« FöregåendeFortsätt »
See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams;
That stands beside the crystal wave,
Rise, hallow'd Milton ! rise, and say,
How, at thy gloomy close of day, How, when “ deprest by age, beset with wrongs :" When “fall’n on evil days and evil tongues ;"
When darkness, brooding on thy sight,
Exil'd the sov'reign lamp of light; Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse? What friends were thine, save Mem'ry and the Muse?
Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth
Caught from the stores of ancient truth: Hence all thy classic wand'rings could explore, When rapture led thee to the Latian shore;
Each scene, that Tyber's banks supply'd ;
Each grace, that play'd on Arno's side; The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly: The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky;
Were still thine own; thy ample mind
Each charm receiv’d, retain'd, combin'd. And thence “the nightly visitant,” that came To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame,
Recall’d the long-lost beams of grace,
That whilom shot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gor.
ODE TO INDEPENDENCY.
HERE, on my native shore reclin’d,
Descend, propitious power!
Come to thy vot’ry's ardent prayer,
No zone, thy floating vest;
As now o'er this lone beach I stray,
Far from the busy throng.
* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston-upon-Hull in the year 1620.
Soon these responsive shores forgot to ring,
Pointed with satire's keenest steel,
And shrinks beneath the wound.
Behold, like him, immortal maid,
Propitious wave thy wing,
“ Fond youth! to Marvell's patriot fame,
* See The Rehearsal transprosed, and an account of the effect of that satire, in the Biographia Britannica, art. Marvell.
Led by the moral Muse, securely rove;
“ 'Tis he, my son, alone shall cheer
Thy duteous sorrows shower :
“ This fragrant wreath, the Muses' meed,
Or interest's servile throng ;
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound? It pauses now;
with rising knell, Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound. Yes * * * is dead. Attend the strain,
Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair : For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom ;
(This envy owns, since now her bloom is filed ;) Fair as the forms, that, wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light vision round the poet's head. Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd,
Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise, How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid lustre darted from her eyes! Each look, each motion, wak’d a new-born grace,
That o'er her form its transient glory cast : Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,
Chas’d by a charm still lovelier than the last. That hell again! it tells us what she is :
On what she was no more the strain prolong: Luxuriant fancy, pause : an hour like this
Demands the tribute of a serious song, Maria claims it from that sable bier,
Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head; In still small whispers to reflection's ear,
She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead.