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 UC-NRLF 
 
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EX LIBRIS lOHANNIS ET 
 MARGARETAE MACKAIL 
 

POEMS. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 riUNTKD BY BHADBUnV AND EVANS, WIIITFFHUHS. 
 (Late T. Davison.) 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR T. CADELLj STRAND ; AND E. MOXON, 
 DOVER-STREET. 
 
 ia34. 
 
o 
 
 Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page, 
 
 Enlighten climes and mould a future age ; 
 
 There as it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraught, 
 
 Dispense the treasures of exalted thought ; 
 
 To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart. 
 
 And bid the tear of emulation start ! 
 
 Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year. 
 
 My life, my manners, and my name endear ; 
 
 And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust, 
 
 Still hold communion with the wise and just ! — 
 
 Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource. 
 
 When thro' the world it steals its secret course. 
 
 Revive but once a generous wish supprest. 
 
 Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest ; 
 
 In one good deed a fleeting hour employ. 
 
 Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy ; 
 
 Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, 
 
 Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here. 
 
 1793. 
 
 W^l^^MO 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Pleasures of Memory 1 
 
 Human Life 61 
 
 An Epistle to a Friend 115 
 
 Jacqueline 137 
 
 Ode to Superstition 157 
 
 Written to be spoken in a Theatre 165 
 
 On . . . asleep 1 69 
 
 From a Greek Epigram 1 70 
 
 From Euripides 170 
 
 From an Italian Sonnet 171 
 
 A Character I7I 
 
 Captivity 172 
 
 A Farewell 1/3 
 
 The Sailor 174 
 
 To an old Oak 176 
 
 To two Sisters 1 79 
 
 On a Tear 180 
 
Vlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To a Voice tluit had been lost 182 
 
 The Boy of Egremond 184 
 
 Written in a sick Chamber 187 
 
 To . . - 188 
 
 To a Friend on his Marriage 189 
 
 To the youngest Daughter of Lady * * 191 
 
 The Alps at Day-break 192 
 
 Written at Midnight 194 
 
 To 194 
 
 To the Torso 195 
 
 A Wish 196 
 
 To the Gnat 198 
 
 An Epitaph on a Robin-Redbreast 199 
 
 An Italian Song 200 
 
 To the Butterfly 202 
 
 Written in the Highlands of Scotland 203 
 
 Inscription in the Crimea 207 
 
 Inscription for a Temple 208 
 
 Written in 1815 209 
 
 Reflections 210 
 
 Written at Dropmore 211 
 
 Written in Westminster Abbey 212 
 
 The Voyage of Columbus 215 
 
THE 
 
 PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 . . . . Hoc est 
 
 Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui. Mart. 
 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Dolce sentier, 
 
 Colle, che mi piacesti, .... 
 Ov' ancor per iisanza Amor mi mena ; 
 Ben riconosco in voi 1' iisate forme, 
 Non, lasso, in me. 
 
 Petrarch. 
 
ANALYSIS OF THE FIRST PART. 
 
 The Poem begins with the description of an ob- 
 scure village, and of the pleasing melancholy which 
 it excites on being revisited after a long absence. 
 This mixed sensation is an effect of the Memory. 
 From an effect we naturally ascend to the cause ; 
 and the subject proposed is then unfolded with an 
 investigation of the nature and leading principles of 
 this faculty. 
 
 It is evident that our ideas flow in continual suc- 
 cession, and introduce each other with a certain de- 
 gree of regularity. They are sometimes excited by 
 sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal opera- 
 tion of the mind. Of the former species is most pro- 
 bably the memory of brutes ; and its many sources 
 of pleasure to them, as well as to us, are considered 
 in the first part. The latter is the most perfect de- 
 gree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. 
 
 When ideas have any relation whatever, they are 
 attractive of each other in the mind ; and the per- 
 ception of any object naturally leads to the idea of 
 another, which was connected with it either in time 
 
6 
 
 or place, or which can be compared or contrasted 
 with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate 
 objects ; hence also, in some degree, the love of our 
 country, and the emotion with which we contemplate 
 the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture 
 directs our thoughts to the original : and, as cold and 
 darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, 
 he, who feels the infirmities of age, dwells most on 
 whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of 
 his youth. 
 
 The associating principle, as here employed, is 
 no less conducive to virtue than to happiness ; and, 
 as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most 
 tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer 
 feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and gene- 
 rous propensity. 
 
 Not confined to man, it extends through all ani- 
 mated nature ; and its effects are peculiarly striking 
 in the domestic tribes. 
 
Twilight's soft clews steal o'er the village-gi'een, 
 With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
 Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet broke, 
 When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
 And games and carols closed the busy day. 
 Her wheel at rest, the mati'on thrills no more 
 With treasured tales, and legendary lore. 
 All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 
8 
 
 All, all arc fled; yet still I liiii;ov here ! 
 What secret charms this silent spot endear? 
 
 Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees, 
 Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 
 That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade. 
 First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
 The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, 
 Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
 When nature pleased, for life itself was new. 
 And die heart promised what the fancy drew. 
 
