, as the death-bell smote the wind, From towers long fled by human kind, His brow the hero cross’d!

Then Culture came, and days serene, And village-sports, and garlands gay. Full many a pathway cross’d the green; And maids and shepherd-youths were seen, To celebrate the May.

Father of many a forest deep, (Whence many a navy thunder-fraught) Erst in their acorn-cells asleep, Soon destin’d o’er the world to sweep, Opening new spheres of thought!

Wont in the night of woods to dwell, The holy druid saw thee rise; And, planting there the guardian-spell, Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice!

Thy singed top and branches bare Now straggle in the evening sky; And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the long corse that shivers there Of him who came to die!

FRAGMENTS FROM EURIPIDES.

Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees; And all, who know it, come and come again. The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon, Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers, As in the shining grass she sate conceal’d, Sing to herself.

There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. The village-girls, singing wild madrigals, Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her. Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire, ’Twas heav’n to look upon; and her sweet voice, As tuneable as harp of many strings, At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul!

TWO SISTERS.[1]

Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief, Look in each other’s face, and melt in tears. Well may you shun all counsel, all relief. Oh she was great in mind, tho’ young in years!

Chang’d is that lovely countenance, which shed Light when she spoke; and kindled sweet surprise, As o’er her frame each warm emotion spread, Play’d round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes.

Those lips so pure, that mov’d but to persuade, Still to the last enliven’d and endear’d. Those eyes at once her secret soul convey’d, And ever beam’d delight when you appear’d.

Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew? False were the tints! false as the feverish glow That o’er her burning cheek Distemper threw!

And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves! (Glory and joy reserv’d for you to share.) Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves, Than they, alas! unconscious of her care.

[1] On the death of a younger sister.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

1786.

While thro’ the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!

ON A TEAR.

Oh! that the Chemist’s magic art Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from CHLOE’S eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell— The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul! Who ever fly’st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude controul Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage’s and the poet’s theme, In every clime, in every age; Thou charm’st in Fancy’s idle dream, In Reason’s philosophic page.

That very law[1] which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

[1] The law of Gravitation.

TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST.[1]

Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor? Aëris et lingua sum filia; Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.—AUSONIUS.

Once more, Enchantress of the soul, Once more we hail thy soft controul. —Yet whither, whither did’st thou fly? To what bright region of the sky? Say, in what distant star to dwell? (Of other worlds thou seemst to tell) Or trembling, fluttering here below, Resolv’d and unresolv’d to go, In secret didst thou still impart Thy raptures to the Pure in heart? Perhaps to many a desert shore, Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore; Thy broken murmurs swept along, Mid Echoes yet untun’d by song; Arrested in the realms of Frost, Or in the wilds of Ether lost. Far happier thou! ’twas thine to soar, Careering on the winged wind. Thy triumphs who shall dare explore? Suns and their systems left behind. No tract of space, no distant star, No shock of elements at war, Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire Bore thee amidst the Cherub-choir; And there awhile to thee ’twas giv’n Once more that Voice[2] belov’d to join, Which taught thee first a flight divine, And nurs’d thy infant years with many a strain from Heav’n!

[1] In the winter of 1805.

[2] The late Mrs. Sheridan’s.

FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM.

While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals! O fly—yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.

TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES, COMMONLY CALLED THE TORSO.

And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, (Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurl’d) Still sit as on the fragment of a world; Surviving all, majestic and alone? What tho’ the Spirits of the North, that swept Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept, Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk Deep in the dust mid tower and temple sunk; Soon to subdue mankind ’twas thine to rise. Still, still unquell’d thy glorious energies! Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught[1] Bright revelations of the Good they sought; By thee that long-lost spell[2] in secret given, To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to Heav’n!

[1] In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Julius II, it was long the favourite study of those great men, to whom we owe the revival of the arts, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and the Caracci.

[2] Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may believe an antient epigram on the Gnidian Venus. Analecta Vet. Poetarum, III. 200.

TO ——[1]

Ah! little thought she, when, with wild delight, By many a torrent’s shining track she flew, When mountain-glens and caverns full of night O’er her young mind divine enchantment threw,

That in her veins a secret horror slept, That her light footsteps should be heard no more, That she should die—nor watch’d, alas, nor wept By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.

Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew The kindred, forms her closing eye requir’d. There didst thou stand—there, with the smile she knew. She mov’d her lips to bless thee, and expir’d.

