PQ 2080 .H4 E2 Copy 1 m IP yffiifflilliii m WH ,?, 6 ^rS^. Class_ Book. DOBELL COLLECTION */<^rts£^ r( THE SEVENTH CANTO OF THE HENRIADE, TRANSLATED; SOME MINOR PIECES. Hottiron : PRINTED BY W. SIOR, SOUTH ROW, NEW ROAD. 1823. PQzoso .H+Ez Argument Saint Louis transports Henry the Fourth to Heaven, and to the Infernal Regions, and shews him, in the palace of the Destinies, his posterity and the great men that one day will be born in France. 205449 '13 THE HENRIADE. CANTO VII. The all-pitying God, whose mercies never end, To sooth our sorrows, has vouchsafed to send Two gentle spirits to the world's abode, Our dear companions in life's weary road; Treasures in want, supports in all our woes — One Ave call Hope, the other soft Repose. Repose, when weary man, o'erspent with care, Feels his weak limbs refuse his frame to bear, Comes stealing on to suffering nature's aid, Arid on his sorrows casts a lighter shade. Hope fires the breast, and all the soul employs, And while deceitful, brings the truest joys; But to the righteous, when from heaven she flies, She comes not smiling with delusive lies, She brings from God the promise of his love, As pure and stedfast as the God above. Now Louis, filled with deep paternal care, To Henry called this gentle faithful pair : Sleep heard his voice, from her soft murmuring shades, And came in silence to these quiet glades. 4 THE HENRIADE. The winds, when they beheld her, drooped their wings, Bright dreams, hope's offspring, those wild airy things Of night, approached, and on the hero's head, Olive and laurel, with their poppies, shed. St. Louis watched, and stooping gently down, Upon the Victor's temples plac'd his crown. " Reign," said he, " triumph! for in thee I place The hope and glory of my glorious race. But yet my throne is not enough for thee, Of all my gifts, that gift the least should be. A conqueror, a king, gains little praise, Unless enlightened by celestial rays. All these bright joys are but the joys of sense, Of human worth a faithless recompense. A fitful blaze, by passion blown about, Which danger follows, and which death puts out. I '11 shew thee now, an ancient government, To instruct, more than reward thee, my intent ; Come, follow me, and unknown regions try, Fly even to God, and do thy destiny." He said — and now the saint and hero rise Through the thin air, and soar into the skies, Like shooting stars, or the fork'd lightning bright, That bursts and severs the dark arch of night, Or like the brilliant cloud that downward came To inclose Elijah in its folds of flame, And, in a car of light, the Prophet whirl'd Far from the gaze of this dull wond'ring world. THE HENRIADE. Where those great orbs in endless circuit go, Whose movements and whose distances we know. There, in the centre, shines the orb of day, He turns for ever, lit by God's own ray, And pours upon the air a flood of fire, With him we live, without him we expire: He gives around, all seasons, and all time To the globes floating in the vast sublime. These globes, dependant on eternal laws, Approach, and leave each other, without pause: Each owing light to Him, the light and soul, Lights in its turn, and regulates the whole. But, far beyond, and in the deeper blue, God never tires his wonders to renew; Where worlds on worlds in countless order lie, Sun after sun illumes his glorious sky, And far above them all resides the Deity. The King was wafted to that holy place Where souls repose to people earth and space, And where, when we have spurn'd this load of clay, Our souls will flourish in eternal day. A righteous Judge sits there, and views beneath A crowd of souls, the creatures of his breath; 'Tis God himself, tho' worshipp'd, yet unknown — In what rude ways has piety been shown ! Enthron'd above, he hears our prayers and cries, And views our gross mistakes with lenient eyes, 6 THE HENRIADE. The dismal sketches which our fancy draws Of the pure spirit, of the eternal cause. Near him stands Death, the sullen son of Time, Who hither brings the dwellers of each clime ; The Bonze, the Bramin of the Indian shade, Confucius' followers — all are here convey'd. Those who in Zoroaster's faith expire, An ancient sect, the worshippers of fire ; Those fur-clad men that dwell around the pole, For ever pale, whom icy seas control ; Those who the wastes of the new world defend, All wretched slaves of error without end. The Dervise turns with restless eager air To God's right hand— his prophet is not there. The Bonze, with downcast look and frowning brows, Boasts there, in vain, his torments and his vows. A sudden light breaks in upon their gloom— They wait in silence the eternal doom ; God, whose omniscient eye all doubt resolves, At once condemns them, or at once absolves. Henry approach'd not to the throne, but heard Doom after doom, the irrevocable word Which God pronounces upon all below, And which vain mortals dare to think they know. Is this, thought he, the mercy that we trust ? Are these decrees, or merciful, or just? Does God delight to punish mortals blind To truth, with which he never fill'd their mind ? THE HEIYRIADE. Or will he judge the Heathen, Turk, and Jew, By Christian rules — Avhieh rules they never knew ? No, he that made us would that none should fall, And in the simplest manner speaks to all. The laws of nature has the Lord impress'd, In clearest language upon every breast. He, doubtless, by those laws the pagan tries, And calls the virtuous Turk to Christian skies. Thus thought the hero, and he thought in vain, And to blind reason gave too loose a rein. A voice from God's own throne was heard to roll, And the sky quiver' d to the farthest pole ; A voice like this, in thund'rings went abroad, From Sinai's mount, when nature own'd her God; The saints to hear it ceas'd their holy song, And star and planet echoed it along: — " Mortal, to pride beware how thou attend, Seek to love God, but not to comprehend ; Although unseen, yet let him always live Deep in thy heart. He error doth forgive, But wilful error visiteth in wrath ; Mortal, awake — his beams illume thy path!" It ceased — and Henry, with a rapid fall, Flies to the part where space is lord of all ; A place unsightly, stormy, dark, and rude, Of ancient chaos real similitude ; A sea unsail'd on, and a land uutrod, Lit by no suns, those master-works of God ; o THE HENRIADE. A dismal region, which e'en angels fear, No germ of life was ever planted there ; Death, horrid death, and woe, and pain, Midst deafening noise and wild confusion reign. " What shouts," said Henry, " and what hideous cries, What clouds of smoke, and lurid flames arise ; What monstrous phantoms sport around my head, What gulfs of fire seem opening as I tread!" " My son, the entrance of the abyss you see By justice form'd, the abode of infamy ; Come then with me, the road is broad and good." — - Now before Hell's eternal gates they stood. There lies pale Envy, crouching underneath The bays she withers with her baleful breath ; Bright day offends her, for she loves the gloom. Detesting life, she revels in the tomb! Perceiving Henry, she drew back, and sigh'd. Near her stood sullen self- admiring Pride, And pallid Cowardice, with sunken form, That strives all manly virtue to deform. Ambition, restless, whom no crime deters, Begirt with thrones, and slaves, and sepulchres: Hypocrisy, with soft and downcast eyes, Heaven on her brow, but hell within her lies ; False Zeal, pursuing victims through all times, And Avarice, the parent of all crimes. These savage tyrants of the mind appear, At Henry's sight, abash'd, and struck with fear; THE HENRIADE. They knew him not, their impious band had never Approach'd his soul, to virtue constant ever. " What man is this, who by that saint convey'd, Dares thus torment us in our realms of shade?" The hero pass'd, with cautious steps and slow, And shunn'd the flames that roaring whirl below; The saint was near: — " What is it that I see? Valois, assassin! — is it really he? Oh, father, still he holds the dreadful knife, The council gave him to take Henry's life; While the vile priests, as impious as unjust, Dared soil God's altars with the monster's bust! The League rejoic'd — Rome eulogised the deed — . But here, the villain meets a villain's meed!" " My son, severer laws," the saint replied, " Unhappy kings and princes must abide; Behold these men, once lords of all below, The prouder then, the more degraded now, Doom'd for their crimes to this detested spot, For crimes permitted, or for good forgot ; They lov'd the world, they wish'd awhile to stay, To be ador'd — Death hurried them away. Those sycophants who prais'd them to the skies, Kept humble truth for ever from their eyes. Now truth, aveng'd, is constantly in view, And shews their vices, and their torments too. These conquerors, once clad in armour bright, If truth but speak, now tremble with affright, 10 THE HENRIADE. Pests of the world, who on the nations trod, Now spurn' d and mangled by the wrath of God ! Near these recline those careless easy things, The shame of thrones, with but the name of kings, Whom crowds of lying flatterers surround," — But Henry mark'd the courtiers that abound, Who for vile yellow dross make earth a hell, Greedy of gain, rewards and honours sell, ( Those glorious palms, for which their fathers fought \ and fell. Ye tender minds, who rest on beds of flowers, And pass in gentle peace your smiling hours, Are ye unpitied midst the wicked thrown, Ye, who ne'er wish'd to cause a sigh or groan ? Have ye, unhappy, by one doubt or fear, Wither' d the virtuous fruit of many a year? Now pitying tears flow'd fast from Henry's eyes. " Ah, if," said he, " in this sad place of sighs, The race of man, confounded all, must lie, If our short life, so mix'd with misery, Wilt close to bind us with corroding chains, In this abhorred place of endless pains, Then happy infants, by no cares opprest, Who in your mothers' bosoms sink to rest ; *T were better if the eternal God would free, Man, erring man, from moral agency." " My son," St. Louis said, " do not believe These souls a sentence too severe receive ; THE JHENRIADE. 11 Or that the All- just would willingly degrade, And torture, beings that himself has made; His punishments, though great, a limit know, But unrestrain'd his endless mercies flow. On earth you paint him stern, on vengeance bent, But here he gives a father's chastisement. He mitigates the terrors of his hand, He knows our virtue cannot always stand ; Nor will he punish a few transient joys, With the dark flame, and worm that never dies." He spoke — and both together now advance Straight to the bless'd abodes of innocence. No sullen smoke or lurid flames are there, But bright and freshening shines the azure air. The hero gazed, and then began to feel An unknown joy through all his senses steal. Love, in these climates, all thy influence own, Not that gross love that causes man to groan, But a pure light, a flame of heavenly birth, The rosy child of heaven, unknown on earth ; He warms all bosoms with his gentle fire, They still possess him whom they still desire; In endless hope they find eternal joy, In rest no languor, pleasure no alloy. There reign the virtuous kings of every age, There live true heroes, and the truly sage; There Charlemagne, and Clovis, from the skies, The throne of lilies view with anxious eyes ; 12 THE HENRIADE. Friends in this state were rivals in the other, And here the foeman meets a kindest brother. Louis the twelfth, rememb'ring earthly things, Here legislates for senators and kings; Who, when in happy France he did abide, Sat on his throne with justice by his side ; He mercy lov'd, nor ever did despise To wipe the sorrows from his people's eyes. D'Amboise is near, his faithful counsellor, Who loving France, was dearly lov'd by her ; Friend of his master, who though high he stood, Soil'd not his hands with rapine, or with blood. Oh, ancient days— oh, happy, happy times ; A people glorious — glorious without crimes ! May those bright suns revisit mortal eyes, In beams of joy, and with another Louis rise. Observe those warriors, prodigal of life, Who fought from duty, not from love of strife ; Clisson, La Tremouille, and the brave De Foix, Guesclin, of kings the aid and conqueror, Bayard the good, and the intrepid Joan, England's disgrace, and succour of the throne. These heroes once obtained a mighty name, Like thee, the foremost in the ranks of fame ; Like thee, they virtue made their constant search, But, faithful sons, they lov'd their mother church ; Their docile temper never truth forgot, Their faith was mine, but thine alas is not. THE HENRI ADE. 13 St. Louis sighed— and now they saw the gates Of the stupendous palace of the Fates ; They walked together where the ramparts rise, Whose hundred gates of brass hlaze forth into the skies. Time from this palace, on his wings of night, Goes, and returns, with never-ceasing flight; And, with full hands, upon the earth he throws The good and evil which this world bestows. Here, on an iron stand, the volume lies, Which tells the future of our histories. The eternal hand writes there our hopes and fears, Our feeble pleasures, and our bitter tears. There the bright nymph, impatient Liberty, On earth so haughty, is no longer free ; Prisoner of God, a subject of the skies, (God will subdue, but never tyrannise ;) Obeying him she gratifies her will, And to the fates in fancy dictates still. " My son," said Louis, " hence the grace departs, That fills with thoughts celestial human hearts ; And hence, one day, the message from above Will fly to fill thy soul with holy love. When it will come it is not to be known, That happy day belongs to God alone ; But thou must sink in weakness and in doubt, And in dark paths of error roam about ; And thou must pass through stormy days, and wild, Ere God will style thee his repentant child. 14 THE HENRIABE. Shorten these days, oh, gracious God, and bring Him, soon, beneath the shadow of thy wing. " But, to these walls what crowds their footsteps bend, In entrances and exits without end. You see the portraits that this place adorn — These are the men that one day will be born ; These are the presages of future time, Throughout all ages, and through every clime. The days of man were all by God foreknown Before the world, and graven on his throne. Fate with her finger marks their hour of birth, Their rise, their fall, while dwelling on the earth ; Their changing fortunes, changing with each breath, Their virtues, vices, and at last their death. " Approach, for heaven forbids thee not to see The kings and heroes thy posterity. In order first, is thy imperial son, Who well sustains the kingdom bravely won ; Belgium and Spain will crouch beneath his ire, Although he equal neither son, nor sire." Henry observ'd, where high beside the throne Two mortals sat, majestic and alone; Clothed in the purple of the kings of old, The people chain'd beneath their feet they hold. " Who are these kings, for kings they surely are, By slaves surrounded, and the pomp of war?" THE HENRIADE. 15 u My son," St. Louis then replied, " the name Alone is wanting, but their power the same ; Richelieu and Mazarin, the will of fate Takes from the church, to rule both church and state; Children of fortune and of policy, To their ambition nought appears too high. Richelieu sublime, an unrelenting foe, The other friend in nothing but in show, Crafty, and yielding to life's stormy waves, To rise again, which Richelieu dauntless braves. Of my descendants open enemies, The people hate them, but cannot despise. . In fine, by industry, or by address, They serve their kings, but on the people press. Oh thou, less grand, of less ambitious mind, Second in rank, the best of human kind, Colbert, through thee the daughter of thy toil Abundance will enrich thy native soil ; A people who insult thee, thus to feed With peace and plenty — thou art 'venged indeed ! Like him who, merciful, woidd not refuse To fill with bread the raging, impious Jews. " Oh, heavens ! what crowds of kneeling slaves are here, At this king's feet, whose every look they fear? What vast respect — no king before this day Ere taught his people such respect to pay." Like you, I own he 's all by glory mov'd, More feared, served better, and perhaps less lovM^ 16 THE HENRIADE. His changing fortunes all his soul express, Firm in defeat, but haughty in success ; Alone resisting twenty powers allies, Grand in his life, but grander when he dies. Oh, envied age ! when happy days abound, Oh, age with nature's choicest blessings crown'd* An age in which the arts with splendor rise, An age for ever mark'd in histories. The Muses now in highest glory reign, Dull marble speaks, and canvas lives again. How many sages, in these learned climes, Tell the fix'd stars, their distances and times, Know how the planets in their orbits roll, From nature penetrate to nature's soul; From them dark error flies in mists away, And truth shines cloudless in a blaze of day. And thou, divinest daughter of the sky, Sweet Music, lov'd in Greece and Italy ; In this bright age, thy most melodious strains Bring human ears a balm for human pains. Franks, ye can gain and sing your victories, To crown your brows unnumber'd laurels rise ; Each Bourbon burns for you, and to the combat flies. See Cond6, wreathed in smoke, Avith naked blade, Now terror of his master, now his aid. Cond6's great rival, Turenne, next you see, More wise, less brilliant, and as great as he. Combin'd in Catinat (rare gift) you find Great courage and a philosophic mind. THE HENRIADE. 17 Vauban, with rule and compass in his hand, Derides the cannon of the opposing band; While unthank'd Luxembourg, with blow on blow, Affrights the English and the German foe. Look, in Denain how bravely Villars fights, And hurls the Roman eagle from her rights, According peace, prime actor of the scene, Support of Louis, rival of Eugene. " Who is that youthful prince," the hero cried, So virtuous, so majestic, without pride? With what a careless eye he views the crown, Some secret languor seems to weigh him down ; Some dreadful faintness takes him by surprise, About to mount the throne, he falls, and dies. Midst all the Franks, he is supremely good, And God creates him of thy royal blood. Great God, wilt thou but place in human sight This beauteous flower, and then destroy it quite ; Could he but live, he would this kingdom bless, But France would be too great, too full of happiness. He would sweet peace and plenty entertain, And by his benefits compute his reign ; The realm would love him — but, oh, day of tears ! Ye Franks, fulfilling all your saddest fears, When husband, mother, wife, and son, you find Together in one common tomb consign'd! A feeble scion from the ruins shoots Of that great tree, so mangled at the roots : E 10 THE HENaiADE. The sons of Louis with their father lie, And leave a monarch in his infancy ; Dear, but frail hope, of a distracted throne, Oh, prudent Fleurj, guard him as thy own ,' Conduct his steps, and in safe keeping place This last, this pure deposit, of my race; Teach him, that though a sovereign, the grave Will soon confound him with his meanest slave ; Loving his subjects, let him always own He lives for them, and rules for them alone. France under him resume thy pristine form, Pierce the dull night, and drive away the storm ; Recall the arts, and they will come again, And render homage to thy ancient reign. Ocean inquires from out her sounding caves, Where are thy ships that used to seek her waves From the Black Sea, the Indus, and the Nile, Commerce recalls thee with inviting smile. Keep peace and order; tis enough for thee, The judge and arbiter of Kings to be, Alas, thou know* st the tears that flow from victory Behold that prince, exposed to calumny, Easy, not feeble, generous, and free ; Too fond of pleasure, and of novelties, He shakes the world, while sunk in luxuries. By novel modes, his penetrating sense, Keeps kings at bay, and Europe in suspense. He understands and polishes the arts, Of various genius he takes various parts ; .1 THE HENRIADE. 