 See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed, 
 Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, 
 The martin's old, hereditary nest. 
 Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 
 
 As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
 Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
 That hall, where once, in antiquated state. 
 The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
 
 Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung. 
 Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; 
 When round yon ample board, in due degree. 
 We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
 The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest ; 
 And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound ; 
 And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 
 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring ; 
 And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
 Giants and genii chained each wondering ear ; 
 
9 
 
 And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
 
 Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, 
 
 Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood : 
 
 Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour. 
 
 With startling step we scaled the lonely tower ; 
 
 O'er infant innocence to hang and weep. 
 
 Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 
 
 Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye 
 Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high ; 
 Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, 
 And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. 
 
 As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
 Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
 The storied arras, source of fond delight. 
 With old achievement charms the wildered sight ; 
 And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, 
 On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
 The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart. 
 The clock still points its moral to the heart. 
 That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. 
 When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; 
 And has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
 Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time ? 
 That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought. 
 Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought ; 
 Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 
 Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust. 
 Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast. 
 Starting to life — all whisper of the Past ! 
 
 c 
 
10 
 
 As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, 
 What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
 How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 
 We watched the emmet to her grainy nest ; 
 Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, 
 Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! 
 How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, 
 The bark now silvered by the touch of Time ; 
 Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. 
 Thro' sister elms that waved their summer-shade ; 
 
11 
 
 Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, 
 To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! 
 
 Childhood's loved group revisits every scene ; 
 The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green ! 
 Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
 Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. 
 Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, 
 To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
 Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 
 When nature fades, and life forgets to charm ; 
 Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong 
 The sage's precept, and the poet's song. 
 What softened views thy magic glass reveals. 
 When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 
 As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. 
 Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
 Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned 
 Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 
 
 The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey, 
 Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
 Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn. 
 Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn : 
 Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air. 
 When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
 Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 
 Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; 
 And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
 With golden visions, and romantic dreams ! 
 
12 
 
 Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
 The Gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 
 Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe. 
 Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw ; 
 Her moving lips, her cakbon brimming o'er ; 
 The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, 
 Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, 
 From rifled roost at nighdy revel fed ; 
 
13 
 
 Whose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest shade, 
 When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : — 
 And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call, 
 Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. 
 As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
 And traced the line of life with searching view, 
 How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, 
 To learn the colour of my future years ! 
 
 Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast ; 
 This truth once known — To bless is to be blest ! 
 We led the bending beggar on his way, 
 (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey) 
 Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt. 
 And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. 
 As in his scrip we dropt our little store, 
 And sighed to think that little was no more. 
 He breathed his prayer, " Long may such goodness live !" 
 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. 
 Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight, 
 Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. 
 
 But hark ! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell, 
 The church-clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, farewell ! 
 It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace 
 The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. 
 
 On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door, 
 Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, 
 Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, 
 When the heart danced, and life was in its spring ; 
 
14 
 
 Alas ! unconscious of the kindred eartli, 
 That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. 
 
 The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, 
 Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. 
 Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade, 
 He lectured every youth that round him played ; 
 And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay. 
 Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. 
 
 Husli, ye fond flutterings, hush ! while here alone 
 I search the records of each mouldering stone. 
 Guides of my life ! Instructors of my youth ! 
 Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth; 
 Whose every word enlightened and endeared ; 
 In age beloved, in poverty revered; 
 In Friendship's silent register ye live. 
 Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. 
 
 But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep. 
 When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep. 
 What spells entrance my visionary mind 
 With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ? 
 
 Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night 
 Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight ; 
 From whom that musing, melancholy mood 
 W^hich charms the wise, and elevates the good ; 
 Blest Memory, hail ! Oh grant the grateful Muse, 
 Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, 
 To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, 
 And trace its airy precincts in the soul. 
 
15 
 
 Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, 
 Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. 
 Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! * 
 Each stamps its image as the other flies. 
 Each, as the various avenues of sense 
 Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense. 
 Brightens or fades ; yet all, with magic art, 
 Controul the latent fibres of the heart. 
 As studious Prospero's mysterious spell 
 Drew every subject-spirit to his cell ; 
 Each, at thy call, advances or retires. 
 As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. 
 Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
 Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 
 And thro' the fi-ame invisibly convey 
 The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; 
 Man's little universe at once o'ercast. 
 At once illumined when the cloud is past. 
 
 Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; 
 From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. 
 What different spheres to human bliss assigned ! 
 What slow gradations in the scale of mind! 
 Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought ; 
 Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought ! 
 
 * Niimque illic posuit solium, et sua templa sacravit 
 ]\Iens aniiiii : hanc circum colnnit, deiisocjue feruiitur 
 Agmiue notitia.', simulacia(iue teiiuia rerum. 
 
16 
 
 The adventurous boy, that asks his Httle share, 
 And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, 
 Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see 
 The dear abode of peace and privacy ; 
 And as he tui'ns, the thatch among the trees, 
 The smoke's blue \\Teaths ascending with the breeze, 
 The village-common spotted white with sheep, 
 The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep ; 
 All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train. 
 And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. 
 
 
17 
 
 So, wIkmi the mild Tupia dared explore 
 Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, 
 And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale 
 That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail; 
 So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, 
 Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe. 
 And all his soul best loved — such tears he shed. 
 While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. 
 Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, 
 Long watched the streaming signal from the mast ; 
 Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, 
 And fairy-forests fringed the evening-sky. 
 
 So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day. 
 Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. 
 Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height, 
 That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light ; 
 But now the morn with orient hues pourtrayed 
 Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade : 
 All touched the talisman's resistless spring, 
 And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing ! 
 
 Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire. 
 As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. 
 And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth. 
 Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. 
 Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the Pati'iot's sigh ; 
 This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. 
 For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate 
 Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate, 
 
 D 
 
18 
 
 When exile wore his blooming years away, 
 To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, 
 When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause, 
 For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; 
 Glad to return, tho' Hope could grant no more. 
 And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. 
 And hence the charm historic scenes impart ; 
 Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. 
 Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale 
 Glance thro' the gloom, and whisper in the gale ; 
 In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, 
 And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 
 'Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he sought 
 Where Ilium stood, and where Pelides fought. 
 Sate at the helm himself. No meaner hand 
 Steered thro' the waves ; and. when he struck the land. 
 Such in his soul the ardour to explore, 
 PELiDES-like, he leaped the first ashore. 
 'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb 
 We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom : 
 So TuLLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time, 
 On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ; 
 When at his feet, in honoured dust disclosed, 
 The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed. 
 And as he long in sweet delusion hung. 
 Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung; 
 Who now but meets him musing, when he roves 
 His ruined Tusculan's romantic groves ? 
 
19 
 
 In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll 
 His moral thunders o'er the subject soul ? 
 
 And hence that calm delight the portrait gives : 
 We gaze on every feature till it lives ! 
 Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ; 
 And the lost friend still lingers in his shade ! 
 Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, 
 When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep : 
 Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace 
 The father's features in his infant face. 
 The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, 
 Won by the raptures of a game at play ; 
 He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, 
 Forgets his age, and acts again the boy. 
 
 What tho' the iron school of War erase 
 Each milder virtue, and each softer grace ; 
 What tho' the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest 
 Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast ; 
 Still shall this active principle preside, 
 And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. 
 
 The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, 
 Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more. 
 If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild 
 Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, 
 Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, 
 And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. 
 
 Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm : 
 Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ; 
 
20 
 
 Why gi-eat Navarre, when France and freedom bled, 
 
 Souglit the lone limits of a forest-shed. 
 
 When Diocletian's self-corrected mind 
 
 The imperial fasces of a world resigned. 
 
 Say why we trace the labom's of his spade. 
 
 In calm Salona's philosophic shade. 
 
 Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne, 
 
 To muse with monks unlettered and unknown. 
 
 What from his soul the parting tribute drew ? 
 
 What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu ? 
 
 The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast 
 
 Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed. 
 
 Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows 
 Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows ; 
 Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, 
 On every form of varied life imprest. 
 The social tribes its choicest influence hail : — 
 And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, 
 The war-worn courser charges at the sound, 
 And with young vigour wheels the pasture round. 
 
 Oft has the aged tenant of the vale 
 Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale ; 
 Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, 
 From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. 
 When o'er the blasted heath the day declined. 
 And on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind ; 
 Wlien not a distant taper's twinkling ray 
 Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way ; 
 
21 
 
 When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, 
 And the big rain-di-ops told the tempest near ; 
 Then did his horse the homeward track descry, 
 The track that shunned his sad, inquiring eye ; 
 And win each wavering purpose to relent, 
 With warmth so mild, so gently violent. 
 That his charmed hand the careless rein resigned. 
 And doubts and terrors vanished from his mind. 
 
 Recall the traveller, whose altered form 
 Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm ; 
 And who will first his fond impatience meet ? 
 His faithful dog 's already at his feet ! 
 Yes, tho' the porter spurn him from the door, 
 Tho' all, that knew him, know his face no more, 
 His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, 
 With that mute eloquence which passes speech. — 
 And see, the master but returns to die ! 
 Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly ? 
 The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth, 
 The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth. 
 These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave, 
 Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. 
 
 Led by what chart, transports the timid dove 
 The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love ? 
 Say, thro' the clouds what compass points her flight ? 
 Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. 
 Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, 
 Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : — 
 
22 
 
 'Tis vain ! thro' Etlier's pathless wilds she goes, 
 And lights at last where all her cares repose. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest, 
 And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. 
 When, with the silent energy of grief, 
 With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief. 
 Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, 
 To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 
 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye ; 
 Alas ! 'twas thine perchance the first to die. 
 Crushed by her meagre hand, when welcomed from 
 the sky. 
 
 Hark ! the bee winds her small but mellow horn. 
 Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. 
 O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course. 
 And many a stream allures her to its source. 
 'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought. 
 Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, 
 Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; 
 Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
 Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? 
 Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell ? 
 With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue 
 Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew ? 
 Hail, Memory, hail ! thy universal reign 
 Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 
 
THE 
 
 PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Delle cose custode e dispensiera. 
 
 Tasso. 
 
;^5 
 
 >&=-# 
 
 
ANALYSIS OF THE SECOND PART. 
 
 The Memory has hitherto acted only in subservi- 
 ence to the senses, and so far man is not eminently 
 distinguished fi'om other animals : but, with respect 
 to man, she has a higher province ; and is often 
 busily employed, when excited by no external cause 
 whatever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures 
 of art and science, history and philosophy. She co- 
 lours all the prospects of life ; for we can only anti- 
 cipate the future, by concluding what is possible 
 fi'om what is past. On her agency depends every 
 effusion of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort 
 can only compound or transpose, augment or dimi- 
 nish the materials which she has collected. 
 
