Chapter I: Part 1

[** Transcriber Note :-
[oe] ligature in Ph[oe]bus has been replaced with oe. ]

POETRY.

BY THOMAS OLDHAM.

O! should I ever dare profane
With venal touch the hallow'd lyre,
Let me be banish'd from the Muses' train;
Ne'er let me feel their heart-ennobling fire!
Unworthy of a Poet's glorious name,
Let me be doom'd to everlasting shame!

LONDON:
A. H. BAILEY AND CO., 83, CORNHILL;
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, EDINBURGH;
AND CUMMING AND CO., DUBLIN.

MDCCCXL.

H. MERRIDEW, PRINTER, COVENTRY.

PREFACE.

The writer of the following pages has been in the habit, for many years, of amusing himself with the composition of Poetry. Often has he been advised by his friends to publish; and at length, influenced by their persuasion, and feeling a sort of paternal fondness for the offspring of his own brain, he ventures to present this small volume to the notice of the Public.

It contains Poems of many different kinds, composed, of course, in as many varieties of style; and the author has exerted his best endeavours to render them worthy of approbation. The present times--he is well aware--are unfavourable for the publication of poetical works. The booksellers complain generally of the little demand for them. Nevertheless, it is very improbable that Poetry,--if excellent, (as it ought to be to deserve the name,) should ever be totally neglected. The seed of poetic taste is sown by the hand of Nature in the souls of all men; though in a small number only it is by culture brought to maturity.

The author has exalted ideas of Poetry, He deems it--decidedly--the first of the Fine Arts. It is the most intellectual,--the most comprehensive,--the most powerful,--the most delightful,--and, also,--hear it, Utilitarians!--the most useful. In remote antiquity, as is well known, it was chiefly instrumental in teaching and civilising the then-barbarous human race. To lure their wild minds into reflection, it invested truth and morality with the many-coloured garb of Fiction, and introduced them, through their delighted imagination, to their understanding and their heart; while, by the charm of harmonious numbers, it soothed their fierce and licentious passions into submission to the laws of social life. It was believed to have something divine in its nature, and was universally held in the highest veneration. From ancient times, even to this day, it has continued to be a favourite study with many of the most illustrious characters.

Finally,--and let this be for ever remembered, as conferring on it the highest honour! Poetry has been deemed worthy by the Sacred Writers to be made an instrument in the cause of Religion; and by its sublime descriptions it has assisted human imagination in forming grand, and awful conceptions of the Almighty Creator!

Park-Fields, Allesley, near Coventry,
22d January, 1840.

CONTENTS.

Page

The Muse's triumph 1
Elegy on the Death of Chatterton 5
Sylvia's Elegy on her dead Canary-bird 9
To Julia 13
Ditto 15
On seeing Mademoiselle ***** dance, &c. 17
Sonnet, on taking a favourite walk after recovery
from sickness 20
Sonnet, written on my Birth Day 22
Eclogue--Spring 23
Eclogue--Summer 33
Epistle to a Friend 43
To Delille 48
Ode written on the night of the illuminations for
Lord Howe's Victory on 1st June, 1793 51
Ode to Horror 57
Ode to Hope 62
Ode to the Duke of Wellington 66
Description of a Conflagration 80
To Spring 88
To Winter 93
The desperation and madness of Guilt 99
On hearing the Nightingale 103
To Paganini 108
To Fancy 111
A Summer-Evening 116
Prologue 122
Ditto 126
Epilogue 129
Lines on the death of the Rev. Mr. B ***,
supposed to be written by his Sister 134
Lines to an Infidel, &c. 136
Lines on hearing a Young Gentleman, &c. 138
Lines to a Pedantic Critic 140
Lines on Shakspeare 142
Lines on Milton 145
Anacreontic 147
Ditto 149
Ditto 152
Song 157
Ditto 158
Song to Bacchus 159
On seeing the Apollo Belvidere 162
Inscription for ditto 162
Epitaph on Nelson 163
Ditto on Howard 164
Ditto on Voltaire 165
Ditto on Napoleon 166
Ditto on Lord Byron 168
Ditto on Sir Samuel Romilly 170
Ditto on Wilberforce 171
Epitaph 172
Translation from Anacreon 173
Epigrams from 174 to 200

THE MUSE'S TRIUMPH.

What adverse passions rule my changeful breast,
With hope exalted, or by fear deprest!
Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre,
And proudly to poetic fame aspire;
Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines,
And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns.
Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade,
With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade:
'A Poet!'--thus they sneeringly exclaim--
'Well may you court that glorious, envied name;
For, sure, no common joys his lot attend;
None but himself those joys can comprehend.

O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime,
To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme!
Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret,
To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot!
And what, though want and scorn his life assail?
What, though he rave in Bedlam, starve in jail?
Such trifling ills the Bard may well despise;
Sure of immortal honour when he dies.
But, seriously--the advice of friendship hear:
Stop short in your poetical career;
O! quell the frenzies of your fever'd brain,
And turn, at Wisdom's call, to trade and gain,'

Absorb'd in passive sadness, I comply;
Turn from the Muse my disenchanted eye,
And deign to study, as my friends persuade,
The little, money-getting arts of trade.
But soon the Goddess, fired with high disdain
To see me woo the yellow strumpet, Gain,
Resuming all her beauty, all her power,
Returns to triumph in the vacant hour;
Weakly reluctant, on her charms I gaze,
Trembling, I feel her fascinating lays;
Roused from ignoble dreams, my wondering soul
Springs to the well-known bliss, regardless of control.

Say then, ye blind, profane! who dare to blame
The heaven-born Poet, and his thirst of fame;
Ye slaves of Mammon! whose low minds behold
No fair, no great, no good, in aught but gold;
Say! will the Captive of tyrannic sway,
Restored to genial air, and boundless day,
Turn to his dungeon's suffocating night?
Will the proud Eagle, who with daring flight
Sublimely soars against the solar blaze,
And eyes the inspiring God with raptured gaze,
Stoop from his native kingdom in the sky,
To share the breathings of mortality?

How, then, can he, whose breast the Muse inspires,
Restrain his soul, or quench those hallow'd fires?
How can he quit the world of mental bliss,
For all the riches,--miseries!--of this?

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

When to the region of the tuneful Nine,
Rapt in poetic vision, I retire,
Listening intent to catch the strain divine--
What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!

Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes,
Stray the fair daughters of immortal song;
Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries,
And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.

O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo?
Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar?
A solemn pause ensues:--then falters low
The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'

'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour
Saw each poetic star indulgent shine;
E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power,
And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."

'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring;
In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried;
We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing,
And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.

'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind,
Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known;
Taught him to range, by matter unconfined,
And claim the world of fancy for his own.

'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race;
Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul,
Started at once with more than human pace,
And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:

'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth
Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired,
He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth,
The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:

'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast!
The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade;
Soon dire Adversity's relentless host,
Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:

'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn
Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride;
Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn,
Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.

'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair
Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires:
In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear!
Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'

ELEGY,
(WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY.)
SYLVIA ON HER DEAD CANARY-BIRD.

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower,
Where oft I've listened to thy lay,
Forgetting care, while many an hour
In music sweetly stole away;--

There will I bid thy relics rest;
Then sadly sigh my last farewell;
But long, oh! long within my breast
Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.

Still to that spot, now more endear'd,
Shall thy fond mistress oft return,
And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd,
To deck with verse thy simple urn.

'Here lies a bird, once famed to be
Peerless in plumage and in lay;
This was the soul of melody,
And that the golden blush of day.'

'Soon as the Morn began to peep,
While yet with shade her smiles were veil'd,
The sprightly warbler shook off sleep,
And with his song her coming hail'd.'

'His guardian rose, nor scorn'd as mean,
But found it still a pleasing care,
To keep his little mansion clean,
And minister his daily fare.'

'The dewy groundsel was his feast,
Which when the watchful songster view'd,
Straight his loud, thrilling strain he ceased,
And softly chirp'd his gratitude.'

'Then would he peck his savoury treat,--
Turn his head sly, and breathe a note--
Now flutter wild with wings and feet--
Then silent sit--now pour his throat.'

'His playful freaks, his joyous lay,
Well pleased, his mistress would attend;
It call'd affection into play,
And gave to solitude a friend.'

'Thus happily his days he led
Even to the ninth revolving year;
Then Fate, alas! her weapon sped;
And Pity laid his relics here.'

TO JULIA.

Should Phoebus e'er desert my mind,
And should the Nine their aid refuse,
Enchanting Girl! I still could find
A theme in thee, in thee a Muse.

Can Fiction any charms devise
That proudly may with thine compare?
On thee she turns her wondering eyes,
And drops the pencil in despair.

Far sweeter are thy notes to me
Than sweetest poet ever sung;
And true perfection would it be
To sing thy beauties with thy tongue.

Let Phoebus, then, desert my mind!
And let the Nine their aid refuse!
Ever, my Julia! shall I find
In thee a theme, in thee a Muse.

TO JULIA.

Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing
Hush'd is the listening air;
My spirit trembles on the wing,
And no delay can bear.

Those down-cast eyes, that smile supprest,
Thy conscious power betray;
Yet, Siren! grant the bold request;
Come, steal my heart away.

See, see, those ruby lips divide;
An ivory shrine appears;
There Harmony and Love reside,
To ravish mortal ears.

And hark! they from that sweet recess
Breathe their celestial lays;
The enchanting sounds my thought possess
With rapture and amaze.

Still pressing on with strong control
I feel the lavish strain,
Till drunk with bliss, my wilder'd soul
Reels on the brink of pain.

Ah! how could I so rashly dare
Contend with Powers divine?
The pride of victory forbear;
My heart is wholly thine.

ON SEEING MADEMOISELLE ***
DANCE AT THE OPERA IN PARIS.

What fine aerial Shape,
In orient colours dight,
Springs from the world unknown
Upon my wondering sight?

Loosely through various space
The lovely Figure flows,
And leaves the sleeping air
Unconscious as it goes.

Hark! a spontaneous strain
Its fairy gait attends;
In concord every sound
With every movement blends.

Lo, now! the passive Form
Moves as the music leads;
Each motion from each note,
Harmoniously proceeds.

By the same sense, methinks,
At once I hear and see;
And ears and eyes and mind
Are all one harmony.

Along my shivering nerves
The mingled raptures thrill,
And strangely take my soul,
And rule it as they will;

True to the magic force,
That shifts a thousand ways,
An echo, and a shade,
It answers and obeys.

But ah! the charm expires.--
Did Fancy thus deceive?
She smiles, and fondly vain,
Would have me so believe.

SONNET,
ON TAKING A FAVOURITE WALK,
AFTER RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again!
Forbidden long to my desiring sight,
Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain,
I visit ye with fresh, increased delight.

Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb,
The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale;
River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime,
While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil;

And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade
The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear
Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd:
Hail all ye objects to my memory dear!
Once more, to feel the transports ye impart,
Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart.

SONNET,
WRITTEN ON MY BIRTH DAY.

Again has Time his annual circle run,
And April ushers in my natal day:
Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun,
How many a year has swiftly roll'd away!
Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun;
What various colours does the web display!
Some dark, some brighter; ere the work be done
The sadder hues will overshade the gay.
Yet not to Melancholy will I yield;
Against Despondency and Discontent
Still Fortitude and Hope shall keep the field;
Swerving from thee, O Virtue! I repent;
Now! to repel Temptation I am steel'd;
To follow thee I'm resolutely bent.

ECLOGUE.

SPRING.

Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign,
Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray
Primeval nature in his simple lay;
And him of Mantua, in a nicer age,
To form the graces of his artful page;
O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene,
And with thy presence bless the brightening scene;
Now, while I rove his willowy banks along,
With fond intent to wake the rural song,
Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart
The force of nature, and the grace of art.

Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn,
And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn;
The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies
Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise;
The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play,
Waking the flowers to steal new sweets away:
And now with trembling steps, her swain to find,
Fair Delia hastens to the spot assign'd:
Her faithful Colin waits impatient there;
How raptured to regain his long-lost fair!

COLIN.

O happiness!--and am I then so blest?
Or does a heavenly dream possess my breast?
Has not her father sternly bid us part,
And for my rival claim'd his daughter's heart?
Has not my Delia sigh'd the sad adieu?
Have I not long been banish'd from her view?
Away, ye jealous fears! ye sorrows, flee!
This letter, this! revokes the dire decree.
And lo! she comes! she comes! but why so slow,
Pensive, and shy, as if oppress'd with wo?
My Delia!--

DELIA.

Colin! (_They embrace._)

COLIN.

O my Delia! tell,
What dark ideas in thy bosom dwell.
Is not thy letter true? then give thy soul
To love and happiness without control.

DELIA.

O generous Colin! can'st thou, then, forget
The painful past, and love thy Delia yet?
Deem me not faithless; stern parental sway,
Spite of my tears, constrained me to obey.

COLIN.

Faithless? O no! I knew thy father's ire;
Thy filial virtue could not but admire;
Still did I hope, believe, and know thee true:
The pains I suffer'd thou did'st suffer too.
Now weep no more; this bids our sufferings cease,
This letter--heavenly messenger of peace!--
That promises a more propitious fate;
But thou, sweet girl! the same blest news relate;
Chase from thy fancy every shade of fear;
Wipe from thy cheek that ill-beseeming tear;
And tell thy lover all;--he burns to hear.

DELIA.

When Damon first his amorous suit addrest
Thou long had'st reign'd the sovereign of my breast;
My love, my heart, my soul were vow'd to thee,
And none but Colin could have charms for me.
With scorn, thou know'st, his courtship I declined:
O, that my thoughts had sway'd my father's mind!
But Damon's ampler wealth, which I despised,
Too much, alas! my doting father prized.
What were thy words that sad, that trying hour,
When, in submission to paternal power,
I sacrificed the feelings of my heart,
And faltering told thee we were doom'd to part?
'Part!--must we part, my Delia?' did'st thou say,
'Alas! 'tis Virtue's law; we must obey;
But still, to render absence less severe,
Let us, my Love, Hope's pleasing dictates hear.
Little of Damon, yet, thy father knows:
Time his perfidious purpose will disclose;
Then will thy sire his hasty choice repent;
And to our loves, perhaps, may yield consent.
Meanwhile beware, my Delia, O beware!
Lest Damon's arts thine innocence insnare.'
Such were thy parting words. Now, Colin, hear!
Then will thy words prophetical appear.
Each night the favourite of my parents came
To boast the matchless ardour of his flame;
Still did he teaze me with his flattering strain;--
Fool, to suppose his praise could make me vain!
At length a favouring hour the traitor chose,
And dared his wicked purpose to disclose.

COLIN.

Did he? O heaven! the impostor could not dare;
I would, my Love, thy Colin had been there!

DELIA.

Just then, most luckily, my sire returned:
Surprised, enraged, his Damon's guilt he learn'd:
Then banish'd him, (his advocate no more,)
With vengeful threats for ever from his door.

COLIN.

Look! how the glorious Sun, as he ascends,
His radiance o'er the dew-bright earth extends,
While the last fogs of conquer'd night retreat,
And Nature welcomes the reviving heat:
So thy returning smiles, indulgent fair!
Dispel my fears and every jealous care.

DELIA.

No less delight to me thy smiles impart,
Diffusing sunshine through my raptured heart;
Hope, like yon lark, has spread her drooping wings,
And, mounting up to heaven, her carol sings.

COLIN.

Observe, my Love, the beauties of the scene;
The youthful year puts forth its tender green;
Awakened Flora bids her flowerets rise,
Opening their colours to the genial skies;
Winter is fled; fair Spring's melodious voice
Whispers, in every balmy breeze, rejoice!

DELIA.

The sparkling rills dance warbling in their beds;
The trees with gladness lift their fresh, green heads;
From yonder wood responsive cuckoos sing;
The swallow skims the stream, and dips his wing.

COLIN.

Objects and sounds of joy! yet, Delia, these,
Unaided by thy presence, would not please;
Though thousand charms and harmonies unite,
Thy favour only crowns the full delight.

DELIA.

Now, Colin, duty summons me away;
Gladly I would, but must no longer stay.

COLIN.

When duty summons we resist in vain:
Yet tell me, kindest Delia, once again,--
To give me courage unalarm'd to part,
And soothe, till next we meet, my restless heart,--
O tell me art thou now for ever mine?

DELIA.

Yes, Colin, now I am for ever thine.

ECLOGUE.

SUMMER.

DAVID.

My task is done; no further will I mow;
I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow.
Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag!
Badly your practice answers to your brag.

GILES.

Deuce take the scythe! no wonder I am last;
The wonder is I work'd my way so fast;
Sure such another never yet was made;
It's maker must have been a duller blade;
The bungling fool, might I his fault chastise,
Should use it for a razor till he dies.

DAVID.

Ha, ha, well said, young jester; though bereft
Of strength and patience, yet your wit is left.
But come, good friend, to dinner let us go;
Tired are my limbs, my wasted spirits low.

GILES.

Poor David! age is weak, soon jaded out;
I feel, as when beginning, fresh and stout;
Your easy task is ended, therefore dine:
I scorn refreshment till I finish mine.

DAVID.

Then to yon grassy bank I will retreat,
Shaded by willows from the oppressive heat;
There may we dine, and seated all at ease,
Imbibe fresh vigour with the cooling breeze.