And now to thee she comes; still, still the same As in the hours gone unregarded by! To thee, how chang’d, comes as she ever came; Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!

Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, By the way-side she shed her parting tears— For ever lovely in the light of Youth?

[1] On the death of her sister.

WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.

There, in that bed so closely curtain’d round, Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, A father sleeps! Oh hush’d be every sound! Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away!

He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o’er his smooth and settled pillow rise; Till thro’ the shutter’d pane the morning streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.

On thee, blest youth, a father’s hand confers The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

As on she moves with hesitating grace, She wins assurance from his soothing voice; And, with a look the pencil could not trace, Smiles thro’ her blushes, and confirms the choice.

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame! To thee she turns—forgive a virgin’s fears! To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim; Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears!

At each response the sacred rite requires, From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires; And on her lips the trembling accents die.

O’er her fair face what wild emotions play! What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend! Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, And settled sunshine on her soul descend!

Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought! That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers; And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, Gild the calm current of domestic hours!

THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain’s brow: With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck thro’ the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, lest the air, convuls’d by sound, Rend from above a frozen mass.[1]

The goats wind slow their wonted way, Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Mark’d by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o’er the morning-cloud, Perch’d, like an eagle’s nest, on high.

[1] There are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above. GRAY’S MEM. sect. v. lett.4.

IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET[1]

Love, under Friendship’s vesture white, Laughs, his little limbs concealing; And oft in sport, and oft in spite, Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, Smiles thro’ his tears revealing. But now as Rage the God appears! He frowns, and tempests shake his frame!— Frowning, or smiling, or in tears, ’Tis Love; and Love is still the same.

[1] See Gray’s Mem. sect. II. lett. 30.

ON - - - - ASLEEP.

Sleep on, and dream of Heav’n awhile. Tho’ shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still seem to smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs!—

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, And mantle o’er her neck of snow. Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish—and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast. —And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul, Thy thoughts belong to Heav’n and thee! And may the secret of thy soul Repose within its sanctuary!

TO THE YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY **.

Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal What most her blushes would conceal?[1] Why lift that modest veil to trace The seraph-sweetness of her face? Some fairer, better sport prefer; And feel for us, if not for her. For this presumption, soon or late, Know thine shall be a kindred fate. Another shall in vengeance rise— Sing Harriet’s cheeks, and Harriet’s eyes; And, echoing back her wood-notes wild, —Trace all the mother in the child!

[1] Alluding to some verses which she had written on an elder sister.

AN EPITAPH[1] ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.

Tread lightly here, for here, ’tis said, When piping winds are hush’d around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid. No more in lone and leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; —Gone to the world where birds are blest! Where never cat glides o’er the green, Or school-boy’s giant form is seen; But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing!

[1] Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod.

A WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive’s hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy’d porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were giv’n, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav’n.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my lov’d lute’s romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave, For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd’s horn at break of day, The ballet danc’d in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent green-wood shade; These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

TO THE GNAT.

When by the green-wood side, at summer eve, Poetic visions charm my closing eye; And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, Shift to wild notes of sweetest Minstrelsy; ’Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, Brush from my lids the hues of heav’n away, And all is Solitude, and all is Night! —Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air! No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings, Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful laram flings! —I wake in horror, and ‘dare sleep no more!’

AN INSCRIPTION.

Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate’er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arch’d, and o’erwrought with many a sacred verse, This iron cup chain’d for the general use, And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were giv’n by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride, ’Twas here she turn’d from her beloved sire, To see his face no more.[1] Oh, if thou canst, (’Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; And may some pious hand with water fill The two small cells scoop’d in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy![2] ————

[1] See an anecdote related by Pausanias. iii. 20.

[2] A Turkish superstition. See Clarke’s Travels, I. 546.

CAPTIVITY.

Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake When the hern screams along the distant lake, Her little heart oft flutters to be free, Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears, Nor mov’d by gold—nor to be mov’d by tears; And terraced walls their black reflection throw On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below.

A CHARACTER.

As thro’ the hedge-row shade the violet steals, And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals; Her softer charms, but by their influence known, Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own.

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND,

SEPTEMBER 1, 1812.