 When the first emotions of despair have subsided, 
 and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses 
 with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires 
 that noble confidence which results from the con- 
 sciousness of having acted well. When sleep has 
 suspended the organs of sense from their office, she 
 not only supplies the mind with images, but assists 
 in their combination. And even in madness itself, 
 
 E 
 
26 
 
 when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a 
 distempered imagination, slie revives past percep- 
 tions, and awakens that train of thought which was 
 formerly most familiar. 
 
 Nor are we pleased only with a review of the 
 brighter passages of life. Events, the most distress- 
 ing in their immediate consequences, are often che- 
 rished in remembrance with a degi'ee of enthusiasm. 
 
 But the world and its occupations give a mecha- 
 nical impulse to the passions, which is not very fa- 
 vourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in 
 a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is 
 most perfect ; and solitude is her best sphere of ac- 
 tion. With this sentiment is inti'oduced a Tale illus- 
 trative of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sor- 
 row. And the subject having now been considered, 
 so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the 
 Poem concludes with a conjecture that superior beings 
 are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty. 
 
Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
 Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, 
 To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, 
 Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. 
 
 Ages and climes remote to Thee impart 
 What charms in Genius, and refines in Art ; 
 Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, 
 The pensive portress of her holy cell ; 
 Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp 
 Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. 
 
2S 
 
 They in their glorious course the guides of Youth, 
 Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth ; 
 Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught 
 The great in conduct, and the pure in thought ; 
 These still exist, by Thee to Fame consigned, 
 Still speak and act, the models of mankind. 
 
 From Thee gay Hope her airy colouring draws ; 
 And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. 
 From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, 
 Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. 
 
 When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray, 
 And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; 
 When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, 
 Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows : 
 Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night 
 With the mild magic of reflected light. 
 
 The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, 
 Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; 
 Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace 
 Some social scene, some dear, familiar face : 
 And ere, with iron-tongue, the vesper-bell 
 Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell. 
 Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, 
 To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; 
 The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong. 
 Weave the light dance and swell the choral song ; 
 With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, 
 And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, 
 
29 
 
 To each soft note return as soft a siah. 
 
 And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. 
 
 But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, 
 Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. 
 Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, 
 Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. 
 
 From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, 
 And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. 
 Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there ; 
 Mark the fixed gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, 
 The racks of thought, and fi-eezings of despair ! 
 But pause not then — beyond the western wave. 
 Go, see the captive bartered as a slave ! 
 Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds. 
 And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. 
 
 Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, 
 Lo ! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. 
 Her dear delusions sooth his sinking soul, 
 When the rude scourge assumes its base controul ; 
 And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse 
 The full reflection of her vivid hues. 
 'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, 
 Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore ; 
 Beneath his plantain's ancient shade renew 
 The simple transports that with freedom flew ; 
 Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows, 
 And quaff" the palm's rich nectar as it glows ; 
 
30 
 
 The oral tale of elder time rehearse, 
 
 And chant the rude, traditionary verse 
 
 With those, the loved companions of his youth, 
 
 When life was luxury, and friendship truth. 
 
 Ah ! why should Virtue fear the fi-owns of Fate ? 
 Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create ! 
 A little world of clear and cloudless day, 
 Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay ; 
 A world, with Memory's ceaseless sun-shine blest, 
 The home of Happiness, an honest breast. 
 
 But most we mark the wonders of her reign, 
 When Sleep has locked the senses in her chain. 
 W^hen sober Judgment has his throne resigned. 
 She smiles away the chaos of the mind ; 
 And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows. 
 From Her each image springs, each colour flows. 
 She is the sacred guest ! the immortal friend ! 
 Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend. 
 In that dead hour of night to Silence given. 
 Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. 
 
 When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round 
 With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, 
 From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, 
 And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies ; 
 Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, 
 And at his feet the thunder dies away. 
 Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep, 
 Wliile his mule browses on the dizzy steej). 
 
31 
 
 With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees 
 His chikben sport beneath their native trees, 
 And bends to hear their cherub-voices call, 
 O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall. 
 
 But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell ? 
 Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell ? 
 Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain. 
 And mould the coinage of the fevered brain ? 
 
 Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, 
 There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies ! 
 He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought 
 Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; 
 And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw 
 Forms ever fair, creations ever new ! 
 But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of Fame, 
 The spectre Poverty unnerved his fi'ame. 
 Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore ; 
 And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. 
 Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! 
 From the rude wall what bright ideas start ! 
 Even now he claims the amaranthine wTeath, 
 With scenes that glow, with images that breathe ! 
 And whence these scenes, these images, declare. 
 Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair ? 
 
 Awake, arise ! with grateful fervour fraught, 
 Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. 
 He, who, thro' Nature's various walk, surveys 
 The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays ; 
 
32 
 
 Whose mind, prophaned by no unhallowed guest, 
 
 Culls from the crowd the purest and the best ; 
 
 May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime. 
 
 Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime, 
 
 Or wake the Spirit of departed Time. j 
 
 Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, 
 
 A blooming Eden in his life reviews ! 
 
 So rich the culture, tho' so small the space. 
 
 Its scanty limits he forgets to trace. 
 
 But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky. 
 
 Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh ! 
 
 The weary waste, that lengthened as he ran, 
 
 Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span ! 
 