GILES.

Curse his old arms! so nimble and so strong;
How calmly did he seem to creep along!
While I for conquest strove with eager pain,
And labour'd, sweated, panted--all in vain!
This awkward tool--yet no defect I see--
The ground uneven--some cause must there be.
He the best mower? let it not be known;
No, crafty Giles, that secret is your own.
Fatigue, thirst, hunger, strongly urge me hence.--
I'll e'en o'ertake him with some fair pretence.

DAVID.

Ha, ha, the foolish vanity of youth,
Such painful efforts to disguise the truth!
Who comes? what, Giles! so quickly change your mind?
Too wise, I thought, to tarry long behind.

GILES.

In one employment when good fellows meet,
They should together toil, together eat.

DAVID.

Here let us sit; against this trunk I'll lean,
You against that; the dinner placed between.

GILES.

Now rest we silent till our meal be done;
While in our ears sweet watery murmurs run.

DAVID.

Right! when the body feels recruited force,
More eloquently will the mind discourse.

GILES.

Now, David, I'll attempt a loftier strain;
Listen, and judge of my poetic vein.
See Phoebus his meridian height attains,
And, like a king, in all his splendour reigns;
Beneath his scorching radiance Nature lies
Feverish and faint; her beauteous verdure dies;
Oppress'd and panting with the sultry heat,
The flocks and herds to shades or streams retreat;
Through the still air no Zephyr dares to play, }
Lest his soft pinion melt in heat away; }
But if, to mitigate the solar ray, }
A lucid cloud should kindly intervene;
Then the glad Zephyrs sport beneath the grateful screen.

DAVID.

How beautiful the thoughts! and how sublime!
Rich is the language, and exact the rhyme.
Inform me, friend, are those fine strains your own?
They rise superior to the rustic tone.

GILES.

Why not be mine? does then the gift of song
To wealth and rank exclusively belong?
Fancy with choice unbribed her few selects,
Nor affluence, nor exalted birth respects;
The kingly mansion she will oft forsake,
Pleased with the shepherd her abode to make:
With me the kind Enchantress long has dwelt;
Long has my soul her inspirations felt.

DAVID.

I once the feelings of a poet knew;
(Though in my best of days no match for you,)
But now my genius yields to conquering time;
Yet still I keep my judgment and my rhyme;
Then what that judgment dictates I declare:
No tuneful shepherd can with you compare;
Although in many a county I have been,
And many a rural poet I have seen.

GILES.

O cease your high applauses, kindest friend!
For sure my merit they must far transcend.
How different men in different ways excel!
My forte is rhyming, your's is mowing well;
And while to me you deign in song to yield,
You bear the scythe triumphant through the field.

DAVID.

That only Youth, whose sweetly-flowing lays,
Resembling your's, deserve the second praise,
Dwelt near this place--or memory I lack--
Yes! now I recollect--five summers back,
When to these parts for harvest-work I came,
How all the fields resounded with his fame.
The Bard I ne'er beheld; but heard the swains
Still, with delight, repeat his peerless strains:
Not less by Fortune, than the Muses, blest,
No cares of life disturb'd his peaceful breast;
For poesy alone his happy soul possest.
Did you not know that youth?

GILES.

Full well I knew;
Nor is he, David, quite unknown to you;--
That Youth am I!--(with what surprize you gaze!)
Then was I blest indeed with golden days;
My parents' only child, at home I dwelt,
Indulged, caress'd, nor cares, nor wishes felt:
How did they joy my verses to peruse!
How praise each effort of my lisping Muse!
Then sweetly glided on the stream of time;
I tended flocks, or meditated rhyme.
Alas! my friend, those blissful hours are o'er,
My then-propitious stars now rule no more.
Long has my Father slept among the dead:--
With his last breath my joys, my hopes all fled.
The wealth he left, which might our woes have eased,
His greedy creditors unpitying seized:
My Mother and myself (our sole resource)
For livelihood to labour took recourse.

DAVID.

Affecting tale! I've heard it with a tear.

GILES.

No longer sit we idly chatting here;
The village clock has struck; come, let us up!
To-night, friend David, we'll together sup.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd?
Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend
Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles,
Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel
His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane
With sacred awe, repentant, to confess
The Son of Venus is indeed a God?
I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd
His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd
And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.

The great, creating Parent, when she breathed
Into thine earthly frame the breath of life,
Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul
Of finer essence, capable to trace,
To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good,
Wherever found, through all her various works.
And is not Woman, then, her fairest work,
Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts
Potent to captivate, and softly rule
The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou,
By partial Nature favour'd from the birth?
Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess
The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf
Through half thy genial season to the voice
Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste
Felicity congenial to thy soul?
This was the secret cause:--inscrutable
To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd
To celibacy, for thyself alone
Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend--
The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast
A visionary flame; for, while retired
In solitude, on classic lore intent,
Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss
Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid,
With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd,
Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope
Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length
She dared to stand on disappointment's verge,
Anticipating such thy future bride.
What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks
Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes,
So darkly bright, should innocently glance,
Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame?
That many a Fair should unregarded pass,
So far unlike the picture in thy mind?
At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld
Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien,
Of artless manners, affable, and gay,
Yet modestly reserved, with native taste
Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart
Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught,
Well-principled in things of prime concern.
Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue
The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd
Upon thy ravish'd view:--'twas She!--'twas She!
Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live;
And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love;
And Nature was obeyed.--

Yet still suspense
Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand
Between the realms of happiness and pain,
Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend!
What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid
With virgin blushes and approving smile
Received thy vows, consented to be thine?

Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot,
Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope
That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill
Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times,
Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend.

TO DELILLE.

Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng
I mark with transport some diviner song;
Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire,
Commanding silence to the vulgar quire;
Apollo smiles, and all the tongues of Fame
Through the poetic realm Delille proclaim.

O let a British Bard, admiring, greet
Thy glorious triumph, and thy praise repeat!
When merit claims the panegyric lay,
Envy he scorns, and joys the debt to pay.
Painter of Nature hail! to thee belong
Unrivall'd talents for descriptive song:
While others, fired with more ambitious views,
Invoke the Epic, or the Tragic Muse,
And, throned in Glory's temple, shine sublime,
Proud of their laurel-wreaths that fear not Time,
Thy Genius fondly stoops to softer themes,
The landscape's beauties--flowers, and groves, and streams,
And round his brows in modest triumph wears
A simple garden-wreath, but ever green, as theirs.

What though, some critics, in their taste severe,
Turn from thy subject a disdainful ear,
Demanding still, their duller minds to strike,
War, passion, plot, surprises--and the like?
Yet will true Taste, that ranges unconfined,
And feels the charms of every various kind,
Oft quit Voltaire, or Corneille, to peruse,
Delille! the milder beauties of thy Muse;
Oft love, with thee, through rural scenes to stray,
And sweetly study Nature in thy lay.

But, ah! what boldness does thy breast inspire?
Say, wilt thou dare to touch the Mantuan lyre?
Long has thy country wish'd that classic spoil,
Yet, of her tongue distrustful, shunn'd the toil;
O cease then!--but thy hand essays the strings,--
Amazement!--Fancy cries, 'tis Virgil sings!
The same thy numbers, so correctly free,
So full of sweetness, full of majesty!

Now, France, exult! nor view with envy more
Surrounding nations rich in Roman lore;
Delille has sung; then glory in his name,
Engraved, immortal, on the rolls of Fame.

ODE

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS FOR
LORD HOWE'S VICTORY ON 1ST JUNE, 1793.

Whence the shouts of public joy,
Whence the galaxies of light,
That strike the deafen'd ear?
That charm the dazzled sight?
While Night, arrested in her highest way,
Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway?
Hark! Fame exalts her voice:--
'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice!
The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave,
Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave;
Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main,
His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.'

Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn!
O fly the giddy train!
From their inhuman transports turn
With pity,--with disdain!
Strip, strip, from Victory the fair disguise,
And let her own dire form appal thine eyes!
Ah, mark her triumphs in yon hideous scene!
Myriads of brother-men untimely slain;
Hear the deep groan, survey the dying mien,
Convulsed with agonies of pain;
And hark! what cries of wretchedness resound
Throughout the troubled air!
Widows and Orphans doom'd a helpless prey
To famine and despair!
And does ambition glory? Oh! the shame!
The direful outrage to the human name!
Nature herself is moved, the blushing stars retire,
And sudden storms denounce high heaven's awaken'd ire.

See the black firmament divide!
The almighty sword, with heavenly lustre bright,
Flashes on the sight
Terrific glory, dazzling mortal pride;
The parted concave closes, while around
Deep, rushing peals resound,
Scatter the clouds, in airy tempest hurl'd,
And shake the solid pillars of the world.
As breathing from the tomb,
A death-like stillness reigns,
Save that in Fancy's jealous ear
A sad, prophetic breeze complains
Of some impending doom,
While every soul is lost in vacancy and fear.

Now while Ambition lies in sleep unblest,
Portentous visions haunt his guilty breast:
Borne on a trophied car, sublime he goes
Amid the gazing crowd,
Who shout his triumphs loud;
With haughty bliss his flatter'd spirit glows:--
Sudden deserted and alone,
Confused, alarm'd, in dreary shades unknown,
He hears the wild waves beat the shore,
The din of battle roar:--
'Tis silence! frowning vengeful from the gloom,
Before his shrinking eyes
Unnumber'd spectres rise,
Point to their bleeding wounds, and sternly curse their doom:
The conscious Murderer starts, the thunders roll,
And hell's dread chaos yawns on his despairing soul.

But when the morn exerts her cheering power,
And guilt-alarming darkness disappears,
Wilt thou, Ambition! slight the warning hour,
And fondly strive to dissipate thy fears?
Yet wilt thou dare fulfil
The madness of thy will?
Kindle round earth the wasteful flames of strife,
And glut the fiends of war with human life?
Then mask with glory's name thy murderous cause,
While fond, deluded mortals shout applause?
Yet madly wilt thou dare?--
Devoted Wretch! forbear!--
Cries of the living, curses of the dead,
Have claim'd thy destined head;
And that same Power, whose mighty hand
Once humbled thine aspiring flight,
And hurl'd thee, with thy rebel band,
Down to the deeps of hell and night,
Now warns no more; that Power no longer spares,
Thy sentence he hath fix'd, thy fate he now prepares.

ODE

TO HORROR.

I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul,
Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw;
Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul,
And let my trembling hand the vision draw.

Lo! what terrific Forms around thee wait,
The monstrous births abhorr'd of Mind and Fate!
Murder, with blood of innocence defiled;
Despair, deep-groaning; Madness screaming wild;
Mid clouds of smoke, the fire-eyed Fury, War,
Through gore and mangled flesh whirl'd in her thundering car;
Plague, sallow Hag! who arms her breath
With thousand viewless darts of death;
And Earthquake, image of the final doom,
That, bursting fierce his anguish'd mother's womb,
Whelms nations in the yawning jaws of night,
And palsies mighty Nature with affright.
Amid that direful band
I see thee, Horror! stand,
With bloodless visage, terror-frozen stare,
Distorted, ice-bound limbs, and bristling hair,
Thy shivering lips bereft of speech and breath,
In monstrous union life combined with death.
I see thee still, O Horror! and in thee
Methinks an image of myself I see;
For, while I gaze with fear-fixed sight,
O Horror! thy Gorgonian might
Turns me to stone: dread tyrant, O forbear!
To view thee I no longer dare.--

I feel my throbbing heart respire.
Again my fancy with unquell'd desire,
O Horror! courts thee, trembling owns thy power.
Come, let us now, at this congenial hour,
While midnight tempests sweep
With bellowing rage the ship-ingulfing deep,
While thunders roar, and livid lightnings blaze,
Let us on that dread, watery chaos gaze.
Or from the peopled vale, below,
Uplooking, see, from lofty Alpine crown,
The rolling mass of snow,
Into a mountain grown,
Rush overwhelming down.
Or let us, in Numidian desert drear,
The roar of prowling beasts, and hiss of serpents hear;
Or bask by blazing city; or explore,
On Etna's brink, the sulphurous mouth of hell,
And hear the fiery flood tempestuous roar,
And hear the damn'd in hotter torments yell.
Or wilt thou, Horror! haunt the villain's breast,
In dismal solitude, by thought opprest;
Where guilty Conscience fetter'd lies,
Turn'd all her shrinking lidless eyes
Full to the blaze of truth's unclouded sun,
And struggles, still in vain, her pangs, herself to shun?
Ah!--now more hideous grows thine air;
With direr aspect ne'er dost thou appear,
To fright weak Beings in this earthly sphere;
Faint semblance of thy most tremendous mien,
As, in Tartarean gulfs of endless night,
By agonizing demons thou art seen:
But oh! what living eye could bear that sight?
To look on it e'en Fancy does not dare.--
Oh! may I ne'er be doom'd to see thee, Horror! there!

ODE

TO HOPE.

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye
New joys, anticipated, ever play;
Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway
The moral elements of life comply;
At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,
And settle into order, beauty, peace;
How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour
Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!
Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,
Invested with her own all-cheering ray,
To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate
Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state,
What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,
Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:
Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,
And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.
From the veil'd awful future, to her view
Scenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose;
With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true,
Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes.

Thou Sovereign of the human soul
Whose influence rules without controul!
Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,
Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrains
The shuddering spirit in his icy chains:
O Hope! be thou for ever near;
Keep the dread tyrant far away,
And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.
Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,
In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,
And fondly passive to thy dictates, deem
Those smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:
Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,
With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,
And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,
Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,
With his well-tempered shield
To brave the threatening field.
Amid that scene of woes and mental strife
Let thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,
Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,
To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.
Do thou her glowing thought possess,
And let her fairy pencil draw,
Free, and unconscious of thy law,
Fair images of Happiness;
Of that celestial form which lives imprest
Indelible, eternal, in thy breast.
E'en in the dead calm of the mind,
When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;
O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,
The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!

ODE

TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

This, this is inspiration's hour!
Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul,
Rouses her every sense, her every power,
And with a force too mighty to controul
Inspires the warm, enthusiastic song:
Now will I sing, O Wellington! of thee;
To thee my plausive strains, of right, belong;
For thee my lyre shall pour its choicest harmony.
Long have I fondly mused the theme sublime;
And from my grateful heart of patriot flame
In secret, offer'd incense to thy name;
But dared not with unhallow'd rhyme
Profane the British Hero's fame.
Thrice welcome this propitious time!
Now, joining with my Country's minstrel-band,
Thy deeds, O Wellington! will I rehearse
In lofty never-dying verse,
To which Britannia's self shall deign
To lend a listening ear,
While in thy military, swift career
Triumphantly she leads thee by the hand,
And proudly thrones thee high in glory's fane.

In yonder eastern climes afar
What dawning light attracts the Muse's eye?--
She feels the influence of her ruling star,
And with an eagle's gaze, an eagle's wings,
As to Apollo's self, transported, springs--
'Tis Wellington in Victory's brilliant car,
Who his triumphal progress has begun;
Around him honour's sun
Shoots forth its orient ray:
In wondering India's sky
He rises like the God of day.
Greet him, O England! greet thy conquering Son!
O! could'st thou but foresee
The events of dark futurity,
How would'st thou, then, adore the name of Wellington!
Know!--he shall soon thy thunders wield
In many a European field,
Confound thy haughty foes with dread amaze,
And fill the dazzled world with his meridian blaze.

To Europe's frighten'd eyes
What scenes of horror rise!
See, from the darkness of the infernal world,
Where with the rebel demons he was hurl'd,
See, Revolution rears his hydra-head!
Ill-fated Gallia is his destined prey.
Thither the Monster makes his furious way;
And with a loud, ferocious yell,
That strikes the earth with dread,
And spreads delight through hell,
He summons all his hideous train,
To strengthen and support his reign.
Broke are the bonds of social life,
All kindred, all domestic ties;
Mid scenes of anarchy and civil strife,
Mid plots, cabals, and murderous rivalries,
Eager for prey, with licence unconfined
Range the fierce Passions of the human mind,
Ambition, Avarice, Anger, Vengeance, Hate:
With frantic men rejoicing devils howl,
And all hell's ravenous blood-hounds barking prowl.
O could oblivion veil that direst page of fate!
The revolutionary storm subsides.--
Lo! now, proud Gallia's Genius towers on high;
O'er half Europa he already strides,
And glorying in his might threats earth and sky;
The neighbouring nations, vanquish'd to his sway,
Like abject slaves his tyrant power obey.
What conqueror leads the Gallic armies on?
Fortune's loved child, Ambition's darling son,
'Tis the French Emperor, great Napoleon:
And subject to his high imperial will,
His warlike marshals his commands fulfil.
What can resist their overwhelming force?
Has Liberty no succour? no resource?
She has! she has! O save her, Wellington!
Ere yet unhappy Spain be forced to yield,
Fly with Britannic forces to the field,
And pluck the noblest palm thou yet hast won.

The memory of Talavera's day
Still strikes our foes with wonder and dismay;
There did the Briton soldier boldly claim
The honour due to his illustrious name.

