The homely beauty of the good old cause | In thee a bulwark of the cause of men; Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And I by my affection was beguiled. And pure religion breathing household-laws. What wonder, if a Poet, now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child.
MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.
Sound, healthy Children of the God of In brightest sunshine bask,-this nipping air,
Are cheerful as the rising Sun in May. What do we gather hence but firmer faith That every gift of noble origin
Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath; That virtue and the faculties within Are vital, and that riches are akin
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death!
ENGLAND! the time is come when thou shouldst wean
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scymetar, a foretaste yields Of bitter change—and bids the Flowers beware; And whispers to the silent Birds, “prepare Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
For me, who under kindlier laws belong To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Through the green leaves, and yon crystal- line sky,
Announce a season potent to renew, 'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,-
Thy heart from its emasculating food; The truth should now be better understood; And nobler cares than listless summer knew. Old things have been unsettled; we have seen Fair seed-time, better harvest might have
But for thy trespasses; and, at this day, If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, Aught good were destined, Thou wouldst step between. England! all nations in this charge agree: But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, Far, far more abject is thine Enemy: Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,
Which, strewn with snow as smooth as Heaven can shed, Shines like another Sun-on mortal sight,
Of thy offences be a heavy weight: Oh grief! that Earth's best hopes rest all Uprisen, as if to check approaching night. And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head- Terrestrial-but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial
ANOTHER year!—another deadly blow! Another mighty Empire overthrown! And we are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. "Tis well! from this day forward we shall
And ye mild seasons-in a sunny clime, YE storms, resound the praises of your King! Midway on some high hill, while Father Time Looks on delighted-meet in festal ring. And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing! Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits,
and flowers, Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers,
And the dire flapping of his hoary wing! Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; Whisper it to the billows of the main,
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. Rise, then, ye votive Towers, and catch a gleam Of golden sun-set-ere it fade and die!
THE Imperial Consort of the Fairy-King Owns not a sylvan bower, or gorgeous cell With emerald floor'd, and with purpureal shell
Ceiling'd and roof'd; that is so fair a thing As this low structure-for the tasks of Spring Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew- tree-bough,
And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, Fine as the Mother's softest plumes allow: I gaze-and almost wish to lay aside Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride!
Strikes through the Traveller's frame with As the cold aspect of a sunless way deadlier chill, Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, Or shining slope where he must never stray; Glistening with unparticipated ray, Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill,— So joys, remembered without wish or will On the crush'd heart a heavier burthen lay, Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind
Quench those felicities whose light I find To fit proportion with my altered state! Burning within my bosom all too late!— O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait; And like mine eyes, that stream with sorrow, blind!
AERIAL Rock-whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight; TO A SNOW-DROP, APPEARING VERY EARLY IN When I look forth to hail the morning-light, Or quit the stars with lingering farewell- how
Shall I discharge to thee a grateful vow?— By planting on thy head (in verse at least, As I have often done in thought) the crest Of an imperial Castle, which the plough Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme! That doth presume no more than to supply A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream
LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
But hardier far, though modestly thou bend Thy front-as if such presence could offend! Who guards thy slender stalk, while, day by day,
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay
The rising sun, and on the plains descend? | What are fears burt voices airy? Accept the greeting that befits a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed
Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; Yet will I not thy gentle grace forget Chaste Snow-drop, vent'rous harbinger of Spring,
And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
TO THE RIVER DERWENT.
AMONG the mountains were we nurs'd, lov'd Stream!
Thou, near the eagle's nest-within brief sail, I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, Where thy deep voice could lull me!-Faint the beam
Of human life when first allowed to gleam On mortal notice.-Glory of the Vale, Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam Of thy soft breath!-Less vivid wreaths en- twined
Nemæan Victor's brow; less bright was worn Meed of some Roman Chief—in triumph borne With captives chain'd, and shedding from his car
The sunset-splendors of a finish'd war Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!
Whispering harm where harm is not, And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
What is glory?-in the socket See how dying tapers fare! What is pride?—a whizzing rocket That would emulate a star.
What is friendship?-do not trust her, Nor the vows which she has made; Diamonds dart their brightest lustre From a palsy-shaken head.
What is truth?-a staff rejected; Duty ?—an unwelcome clog; Joy?-a dazzling moon reflected In a swamp or watery bog;
Bright, as if through ether steering, To the Traveller's eye it shone: He hath hailed it re-appearing- And as quickly it is gone;
Gone, as if for ever hidden, Or misshapen to the sight; And by sullen weeds forbidden To resume its native light. What is youth?-a dancing billow, Winds behind, and rocks before! Age-a drooping, tottering willow On a flat and lazy shore.
What is peace?—when pain is over, And love ceases to rebel, Let the last faint sigh discover
GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready Friend | That precedes the passing knell!
Now that the cottage-spinning-wheel is mute; And Care-a Comforter that best could suit Her forward mood, and softliest reprehénd; And Love-a Charmer's voice, that used to lend,
More efficaciously than aught that flows From harp or lute, kind influence to compose The throbbing pulse,―else troubled without end:
Ev'n Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest From her own overflow, what power sedate On those revolving motions did await Assiduously, to sooth her aching breast; And to a point of just relief-abate The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.
SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN A HERMIT'S CELL.
HOPES what are they?- Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass; Or a spider's web adorning In a strait and treacherous pass.
TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA.
PERHAPS some needful service of the State Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart And his pure native genius lead him back To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses Whom he had early loved. And not in vain Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian | And the broad gulfs I traversed oft-andoft:
There pleasure crowned his days; and all Of every cloud which in the heavens might his thoughts
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. What noble pomp and frequent have not I On regal decks beheld! yet in the end I learn that one poor moment can suffice To equalize the lofty and the low. We sail the sea of life—a Calm One finds, And One a Tempest-and, the voyage o'er, Death is the quiet haven of us all.
If more of my condition you would know, Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang Of noble Parents: sixty years and three Lived I-then yielded to a slow disease.
Destined to war from very infancy Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took In Malta the white symbol of the Cross. Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun Hazard or toil; among the Sands was seen Of Lybia, and not seldom on the Banks Of wide Hungarian Danube 'twas my lot To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. So lived I, and repined not at such fate; That stripped of arms I to my end am brought This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, On the soft down of my paternal home. Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause Thou, loiter not nor halt In thy appointed way, and bear in mind How fleeting and how frail is human life.
Now, Reader, learn from this my fate-To blush for me. how false,
How treacherous to her promise is the World, And trust in God-to whose eternal doom Must bend the sceptred Potentates of Earth.
There never breathed a man who when his life
Was closing might not Toils long and hard.
of that life relate The Warrior will report Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings, Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, Envy, and heart-inquietude, derived From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. I, who on ship-board lived from earliest youth,
Could represent the countenance horrible Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage Of Auster and Bootes. Forty years Over the well-steered Gallies did I rule :- From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
Pause, courteous Spirit!-Balbi supplicates That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer A prayer to the Redeemer of the World. This to the Dead by sacred rights belongs; All else is nothing.-Did occasion suit To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb Would ill suffice, for Plato's love sublime And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite Enriched and beautified this studious mind: With Archimedes also he conversed As with a chosen Friend, nor did he leave Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
Twine on the top of Pindus.-Finally, Himself above each lower thought uplifting, His ears he closed to listen to the song Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old; And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon
A blessed Man! who of protracted days Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; But truly did He live his life.-Urbino Take pride in him;—O Passenger farewell!
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