19 Chief, statesman, soldier, formed alike for each, And though no king, he well a king could teach. Then in a tempest, in the middle air, Appears the standard of the lilies fair ; When suddenly a Spanish troop arise, And wound the German eagle as she flies : " Oh, father, tell me, what are these new mysteries ? " My son, adore the all-wise God, and know, That as all suffer changes here helow, The mighty German race are all departed now. Kneeling, hehold, the ambassadors of Spain Asking a Bourbon king, and not in vain. 'Tis Philip." — At these words, which cares destroy, Henry no longer moderates his joy. " These transports," Louis said, " too wild appear — Fear still, for still you may have cause to fear : 'Tis true from France, Madrid receives a King, But this may on both realms new perils bring. Kings of my blood! Oh, Philip — oh, my son! — France, Spain, continue what you've well begun ; Let no unhappy politics divide Two kings, and nations, now so near allied." He ceas'd — when now, before the hero's eyes A crowd of undistinguished phantoms rise; The brazen gates upon their hinges move, And clouds of darkness hide the realms above. ,1 20 THE IIENRIADE. Aurora blushing lifts her dewy veil, And breathes her spirit on the morning gale ; Dull night to other regions flies away, And dreams and visions brighten into day. The king, awakening, now began to feel A heavenly freshness thro' his senses steal ; His looks inspired respect and holy awe, The people on his brows God's glory saw. Thus when on Sinai's mount th' avenger stood, Where he had been communing with his God ; His bright eyes darted such a dazzling pain, That all the Jews lay prostrate on the plain. 21 TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR TO SHEW HER SOME OF HIS VERSES. Sweet Mary has asked my effusions to see, Can I aught to sweet Mary refuse ; But how dull and how joyless my verses must be, Which, alas ! are in want of a muse. Like a stranger who roams on some desolate shore, Unfriended, unguided, alone ; With no bright eyes to light me — no fair to adore — All my hope, all my ardor is gone. There is one to inspire me, and happy my rhyme With a muse so delightful, so gay ; It would dwell on her soft rosy lips for a time, From her cheek to her hair it would stray. It would bask in the sun of her love-beaming smile, It ne'er from her form would depart; When over her charms it had wander'd awhile, Oh, then, it would fly to her heart. Sweet Mary has asked my effusions to see, Nor will I sweet Mary refuse ; How much brighter and lighter my verses would be, Might I make pretty Mary my muse. 22 TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES ON HER CHARACTER. Oh, Fancy, now come to my aid, Or I swear that, henceforth, on thy shrine No offering of mine shall be laid ; For who has a theme such as mine. A theme that should fill me with joy — Then, fancy, for once let me borrow, And all thy bright colours employ, Or else it will fill me with sorrow. Indeed, I 've a difficult task — But say, do you seriously mean, My fair * * * *, to ask Me to paint what I scarcely have seen ? I can say you are graceful, and tall, But your character, how can I know it ? The sex are sans character all — At least, so 'tis said by the poet. That is not my opinion — yet say, If a man nothing certainly knows, And still has to write, what's the way ? Why what can he do, but suppose. 23 I '11 suppose you an elegant flower, Now scarcely arrived at its prime ; Budding forth with each sun, and each shower, Improving in beauty each time. I '11 call you a portrait so fair, Of which all the features are plann'd ; To be finish'd with cost, and with care, By a skilful and delicate hand. I '11 say you 're a lark, who with song, At earliest dawn seeks the skies ; May no beating tempest, ere long, Repel the poor bird as it flies. You 're a fawn, in the wild woodland scene, Exulting, and fearless, and free; Yet the shaft of the hunter is keen — And, oh, from the cruel hound flee. Dear maid, may I look at this flower, Until in full beauty it shine ; Oh, let me — for 'tis in your power — What joy were then equal to mine. May I look at this portrait so fair, And wait its perfection to see ; Watch the lark as it soars high in air, And the fawn so exulting and free. 24 TO THE SAME YOUNG LADY, AFTER PRESENTING THE AFOREGOING COPY OF VERSES I had really begun to be angry, that day, When, in spite of each frown and each sign, You seem'd so desirous to make a display Of those silly verses of mine. But when you would cease to distress me, you said, And gave me that beautiful hand, The clouds of my anger immediately fled, For who such a pledge could withstand. Besides, 'twas your spirits that put me in pain, Those spirits so charming and gay ; I were cynic indeed, could I dare to complain, Tho' they wander a little astray. The effects of those spirits how can I regret, When you dance — oh, such dancing to view, I could stand still for ever ; but do not forget, We 're not all so exulting as you. And that gentle laugh, as it floats on the air, How it sooths all my senses the while ; Yet, sometimes — oh, sometimes — remember, my fair, That the world is not made of a smile. I once saw a shallop, so gallant and brave, Issue forth with the morn on her course ; The winds seem'd to love her, and whisper the wave, To lend the dear bark all its force : And I saw the same shallop again, homeward bound, That so bravely set forth in the morn, Creeping sadly along, as the night gathered round, With its rigging all shatter'd and torn. But, pardon me, while this dull theme I rehearse, For all that I mean to suppose, Is, a life that like yours has begun in bright verse, May change, ere 'tis long, into prose. TO AN AMIABLE, ACCOMPLISHED, BUT RESERVED YOUNG LADY. Dear Mary, it cannot be wrong, I confess, To be gentle, and modest, and meek ; 'Tis right to be silent, at times — and no less, At times, 'tis becoming to speak. Affectation I do not pretend to admire, Nor yet vanity carried too far ; But is it a cardinal sin to desire To appear to the world what you are. 26 Supposing kind nature have bless 'd you with sense, Or beauty, or knowledge, or worth ; Is it therefore, sweet Mary, a silly pretence, In due season, those gifts to set forth. Or what do you think of the rose of the vale ? — Oh, how sweet, yet how dreadfully vain ! Of the jasmine that strews all its sweets on the gale, You sure would have much to complain. The river of wit, though so flowing and fair, May, I own, be too rapid and full; And learning di splay' d with a great deal of care, Will become very prosy and dull. Nay, the great source itself of light and of love, The sun, may be said to displease; When fainting we feel his hot beams from above, How we sigh for some sheltering trees. But yet do we wish, should he happen to glow A little too fiercely to-day, From the light of his presence for ever to go, From our home and our country away. One word more, dear Mary, and then I have done, Of display be not too much afraid : Permit us to feel the delights of your sun, And then, we will think of your shade. 27 ON BEING ACCUSED OF INCONSTANCY BY A YOUNG LADY. Do not, dearest * * * *, my passion accuse, Or say I 'm in league with a vagabond muse ; Why would you have had her sit silent and sad, Because a fit subject was not to be had. \ subject like that you present to her eyes, At which all the soul of her numbers will rise ; Oh, no, she had sunk into slumber so strong, That you, even you, had not rous'd her to song. I like, it is true, the bright eyes that appear As the stars in the night of my pilgrimage here ; If I'm pleas'd with them all, how much must I love The two that I prize all the others above. I own it, I 've wander'd again, and again, Midst the islands that float on the emerald main, Like Ithaca's son — and have stay'd for a time On each sunny shore, and have sung in each clime ; But none was the island of mountains and streams, Dear Ithaca's coast, that appear' d in my dreams. Farewell to my wand' rings — this prospect will prov The home I 've long sought for, the isle of my love. 28 IN IMITATION OF SHENSTONE. The beautiful season returns, And winter is forc'd to depart; But my bosom incessantly burns, XInassuaged is the pain of my heart. Tho' spring come in covered with flowers, Or summer gay spring should remove, Tho' autumn attended with showers, Or winter return — still I love ! My fair one departs, and my pain I strive, but in vain, to repel; For my fair one, I sigh and complain, Which, alas, I 'm unable to tell. But * * .* suspects not her charms In my breast such a passion could raise ; While I fancy a thousand alarms, One look all my sorrow repays. Like the breeze is my beautiful maid,. That sports the dark poplars among ; Tho' sighs the sad poplars invade, It heeds not, but passes along. I am poor, and the meads, and the plains, And the flocks, and the kine, and the bee, Bring pleasure and plenty to swains — But, alas, they bring nothing to me. Oh, could I in such a bright shower Descend, as the all- potent Jove Descended through Danae's tower, All, then, I might tell her my love. 29 MISFORTUNE. Speak, sons of woe! for ye can best relate The gloomy progress of revolving days; Ye who have known the blank, the chilling blank, When the warm gleam of happiness decays: 'Tis ye, who whistled in the morning's prime, And carroll'd as ye went, a cheerful song, When the glad sun exulting in the east, Awoke the homage of the tuneful throng. 'Tis ye who sadden with the approaching noon, 'Tis ye who sadden as the moments fly, When the clouds gath'ring in the frowning north, The winds resistless burst across the sky. Say, are the winds that burst across the sky ; Say, is the gath'ring tempest to be borne? But can ye bear a crowd of favors lost, The sneers of friends — triumphant envy's scorn? Yes, ye can bear them — though the world is gloom, Through wint'ry wastes a little track is given, Which pouring rain and storms can ne'er efface, A little track that leads direct to heaven. And I have witnessed, though my years are few, Too trusting virtue meet the storms of fate; With nervous arm resist the troubled sea, And the sweet sun of happiness await. 30 I, too, have seen the vessel of my hopes, In gallant trim aproach the destin'd shore ; Now torn and shatter' d by the cruel winds, Still the ship beats, and still the billows roar. Give me that lock of her bright hair, Which I will guard with tend'rest care ; Than gem from earth, than pearl from sea, It shall be far more prized by me. Give me that lock of her bright hair, More worth than present rich and rare ; My softest solace it will prove, Though the dear maid I may not love. And though on her I must not think, Yet shall my spirit never sink ; That lock shall be my stay in strife, In pain, or guilt of after life. Should I be vexed, and worn by foes, That lock shall lull me to repose ; I '11 lay it gently on my breast, And soothe my aching soul to rest. Should I desert truth's beaten way, Or from the path of honour stray ; Or quaffing deep of pleasure's bowl My name with those of sin enrol ; 31 Or should I spurn the mourner's cry, I shall repent, if that be nigh, That sacred lock, and then it may Bring one pure thought of her away. For me, if good or ill betide, That precious lock shall be my guide ; More blest than Berenice's hair, Tho' not in heaven 't will lead me there. TO A LADY WHO WAS VERY KIND TO THE AUTHOR IN HIS CHILDHOOD. There is a morn, and evening too — A morn of gloom, an eve of blue ; A morn in clouds and darkness given, A holy eve of purest heaven : Such was my morning — such your eve — T was yours to joy, 't was mine to grieve: You blest in mind, and blest in life, A happy and an honored wife. I was, in truth, a moody child, My mind o'ergrown with brambles wild ; But you would cheer my pensive hours, And you would strew my way with flowers. 32 Your memory bright, and fancy's ray, My frequent mists could melt away ; Till sitting calm upon your knee, Your smile was every thing to me. But now, at length, when added years Have raised my hopes, and sunk my fears, My gratitude shall still remain, For her who soothed my youthful pain. Oh, yes, I '11 visit oft that pile That did so well my youth beguile ; That sacred pile, whose stately form So well has weather'd out the storm. And though, at times, a breach appear, To raise a sigh, or start a tear ; Yet all within the joy displays, The light, the warmth, of other days. Though I should stray, I '11 never tire To love that form which all admire; And still I '11 think, and hope, and pray, That it may last for many a day. 33 Oh, I will tear myself from grief's dull cave, For I have been too long an inmate there, Sitting and sighing, with a soul not brave Enough to rise, and smile, and seek the joyous air. For I have passed within that hated cell The hours which should to mirth devoted be, The hours of youth — but round me, like a spell, I felt the viewless chains of pale despondency. Hast thou e'er sojourn'd in the vale of care? If not, avoid it — it will blast thy prime ; Depart, and shun it, though it tempt thee fair ; Seek pleasure, toil, the world — seek any thing but crime. Hast thou a musing, melancholy mind, Go not within that soft, alluring shade, Those solemn walks, nor breathe that gentle wind, Which Care to hide his house and doleful cell hath made. Or thou wilt meet pale Misery at the gate ; Within, Despair — whom endless fires do burn ; And Madness last — but thou art now too late ; Thou wert not brave in time — thou never canst return. Rise then at dawn, and brush the early dew, Leap, laugh, and sing — nay, e'en descend to folly ; Change your employ — seek things and faces new — And I will thee ensure from moody Melancholy. 34 EPITAPH ON A MAN OF COARSE MANNERS. A man lies here, of conversation plain, He spoke in brief, and ne'er would speak in vain. His tongue was Briton born — but, for his heart, 'T might be from France, or any other part. Unskill'd was he in those false courtly ways, Where praise is blame, and blame a cloak for praise ; His mind disdain 'd those fascinating rules, So lov'd by women, and so used by fools. Untaught to smile, and fearless to offend, His noble soul no benefits could bend. He ne'er would tell again a thing once told, But weigh'd his words like pennyweights of gold; Ask, beg, intreat him — urge him, or affront — " I 've told you once !" he 'd answer with a grunt : How prudent he, so careful of his breath, Who sav'd in life what he would want in death. His thought was bold, bold speech that thought obeys, And, like our ancient sire's, his one word outweighs Full twenty words of these loquacious days. Read, and reflect, ye complimenting crew, Speak what ye think, and what you speak in few ; Disdain politeness, 'tis a little mind That fears to offend, and wishes to be kind. Be silent when oblig'd — when favors show'r down, Take all you can, but take them with a frown ; Be prudent — know, breath here below is scant, Waste not your words — for he that wastes may want ! 35 HONOR. (Hudibrastic.) Honor's a sound, an empty bubble, xlttended with much toil and trouble. Honor's a bird that to the skies, With self-taught pinions hop'd to rise ; But found her wings of mortal birth, And downward tumbled to the earth. Recov'ring soon from grievous thump, She vow'd no more to stir a stump, T' attempt the pathless fields of air, But make her dwelling where men are. Straight there arose 'mong mortal men Bruises, and thwacks, and combatting ; And all this, for the sake of the bird Who fell on earth, as they had heard. Honor's a landlord, whose tenant's lease is To fight for crown'd heads, or crown pieces. Honor is — lawyers, who delight Their clients to engage in fight : Honor above is used as plural, Now, honor or lawyers shall be dual.* Honor erewhile could not agree With itself, but was at enmity ; So it set forth, to go to France To settle every difference ; * Alluding to a duel that took place near Calais, between two gentlemen learned in the law, some five or six years since. 36 And soon arriv'd in safety over At Calais, whither it shipp'd from Dover. To a plain hard by, with trusty fi'lock, It went, as though 't had been a shycock, 'T was honor made Don Quixotte battle With mighty windmills, and brave cattle; 'T was she that caus'd Sir Hudibras Through villages and towns to pass, T' encounter harms for the Church's cause, The constitution, and the laws; And after divers blows and knocks, 'T was she that set him in the stocks. Honor's the offspring of the Devil, Th' auth'ress and inventress of evil ; And those men whom she, like her sire, Leads in the dirt, she leaves in the mire : Honor's a goddess, plague upon her, For whom men often lose their honor ! Is 't a tear in that soft eye? It is — well, never mind it ; A drop so clear you can't deny 'T will shew a smile behind it. 37 FIRST ODE OF HORACE Maecenas, son of ancient kings, Thou source from whence my honor springs ; My guide, my friend — 'tis strange to see, How much men's habits disagree. One man in sports Olympic feels High joy, to whirl with glowing wheels The dust aloft, and gain the prize, So great that lifts him to the skies. Another grows immensely proud Of civic honors, from the crowd. This man to please, allow him still His own paternal lands to till ; No, not for wealth of Attalus, Would he the stormy ocean cross. The merchant timid, now agrees To leave off risk, and live at ease ; Yet that not long — the love of gain Moves him to try the seas again. See, here is one soft jovial soul, Who hates all toil, but loves his bowl ; Thinks men are for enjoyment made, Of Massic wine, in cooling shade. Many exult in shining arms, The matron's curse, and dire alarms. The huntsman, with his faithful hound, Passes his night on open ground, 38 Reckless — so he his game arouse — Reckless of his unhappy spouse. Thine is the praise and fair renown Of wisdom, and the ivy crown. Me, sportive nymphs and satyrs please, Dancing amid the bowering trees ; Nor let the Muses ever tire, To sound the pipe, or tune the lyre. But, if th' illustrious lyric throng, Thou deign'st to reckon me among; If my attempts you much approve, I 'm number 'd with the gods above ! TU NE QU^SIRIS. Seek not the gift prophane, to read the skies, Leuconoe, to learn thy fate, be wise ; Bear with the ills you have, nor strive to know What winters Jove will grant you here below. If this thy last, whose foaming waves now roar. And chafe the rocks upon the Tuscan shore ; Decant your wine, and in the present joy Let not unquiet cares your thoughts employ : Time, while we speak, invidious flies away — To-morrow's vain — hold fast the present day. 39 EXEGI MONUMENTUM. My fame to future days I 've sent, More durable than monument, Than pyramid more high ; Which neither will the tempests rage, Nor the north wind, nor mould'ring age, Nor moth, nor rust consume. I shall increase in future praise, To me eternity of days Will Libitina spare. While memory of Rome remains, My name shall echo through the plains, Where Aufidus resounds, Where Daunus old is parch' d with thirst, Mine are the honors due — I first Renew'd the Eolian song. My star deserved shall ever shine, Melpomene my brows shall twine With laurels ever young, ■MM ■ Ne3 9*6 tfH wESS wgam A is EfHIig ■ 1 H ■ ■■ Bis H ■ ■■■■ s€ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS i iiiiii ii! 021 100 705 9 f