On Torres-Vedras' height,
Like Jove upon the Olympian steep,
When he defied the Giant-race to fight,
Thy station calmly didst thou keep,
Despite the vengeful threats of boasting France.
How didst thou long to see her powers advance!
But no: the veteran Chief, Massena, fled.
Swiftly thy ardent troops his flight pursue;
His soldiers fall in crowds; Confusion, Fear,
And Slaughter dog them in the rear;
Famine and Desolation meet their van.
Spaniard with Portuguese in vengeance vies;
New toils they still encounter, dangers new,
Thus Fortune's Favourite, this unconquer'd man
Accomplishes his haughty boast:
Home he returns with less than half his host;
His baggage, ordnance, thine, brave Wellington!
And all his wreaths in former warfare won.

So Albion, throned upon her rocky seat,
Sees the proud-swelling billows idly beat;
Resistance needs not their assaults to foil;
Shrinking into themselves, they straight recoil,
Leaving foam, dirt, and sea-weed at her feet.

On Douro's banks
Methinks I view the hostile, threatening ranks;
The Lord of war to battle calls:--
Hark! through the affrighted sky
Bursts the dread cannons' roar;
While thousand slaughterous balls
In vollies whizzing fly.
See, see, the Gallic Captain falls!
His bold achievements now are o'er.
The Britons shout, and rush into the field;
The French dishearten'd yield:
What heaps of wounded, slain,
O'er all the encumber'd plain!
They now resist no more.--
Hail Wellington!
The battle's won!
The voices of Renown the tidings spread:
Exulting England echoes thy applause;
Ambitious Gallia hears thy name with dread;
While European Freedom lifts her head,
And hails the great Defender of her cause.
Hero of England, with admiring eyes
We trace in thee the noble qualities
That constitute the Chief complete:
In others, oft, they singly shine;
In thee they all united meet,
And in one galaxy their rays combine.

Nature has given thee an intrepid heart,
That ever glows with patriotic flame,
And with the impassion'd love of martial fame.
And gifted, too, thou art
With a strong, hardy frame,
Patient of toils and hardships. In thy mind
Deep judgment with sagacity we find;
Coolness and firmness in rare union join'd.
In tactics versed, in all the rules of art,
By long experience taught, thou play'st the Chieftain's part.

Lo, now! in vision rapt, I view
The far-famed plains of Waterloo.
As slowly, dimly dawns the morning-light,
Around the battle-field I cast my sight;
Thrill'd with delight severe, with awe opprest,
My labouring heart throbs wildly in my breast.
Hail fellow-countrymen! I trust in you,
And in your great Commander too;
Hail valiant Britons! hail brave Wellington!
Full many a conquest have ye gain'd;
O! may another, now, be soon obtain'd!
But yonder see the great Napoleon!
Secure of victory he proudly stands,
Surrounded by his choicest veteran bands,
Who welcome with loud shouts their long-loved Chief,
From Elba's isle return'd, from exile brief;
They idolize him as the warrior-God,
And burn with zeal to obey his voice, his nod.
The opponent armies on each other gaze,
And look defiance though the view dismays.

Sudden the French artillery rends the skies;
And the Britannic instantly replies;
Hundreds of brazen throats shoot forth afar
Their iron globes, those thunderbolts of war;
Hundreds of soldiers fall upon the plain;
Some shot, expire; more, wounded, writhe in pain.
The cavalries to combat fiercely dash,
And like two comets 'gainst each other clash;
Horses and men roll mingled on the ground,
Confusion, slaughter, horror all around.
Regiments of infantry form quick the square,
And the fierce-charging horsemen firmly dare;
In vain to break them every means they try,
The troops well-disciplined, the attempts defy.
Long time in dread suspense the strife remains,
While heaps of dead and wounded load the plains.

Angel of Britain! guard our Hero's life!
On that, on that depends the upshot of the fight.
How does Napoleon's soul indignant burn!
Resolving, now, his last resource to try,
And urge his desperate way to victory,
He straight commands a vast, o'erpowering force
Of infantry, artillery, and horse,
The centre of his stubborn foe to turn.
Ah! now tremendous grows the strife,
On either side they war as Furies now;
What deluges of blood! what waste of life!
How will the mighty struggle finish?--how?--
Thank heaven! 'tis o'er,--the French, driven back, retire;
Again I breathe--more freely I respire.
Lo! Bulow with the Prussian force appears!
The British Chief with joy his cannon hears,
And, flush'd with confidence, exulting cries,
We'll conquer yet; advance, my friends, advance!
Shouting they spring upon their enemies;
See, Wellington! the great Napoleon flies!--
Britannia, yet again, has triumph'd over France!

DESCRIPTION OF A CONFLAGRATION.

'Tis night:--the busy, ceaseless noise of day
No more is heard; the now-deserted-streets
Lie dark and silent;--London's weary swarms
Rest in profound repose. Hark! a loud cry
Frightens the silence;--'tis the cry of fire!
I hear the dissonance of rattling wheels,
The tread of hasty feet, the doleful sigh
Of sympathy, and terror's thrilling shriek:--
O mercy heaven!--

Behold the fiery Pest!
See, how the flames climb up the lofty walls,
Involve their prey, and greedily devour:
The crowd exert their efforts to controul
The spreading bane; some labour to supply
The numerous engines; others bear aloft
The pliant tubes, guiding their watery store
Amid the fiercer fire; on ladders some
Ascending, scale the walls, and undeterr'd,
Their dangerous office ply; some wildly haste
To save their properties: 'tis bustle all,
And noisy tumult. Doubtful for a time
The strife remains; where'er the Burning winds
His flamy spires, the well-directed streams,
Incessant spouting, damp the sickening flames,
Repelling their advance; but, oft repulsed,
As oft they rally with recruited strength:
Alternate in the mind rise hope and fear.
Tumbles a roof with clattering noise, the sky
Lightens, a burst of clamour!--all is hush'd
In awful stillness, save that from beneath
The ruins fall'n is heard a muttering sound,
As if the Demon of the element
In indignation menaced dire revenge.
Ah! now, unchain'd by some mysterious Power,
Some Fiend of air, in league with That of fire,
The wind begins to howl; its breath awakes
The sleepy flames;--loud and more loud it howls,
And rushes on them with collected might;
Before the driving spirit burst the flames
In a redoubled tempest, and deride
Opposing man. See! how they proudly toss
Their many heads on high, and through the vault
Of darkness fling a sad, malignant day:
Look! with what fury, what resistless rage,
From street to street the fiery Deluge pours
His rapid billows, swallowing everything
In horrible destruction; lowly roofs,
And gorgeous mansions, lofty spires and domes
Capacious, on whose fair, majestic tops,
As on her throne exalted, Art assumed
Her noblest honours, whose firm pillars braved
Storms, and the still-corroding course of years;
These, these with all their wealth, the various stores
Of luxury and commerce, to the flames
Abandon'd, sink an undefended prey,
Swelling the general wreck; unheeded sink
By their possessors, flying for their lives:
Cries, groans, laments, on every side resound.

Sudden a magazine of nitrous grain
Bursts in a blazing column to the clouds;
The dread explosion shakes the solid ground,
And through the skies in lengthening thunder rolls:
Driven by the furious overwhelming blast
To distance round, the burning fragments fall
On every side; see, see, yon ships catch fire,
Their rigging's in a blaze; affrighted Thames
Shrinks from the sight; his waters cast a gleam
Portentous, dismal, like the light of hell.

Before the Conflagration numbers fly
Frighted, in throngs precipitate, to seek
A refuge in the distant fields secure,
Which, cover'd thick with victims of distress,
Present a wretched world. There Youth, surprised
By hard experience, learns, alas! too soon
The destiny of Man; and from those eyes
Where expectation and unclouded joy
Serenely shone, the streams of sorrow flow:
There helpless Age, robb'd of the scanty means
A life of labour earn'd, driven from his home
To wander, destitute, the vale of years,
Yields to despondence, tears his hoary locks,
Falls on the ground, and eagerly implores
Rest in the grave: there, gazing on the fires,
The tender Mother stands,--her frenzied soul
Glares from her look, her bosom heaves a groan,
She hugs her crying infant to her heart,
Despairing, lost: what countless forms of wo!
Lethargic some, and mute; some, giving loose
To their distracted feelings, rave aloud
In all the clamorous vehemence of grief.

The din subsides;--a voice, distinctly heard,
A frantic voice exclaims, my child! my child!
My child is in the flames!--Oh! horrible!--
What succour? what resource? the roaring wind
More fiercely blows, the Burning pours along,
The skies are lighten'd, Uproar opens wide
His thousand mouths, Danger and Ruin prowl
At large with boundless license, all is doubt
And consternation, one tempestuous sea
Of wretchedness, one chaos of despair.

Seized with wild fear Imagination sees
The elements broke loose, Time on the brink
Of dread Eternity, with all the signs
Of that tremendous period when the dead
Shall rise to judgment--hush'd in solemn awe--
Listening the trump of doom.--

Thus raged the storm,
Till the great God of heaven in mercy bade
The wind be silent, bade the gathering clouds
Pour down abundant rain; the raging Fires,
In prompt obedience to the sovereign will
Of their Creator, dwindled and expired.

TO SPRING.

Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train
That o'er the varying year alternate reign;
Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire,
Fond Nature woos with ever-fresh desire,
Enchanting Spring! O let thy votary's lay
Invite thy angel smile, thy genial sway!

Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart,
Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart:
When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away }
And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray, }
First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display; }
Or when Aurora, to the lark's gay song,
Full of thy spirit, lightly trips along;
With joyful kisses greets the first-born flowers,
And o'er them breathes thy warm, refreshing showers;
Or when, on shadowy pillow in the west,
Fann'd by thy gentlest Zephyrs into rest,
Eve sweetly dozes, whilst, as in a dream,
She sees the glimmerings of the solar beam
O'er the dim landscape languishingly stray,
On ocean's smiling face reflected play,
Fade in the purple ether's darkening hues,
And vernal peace and joy o'er earth diffuse.

More grateful strains, O Spring! thy favours claim,
Shine on thy beauties, and endear thy name.
While Winter's winds thy new-born charms deface,
And the young Year starves in his cold embrace,
The Hours, by stealth advancing, bear away,
And on thy lap, with smiles of pleasure, lay
The shivering Babe; new vigour there he gains,
And spreads thy various treasures o'er the plains.

The joyous Naiades, from their icy bands
Unfetter'd, dance and warble o'er the lands;
The Dryads feel thy genial breath, and raise
Their heads, new-crown'd with leaves, and whisper praise;
The plumy warblers wake their amorous strains;
The herds and flocks sport o'er the fresh, green plains;
Fancy and Hope return the mind to bless,
A paradise she sees and dreams of happiness.

Come, then, indulgent Ruler of the year,
Sweet Spring! to grateful Nature ever dear!
From the blest regions of Elysian day,
Climes favour'd high with thy perennial sway,
O deign to come! and let our raptured eyes
View thee, as through a veil, in these obscurer skies.

Methinks, I see thee coming from afar,
Thy beauty decks Apollo's mounting car;
The tyrant of the north with dazzled sight
Beholds, and, yielding, meditates his flight;
His dread, petrific rod he long has broke,
And freed glad Nature from his icy yoke;
She lifts her head, and hails the approaching hour
When she shall feel thy more propitious power.

O haste thy progress, and exert thy sway!
In all thy charms, on some thrice-hallow'd day,
When the soft-whispering air to Fancy's ears
Wafts the celestial music of the spheres,
While Pleasures, Loves, and Graces round thee fly,
Glide on a sun-beam down the clear, blue sky;
Crown'd with a myrtle-wreath, begin thy reign;
Bid lingering Winter fly with all his train;
Pour forth thy favours o'er this western isle,
And let each grateful eye reflect thy smile.

TO WINTER.