Blue was the loch,[1] the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Where, grey with age, the dial stands; That dial so well-known to me! —Tho’ many a shadow it had shed, Beloved Sister, since with thee The legend on the stone was read. The fairy-isles fled far away; That with its woods and uplands green, Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, And songs are heard at close of day; That too, the deer’s wild covert, fled, And that, the Asylum of the Dead: While, as the boat went merrily, Much of ROB ROY[2] the boat-man told; His arm that fell below his knee, His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. Tarbat,[3] thy shore I climb’d at last, And, thy shady region pass’d, Upon another shore I stood, And look’d upon another flood;[4] Great Ocean’s self! (’Tis He, who fills That vast and awful depth of hills;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, As FINGAL spoke, and OSSIAN sung. Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o’er the glimmering waves we flew. The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. And now the grampus, half descried, Black and huge above the tide; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare, Each beyond each, with giant-feet Advancing as in haste to meet; The shatter’d fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rush’d in vain, Tyrant of the drear domain; All into midnight-shadow sweep— When day springs upward from the deep![5] Kindling the waters in its flight, The prow wakes splendour; and the oar, That rose and fell unseen before, Flashes in a sea of light! Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail Thy flowers, Glenfinart, in the gale; And bright indeed the path should be, That leads to Friendship and to Thee! Oh blest retreat, and sacred too! Sacred as when the bell of prayer Toll’d duly on the desert air, And crosses deck’d thy summits blue. Oft, like some lov’d romantic tale, Oft shall my weary mind recall, Amid the hum and stir of men, Thy beechen grove and waterfall, Thy ferry with its gliding sail, And Her—the Lady of the Glen!

[1] Loch-Lomond.

[2] A famous out-law.

[3] Signifying in the Erse language an Isthmus.

[4] Loch-Long.

[5] A phenomenon described by many navigators.

A FAREWELL.

Once more, enchanting girl, adieu! I must be gone while yet I may, Oft shall I weep to think of you; But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face. For ever changing, yet the same, Ah no, I dare not turn to trace. It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Yet give me, give me, ere I go, One little lock of those so blest, That lend your cheek a warmer glow, And on your white neck love to rest.

—Say, when to kindle soft delight, That hand has chanc’d with mine to meet, How could its thrilling touch excite A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say—but no, it must not be. Adieu! A long, a long adieu! —Yet still, methinks, you frown on me; Or never could I fly from you.

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov’st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy! —Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept! And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!

VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.[1]

Whoe’er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.[2] There sleeps the dust of Him for ever gone; How near the Scene where once his Glory shone! And, tho’ no more ascends the voice of Prayer, Tho’ the last footsteps cease to linger there, Still, like an awful Dream that comes again, Alas, at best, as transient and as vain, Still do I see (while thro’ the vaults of night The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite) The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle, That, like a Darkness, fill’d the solemn Pile; The illustrious line, that in long order led, Of those that lov’d Him living, mourn’d Him dead; Of those, the Few, that for their Country stood Round Him who dar’d be singularly good; All, of all ranks, that claim’d Him for their own; And nothing wanting—but Himself alone![3] Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name; Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame? Friend of the Absent! Guardian of the Dead![4] Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed? (Such as He shed on NELSON’S closing grave; How soon to claim the sympathy He gave!) In Him, resentful of another’s wrong, The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong. Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew— Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too? What tho’ with War the madding Nations rung, ‘Peace,’ when He spoke, dwelt ever on his tongue! Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, Fearless, resolv’d, and negligently great! In vain malignant vapours gather’d round; He walk’d, erect, on consecrated ground. The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away! When in retreat He laid his thunder by, For letter’d ease and calm Philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent grove, Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan’s smile, the widow’s prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer’s hallow’d page. There, listening, sate the hero and the sage; And they, by virtue and by blood allied, Whom most He lov’d, and in whose arms He died. Friend of all Human-kind! not here alone (The voice, that speaks, was not to Thee unknown) Wilt Thou be miss’d,—O’er every land and sea Long, long shall England be rever’d in Thee! And, when the Storm is hush’d—in distant years— Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears!

[1] After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES FOX on Friday, October 10, 1806.

[2] Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c. Bossuet. Oraison funébre de Louis de Bourbon.

[3] Et rien enfin ne manque dans tons ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.—Ibid.

[4] Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802.

THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS.

CHI SE’ TU, CHE VIENI——? DA ME STESSO NON VEGNO.

DANTE.

I have seen the day, That I have worn a visor, and could tell A tale————

SHAKSP.