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Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstained and pure,
very moment love and chaste desire
What pity! that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, Should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown! She looks, methinks, Of old Acasto's line ; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; Now to the dust gone down; his houses, lands, And once fair-spreading family, dissolved. 'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat, Urged by remembrance sad, and decent pride, Far from those scenes which knew their better days, His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. Romantic wish! would this the daughter were !
When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto, who can speak The mingled passions that surprised his heart, And through his nerves in shivering transport ran? Then blazed his smothered flame, avowed, and bold; And as he viewed her, ardent, o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once. Confused and frightened at his sudden tears, Her rising beauties flushed a higher bloom, As thus Palemon, passionate and just, Poured out the pious rapture of his soul.
And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains ?
She, whom my restless gratitude has sought,
Here ceased the youth: yet still his speaking eye
[A Winter Landscape.] Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white : 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun Faint from the west, emits his evening ray ; Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The red-breast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, By death in various forms, dark-snares and dogs, They furnish matter for the tragic muse. And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine With friendship, peace, and contemplation joined, Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glistening earth, How many, racked with honest passions, droop With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, In deep retired distress. How many stand Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. Around the deathbed of their dearest friends,
As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man All winter drives along the darkened air,
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, In his own loose revolving fields the swain
That one incessant struggle fender life, Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes,
Vice in his high career would stand appalled, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain;
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid
The consious heart of charity would warm, Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on
And her wide wish benevolence dilate; From hill to dale, still more and more astray, The social tear would rise, the social sigh; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of Refining still, the social passions work.
home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
Hymn on the Seasons. In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his heart ! These, as they change, Almighty Father, these When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned,
Are but the varied God. The rolling year His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Far from the track and blessed abode of man; Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm; While round him night resistless oloses fast,
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every tempest howling o'er his head,
And every sense and every heart is joy. Renders the savage wilderness more wild.
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Of covered pits, unfathomably deep,
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks, Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, Smoothed up with snow; and what is land unknown, By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales. What water of the still unfrozen spring,
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, In the loose parsh or solitary lake,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roller, Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art,
Shade unperceived, so softening into shade;
And all so forming a harmonious whole, With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. Nor wife nor children more shall he behold,
But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze, Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense,
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse,
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Stretched out, and bleaching on the northern blast. Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth, [Benevolent Reflections, from Winter. ']
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend! join, every living soul
One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,
Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms, And all the sad variety of pain.
Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine How many sink in the devouring flood,
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, By shameful variance betwixt man and man. Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven How many pine in want and dungeon glooms; The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. Shut from the common air, and common use
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup And let me catch it as I muse along. Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds,
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze How many shrink into the sordid hut
Along the vale; and thou majestic main, Of cheerless poverty. How many shake
A secret world of wonders in thyself, With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring fall.
Commoved around, in gathering eddies play;
And by their noon-day fount dejected thrown,
Beneath descending hills, the caravan
The impatient merchant, wondering, waits in vain, Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
And Mecca saddens at the long delay.
[The Siberian Exile.]
Our infant winter sinks On nature write with every beam His praise.
Divested of his grandeur, should our eye
Astonished shoot into the frigid zone;
Holds o'er the glittering waste her starry reign.
There, through the prison of unbounded wilds, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns,
Barred by the hand of nature from escape, And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song
Strikes his sad eye, but deserts lost in snow; Buret from the groves; and when the restless day, And henvy-loaded groves; and solid floods Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
That stretch athwart the solitary waste
Their icy horrors to the frozen main ;
Save when its annual course the caravan
[Pestilence at Carthagena.]
Wasteful, forth And, as each mingling flame increases each,
Walks the dire power of pestilent disease. In one united ardour rise to heaven.
A thousand hideous fiends her course attend, Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
Sick nature blasting, and to heartless wo
And feeble desolation casting down
Such as of late at Carthagena quenched
The British fire. You, gallant Vernon, saw Por me, when I forget the darling theme,
The miserable scene; you, pitying, saw Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm; Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Saw the deep racking pang, the ghastly form, Of Winter rises in the blackening east
The lip pale quivering, and the beamless eye
Of agonising ships, from shore to shore;
In sad presage, the blank assistants seemed
Silent to ask whom Fate would next demand.
[From the Castle of Indolence.']
Do not complain of this thy hard estate ;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, I cheerful will obey; there with new powers,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go,
And, certes, there is for it reason great; Where universal love not smiles around,
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ;
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, From seeming evil still educing good,
Withouten that would come a heavier bale, And better thence again, and better still,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In infinite progression. But I lose
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, Myself in Him, in light ineffable !
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise.
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. [The Caravan of Mecca.]
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground:
And there a season atween June and May,
Half pranked with spring, with summer half im
browned, And the wide glittering waste of burning sand,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play, Son of the desert ! e'en the camel feels,
Was nought around but images of rest : Shot through his withered heart, the fiery blast. Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; Or from the black-red ether, bursting broad,
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, Sallies the sudden whirlwind. Straight the sands From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ;
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Full in the passage of the vale above,
But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest,
The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease,
Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate,
estate. Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, From all the roads of earth that pass there by ; For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring hill, The freshness of this valley smote their eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh; Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, Ymolten with his syren melody;
While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, And to the trembling chords these tempting verses
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly,
Behold the merry minstrels of the morn,
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale.
Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall
Guile, violence, and murder, seized on man,
Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life
Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea
With me, you need not rise at early dawn,
Or prowl in human courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway.
No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call,
But all is calm, as would delight the heart
Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent ease,
Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense ;
What, what is virtue, but repose of mind,
A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray
gay. The best of men have ever loved repose : They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbittered more from peevish day to day. Even those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away:
So Scipio, to the soft Cumwan shore
But if a little exercise you choose,
Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody.
Oh, grievous folly ! to heap up estate,
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ?
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread,
And everywhere huge covered tables stood,
With wines high flavoured and rich viands crowned ;
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food
Some hand unseen these silently displayed,
Even undemanded by a sign or sound;
You need but wish, and, instantly obeyed,
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale;
Such as of old the rural poets sung,
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale:
And taught charmed echo to resound their smart;
While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace
Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand,
Depainted was the patriarchal age;
What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land,
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage,
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage.
Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed,
Blest sons of nature they! true golden age indeed !
Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls;
Now the black tempest strikes the astonished eyes, il Meantime the master-porter wide displayed
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies;
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies ;
A certain music, never known before,
Here lulled the pensive melancholy mind,
Full easily obtained. Behoves no more,
To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined ;
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined,
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight;
Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine!
Who up the lofty diapason roll
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
Then let them down again into the soul ?
Now rising love they fanned ; now pleasing dole
They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart; (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands a hymn impart :
Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art!
Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore,
In mighty Bagdad, populous and great,
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore;
Cheered the lone midnight with the muse's lore;
Composing music bade his dreams be fair,
And music lent new gladness to the morning air.