See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams; Through shadowy brakes light glance the sparkling beams : While, near the secret moss-grown cave, That stands beside the crystal wave, Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed, Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say, How, when" deprest by age, beset with wrongs :' Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse? 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 geous vest. ODE TO INDEPENDENCY. HERE, on my native shore reclin'd, And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside : Draws the long lustre of her silver line, While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper blows, Come to thy vot'ry's ardent prayer, Unsullied honour decks thine open brow, As now o'er this lone beach I stray, Thou heard'st him, goddess, strike the tender string, * Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston-upon-Hull in the year 1620. Soon these responsive shores forgot to ring, And led the war 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes. Pointed with satire's keenest steel, The shafts of wit he darts around; In aweful poverty his honest Muse He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone, Behold, like him, immortal maid, The Muses' vestal fires I bring: Here, at thy feet, the sparks I spread : And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song, "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 At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline; "This fragrant wreath, the Muses' meed, Where never flatt'ry dar'd to tread, Receive, thou favour'd son, at my command, To him, who calls thee his, yet makes thee mine." VOL. IX. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. THE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air, 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 fled;) 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 bell 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. |