 Ah ! wiio can tell the triumphs of the mind. 
 By truth illumined, and by taste refined ? 
 When age has quenched the eye, and closed the ear, 
 Still nerved for action in her native sphere, 
 Oft will she rise — with searching glance pursue 
 Some long-loved image vanished from her view ; 
 Dart thro' the deep recesses of the past, 
 O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast ; 
 With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, 
 And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. 
 So thro' the grove the impatient mother flies. 
 Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; 
 Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, 
 Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose. 
 
 Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined 
 The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 
 
Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; 
 And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, 
 When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun. 
 He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done. 
 
 Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile ; 
 And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile ? 
 Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich — Go, 
 And own what raptures from Reflection flow. 
 
 Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave ! 
 A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. 
 Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail ! 
 That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. 
 
 
34 
 
 Long have ye lieard the narratives of age, 
 The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage ; 
 Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray 
 Gild the calm close of Valour's various day. 
 
 Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, 
 Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease : 
 A softer tone of light pervades the whole. 
 And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. 
 
 Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 
 Each mountain-scene, majestically rude ; 
 To note the sweet simplicity of life. 
 Far from the din of Folly's idle strife ; 
 Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered 
 That modest stone which pious Pembroke reared; 
 Which still records, beyond the pencil's power. 
 The silent sorrows of a parting hour ; 
 Still to the musing pilgrim points the place, 
 Her sainted spirit most delights to trace ? 
 
 Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride. 
 O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sighed. 
 Thus, thro' the gloom of Shenstone's fairy-grove, 
 Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love. 
 
 As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower 
 Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour. 
 Than when the shades of Time serenely fall 
 On every broken arch and ivied w^all ; 
 The tender images we love to trace. 
 Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! 
 
35 
 
 And as the sparks of social love expand, 
 
 As the heart opens in a foreign land ; 
 
 And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 
 
 The stranger greets each native of his isle ; 
 
 So scenes of life, Avhen present and confest. 
 
 Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; 
 
 Yet not an image, when remotely viewed, 
 
 However trivial, and however rude. 
 
 But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh. 
 
 With every claim of close affinity ! 
 
 But these pure joys the world can never know ; 
 In gentler climes their silver currents flow. 
 Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, 
 When the hushed grove has sung its parting lay ; 
 When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car. 
 Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star ; 
 Above, below, aerial murmurs swell. 
 From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell ! 
 A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light. 
 Stealing soft music on the ear of night. 
 So oft the finer movements of the soul. 
 That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay controul, 
 In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise. 
 And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies ! 
 
 Once, and domestic annals tell the time, 
 (Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) 
 When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw 
 Her richest fragTance, and her brightest hue, 
 
36 
 
 A blithe and blooming Forester explored 
 Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored ; 
 The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, 
 And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood ; 
 Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread, 
 That downward to the night of caverns led ; 
 Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. 
 
 High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, 
 And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows ; 
 Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, 
 Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore ; 
 And thro' the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, 
 Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. 
 
 n ^ 
 
37 
 
 Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, 
 Thro' morn's grey mist its melting colours gave ; 
 And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove 
 Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. 
 
 Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew, 
 From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew ; 
 And day's last sunshine slept along the shore. 
 When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. 
 Imbowering shrubs with verdure veiled the sky. 
 And on the musk-rose shed a deeper die ; 
 Save when a bright and momentary gleam 
 Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream. 
 
 O'er the still lake the bell of evening tolled, 
 And on the moor the shepherd penned his fold ; 
 And on the green hill's side the meteor played ; 
 When, hark ! a voice sung sweetly thro' the shade. 
 It ceased — yet still in Florio's fancy sung. 
 Still on each note his captive spirit hung ; 
 Till o'er the mead a cool, sequestered grot 
 From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. 
 A crystal water crossed the pebbled floor, 
 And on the front these simple lines it bore. 
 
 Hence away, nor dare intrude ! 
 
 In this secret, shadowy cell 
 
 Musing Memory loves to dwell, 
 
 With her sister Solitude. 
 Far from the busy world she flies. 
 To taste that peace the world denies. 
 Entranced she sits ; from youth to age. 
 
38 
 
 Reviewing Life's eventful page ; 
 And noting, ere they fade away, 
 The little lines of yesterday. 
 
 Florid had gained a rude and rocky seat, 
 When lo, the Genius of this still retreat ! 
 Fair was her form — but who can hope to trace 
 The pensive softness of her angel-face ? 
 Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touch impart 
 Those finer features of the feeling heart, 
 Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye, 
 And in the world's contagious climate die ? 
 
 She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there ; 
 Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air 
 Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul ! 
 In every nerve he felt her blest controul ! 
 What pure and white-winged agents of the sky, 
 Wlio rule the springs of sacred sympathy. 
 Inform congenial spirits when they meet? 
 Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet ! 
 
 Florid, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, 
 Till thro' a vista's moonlight-chequered shade. 
 Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, 
 (Their wars suspended, and their councils closed) 
 An antique mansion burst in awful state, 
 A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. 
 Nor paused he there. The master of the scene 
 Saw his light step imprint the dewy green ; 
 And, slow-advancing, hailed him as his guest. 
 Won by the honest warmth his looks expressed. 
 
39 
 
 He wore the rustic manners of a Squire ; 
 Age had not quenched one spark of manly fire ; 
 But giant Gout had bound him in her chain, 
 And his heart panted for the chase in vain. 
 
 Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power ! 
 Winged with delight Confinement's lingering hour. 
 The fox's brush still emulous to wear. 
 He scoured the county in his elbow-chair ; 
 And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound, 
 That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round. 
 
 Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, 
 His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind : 
 And each, with glowing energy pourtrayed. 
 The far-famed triumphs of the field displayed ; 
 Usurped the canvass of the crowded hall. 
 And chased a line of heroes from the wall. 
 There slept the horn each jocund echo knew. 
 And many a smile and many a story drew ! 
 High o'er the heartli his forest-trophies hung. 
 And their fantastic branches wildly flung. 
 How would he dwell on the vast antlers there ! 
 These dashed the wave, those fanned the mountain-air, 
 All, as they froAvned, unwritten records bore 
 Of gallant feats and festivals of yore. 
 
 But why the tale prolong? — His only child. 
 His darling Julia on the stranger smiled. 
 Her little arts a fretful sire to please. 
 Her gentle gaiety, and native ease 
 
40 
 
 Had won his soul ; and rapturous Fancy shed 
 
 Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red. 
 
 But ah ! few days had passed, ere the bright vision fled! 
 
 When Evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue, 
 And her deep shades irregularly threw ; 
 Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove, 
 Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove ; 
 Whence erst the chanted hymn, the tapered rite 
 Amused the fisher's solitary night : 
 
41 
 
 And still the mitred window, richly \\Teatlied, 
 A sacred calm thro' the brown foliage breathed. 
 
 The wild deer, starting thro' the silent glade, 
 With fearful gaze their various course surveyed. 
 High hung in ah' the hoary goat reclined, 
 His streaming beard the sport of every wind; 
 And, wdiile the coot her jet-wing loved to lave, 
 Rocked on the bosom of the sleepless wave ; 
 The eagle rushed from Skiddaw's purple crest, 
 A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest. 
 
 And now the moon had dimmed with dewy ray 
 The few fine flushed of departing day. 
 O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung, 
 And her broad lights on every mountain flung ; 
 When lo ! a sudden blast the vessel blew. 
 And to the surge consigned the little crew. 
 All, all escaped — but ere the lover bore 
 His faint and faded Julia to the shore. 
 Her sense had fled ! — Exhausted by the storm, 
 A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form ; 
 Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired ; 
 'Twas life's last spark — it fluttered and expired ! 
 
 The father strewed his white hairs in the wind, 
 Called on his child — nor lingered long behind : 
 And Florio lived to see the willow wave. 
 With many an evening-whisper, o'er their grave. 
 Yes, Florio lived — and, still of each possessed, 
 The father cherished, and the maid caressed ! 
 
42 
 
 Fov ever would ihe fond enthusiast rove, 
 With Julia's spirit, thvo' the shadowy grove; 
 Gaze with dehght on every scene she planned, 
 Kiss every floweret planted by her hand. 
 Ah ! still he traced her steps along the glade, 
 When hazy hues and glimmering lights beti'ayed 
 Half-viewless forms; still listened as the breeze 
 Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees ; 
 And at each pause her melting accents caught, 
 In sweet delirium of romantic thought! 
 Dear was the grot that shunned the blaze of day ; 
 She gave its spars to shoot a tremfcling ray. 
 The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell, 
 Murmured of Julia's virtues as it fell ; 
 And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone, 
 In Florio's ear breathed language not its own. 
 Her charm around the enchantress Memory threw, 
 A charm that sooths the mind, and sweetens too ! 
 
 But is Her magic only felt below? 
 Say, thro' what brighter realms she bids it flow ; 
 To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere. 
 She yields delight but faintly imaged here : 
 All that till now their rapt researches knew, 
 Not called in slow succession to review ; 
 But, as a landscape meets the eye of day. 
 At once presented to their glad survey! 
 
 Each scene of bliss revealed, since chaos fled. 
 And dawning light its dazzling glories spread; 
 
43 
 
 Each chain of wonders that sublimely glowed, 
 Since first Creation's choral anthem flowed ; 
 Each ready flight, at Mercy's call divine. 
 To distant worlds that undiscovered shine ; 
 Full on her tablet flings its living rays. 
 And all, combined, with blest effidgence blaze. 
 
 There thy bright train, immortal Friendship, soar; 
 No more to part, to mingle tears no more! 
 And, as the softening hand of Time endears 
 The joys and sorrows of our infant-years, 
 So there the soul, released from human strife. 
 Smiles at the little cares and ills of life ; 
 Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers ; 
 As at a dream that charmed her vacant hours ! 
 
 Oft may the spirits of the dead descend 
 To watch the silent slumbers of a friend ; 
 To hover round his evening-walk unseen. 
 And hold sweet converse on the dusky green ; 
 To hail the spot where first their friendship grew. 
 And heaven and nature opened to their view ! 
 Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees 
 A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
 There may these gentle guests delight to dwell. 
 And bless the scene they loved in life so well ! 
 
 Oh thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share 
 From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; 
 With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know 
 The humble walks of happiness below ; 
 
44 
 
 If thy blest nature now unites above 
 
 An angel's pity with a brother's love, 
 
 Still o'er my life preserve thy mild controul, 
 
 Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
 
 Grant me thy peace and purity of mind. 
 
 Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned ; 
 
 Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise. 
 
 Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, 
 
 To meet the changes Time and Chance present, 
 
 With modest dignity and calm content. 
 
 When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, 
 
 Thy meek submission to thy God expressed ; 
 
 When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
 
 A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; 
 
 What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, 
 
 Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? 
 
 The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth. 
 
 The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth ! 
 
 Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhausdess mine 
 From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
 Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
 And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! 
 Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone ; 
 The only pleasures we can call our own. 
 Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, 
 If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
 If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
 Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! 
 
45 
 
 But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
 Snatch the rich rehcs of a well-spent hour ? 
 These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight. 
 Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
 And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
 Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 
 
NOTES 
 
 THE FIRST PART. 
 
 P. 10, 1. 3. 
 
 How qfl, when purple evening tinged the west, 
 Virgil, in one of his Eclogues, describes a romantic 
 attachment as conceived in such circumstances ; and 
 the description is so true to nature, that we must 
 surely be indebted for it to some early recollection. 
 " You were little when I first saw you. You were 
 with your mother gathering fruit in our orchard, and 
 I was your guide. I was just entering my thirteenth 
 year, and just able to reach the boughs from the 
 ground." 
 
 So also Zappi, an Italian Poet of the last Century. 
 " When I used to measure myself with my goat and 
 my goat was the tallest, even then I loved Clori." 
 P. 11, 1. 25 
 Up springs, at evert/ step, to claim a tear, 
 I came to the place of my birth, and cried, " The 
 friends of my Youth, where are they ?" — And an echo 
 answered, " Where arc they ?" From an Arabic IMS, 
 
48 
 
 P. 15, 1. 3. 
 
 ylwake hut one, and lo, what mi/riads rise! 
 When a traveller, who was surveying the ruins of 
 Rome, expressed a desire to possess some relic of its 
 ancient grandeur, Poussin, who attended him, stooped 
 down, and gathering up a handful of earth shining with 
 small grains of porphyry, " Take this home," said he, 
 " for your cabinet ; and say boldly, Qiiesta e Roma 
 Antica." 
 
 P. \Q, 1. 8. 
 The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep; 
 Every man, like Gulliver in Lilliput, is fastened to 
 some spot of earth, by the thousand small threads 
 which habit and association are continually stealing 
 over him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is 
 here alluded to. 
 
 When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to 
 emigrate, " What !" they replied, " shall we say to 
 the bones of our fathers. Arise, and go with us into a 
 foreign land .''" 
 
 P. 17,1.5. 
 So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, 
 See Cook's first voyage, book i. chap. 16. 
 Another very affecting instance of local attachment 
 is related of his fellow-countryman Potaveri, who 
 came to Europe with M. de Bougainville. 
 
 See Les Jardins, chant, ii. 
 P. 17, 1. 13. 
 So Scotia's Queen, ^-c. 
 Elle sc Icve sur son lict, et se met a contempler la 
 France encore, et tant qu'elle peut. Brantome. 
 
p. 17, 1.^1. 
 
 Thus kindred objects liiiidrcd thoitgltls inspire, 
 To an accidental association may be ascribed some 
 of tlie noblest efforts of human genius. The Historian 
 of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire first 
 conceived his design among the ruins of the Capitol ; 
 and to the tones of a Welsh harp are we indebted for 
 the Bard of Gray. 
 
 P. 17, 1. 25. 
 Hence liome-fcll pleasure, c^c. 
 Who can enough admire the affectionate attachment 
 of Plutarch, who thus concludes his enumeration of 
 the advantages of a great city to men of letters ? " As 
 to myself, I live in a little town ; and I chuse to live 
 there, lest it should become still less." 
 
 Vit. Demosth. 
 P. 17, 1. 27. 
 For I his young Foscari, S)'c. 
 He was suspected of murder, and at Venice sus- 
 picion was good evidence. Neither the interest of the 
 Doge, his father, nor the intrepidity of conscious inno- 
 cence, Mdiich he exhibited in the dungeon and on the 
 rack, could procure his acquittal. He was banished 
 to the island of Candia for life. 
 
 But here his resolution failed him. At such a di- 
 stance from home he could not live ; and, as it was a 
 criminal offence to solicit the intercession of any fo- 
 reign prince, in a fit of despair he addressed a letter 
 to the Duke of ]\Iilan, and intrusted it to a wretch 
 whose perfidy, he knew, would occasidii his being re- 
 manded a prisoner to Venice 
 
 11 
 
50 
 
 P. 18, 1. 7. 
 Atul hence the charm historic scciics iinpart ; 
 Whatever withdraws us from the power of our 
 senses ; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the 
 future predominate over the present, advances us in 
 the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and 
 from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may 
 conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground 
 which lias been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. 
 That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would 
 not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose 
 piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Io7ia. 
 
 Johnson. 
 P. 18, 1. 12. 
 And watch and weep in Ei.oisa's cell. 
 The Paraclete, founded by Abelard, in Champagne. 
 
 P. 18, 1. 13. 
 
 'Twas ever thus. YoJing Ammon, when he sought 
 
 Alexander, when he crossed the Hellespont, was in 
 the twenty-second year of his age ; and with what 
 feelings must the Scholar of Aristotle have approached 
 the ground described by Homer in that Poem which 
 had been his delight from his childhood, and which re- 
 cords the achievements of Him from whom he claimed 
 his descent ! 
 
 It was his fancy, if we may believe tradition, to 
 take the tiller from iMencetius, and be himself the 
 steersman during the passage. It was his fancy also 
 to be the first to land, and to land full-armed. 
 
 AlJRIAN, i 11. 
 
.51 
 
 P. 18, 1. 19. 
 As now at ViRGii/s tomb 
 Vows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the reli- 
 gious enthusiast. Silius Italicus performed aimual 
 ceremonies on the mountain of Posilipo; and it was 
 there that Boccaccio, quasi da un divino estro inspi- 
 rato, resolved to dedicate his life to the ]\Iuses. 
 P. 18, 1. 21. 
 So TuLLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time, 
 When Cicero was qusestor in Sicily, he discovered 
 the tomb of Archimedes by its mathematical inscrip- 
 tion. Tusc. Qua?st. V. 3. 
 P. 19, 1. 7. 
 Say why the pensive widow loves to weep. 
 The influence of the associating principle is finely 
 exemplified in the faithful Penelope, when she sheds 
 tears over the bow of Ulysses. Od. xxi. 55. 
 P. 19, 1. 23. 
 If chance he hears the sofig so sweetly wild 
 The celebrated Ranz des Vaches ; cet air si cheri 
 des Suisses qu'il fut defendu sous peine de mort de la 
 jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qu'il faisoit fondre en 
 larmes, deserter on mourir ceux qui I'entendoient, tant 
 il excitoit en eux I'ardcnt desir de revoir leur pays. 
 
 Rousseau. 
 The maladie de pays is as old as the human heart. 
 Juvenal's little cup-bearer 
 
 Suspirat longo noii visam tempore matrem, 
 Et casulam, et notes tristis desiderat boedos. 
 
 And the Argive, in the heat of battle, 
 Diilces inoripiis reininiscitur Argos. 
 
52 
 
 P. 19, 1. 28. 
 Sfii/ why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ; 
 
 This emperor, according to Suetonius, constantly 
 passed the summer in a small villa near Reate, where 
 he Avas born, and to which he would never add any 
 embellishment ; nc quid scilicet oculorum consuehidini 
 deperiref. Suet, in Vit. Vesji. cap. ii. 
 
 A similar instance occurs in the life of the venerable 
 Pertinax, as related by J. Capitolinus. Posteaquam 
 in Liguriam venit, multis agris coemptis, tabernam 
 patcrnam, manenteformd priore, infinitis axliticiis cir- 
 cundedit. Hist. August. 54. 
 
 And it is said of Cardinal Richelieu, that, when he 
 built his magnificent palace on the site of the old 
 family chateau at Richelieu, he sacrificed its symmetry 
 to preserve the room in which he was born. 
 
 Mem. de Mile, de Montpensier, i. 27- 
 
 An attachment of this nature is generally the cha- 
 racteristic of a benevolent mind ; and a long acquaint- 
 ance with the world cannot always extinguish it. 
 
 " To a friend," says John Duke of Buckingham, 
 " I Avill ex2)()se my weakness : I am oftener missing 
 a pretty gallery in the old house I pulled down, than 
 pleased with a saloon which I built in its stead, though 
 a thousand times better in all respects." 
 
 See his Letter to the D. of Sh. 
 
 This is the language of the heart ; and will remind 
 the reader of that good-humoured remark in one of 
 Pope's letters — " I should hardly care to have an old 
 post pulled up, that I remembered ever since I was a 
 child." 
 
53 
 
 The Author <»f Tclenmchus hus illustrated this sub- 
 ject, with equal fancy and feeling, in the story of 
 Alibee, Persan. 
 
 P. 20, 1. 1. 
 Why great Navarre, S^-c. 
 That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry the 
 Fourth of France, made an excursion from his camp, 
 during the long siege of Laon, to dine at a house in the 
 forest of Folambray ; where he had often been regaled, 
 when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese ; and in 
 revisiting which he promised himself great pleasure. 
 
 Mem. de Sully. 
 P. 20, 1. 3. 
 When Diocletian's sclf-correcled mind 
 Diocletian retired into his native province, and there 
 amused himself with building, planting, and gardening. 
 His answer to Maximian is deservedly celebrated. 
 " If," said he, " I could shew him the cabbages which 
 I have planted with my own hands at Salona, he ^\'ould 
 no longer solicit me to return to a throne." 
 
 P. 20, 1. 7- 
 Say, when contentious Charles, 8fc. 
 When the Emperor Charles the Fifth had executed 
 his memorable resolution, and had set out for the mo- 
 nastery of Juste, he stopped a few days at Ghent to 
 indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, which 
 arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, 
 on visiting the place of his birth, and the objects fa- 
 miliar to him in his carlv youth. 
 
54 
 
 P. 20, 1. 8, 
 
 To muse irilh monJi.s, S^-c. 
 
 JMonjes solitarios del glorioso padre San Geroninio, 
 says Sandova. 
 
 In a corner of the Convent- garden there is tliis in- 
 scription. En esta santa casa do S. Geroninio de 
 Jnste se retiro a acabar su vida Carlos V. Emperadur, 
 
 &C. PONZ. 
 
 p. 21, 1. 3. 
 Then (lid his horse the hometvard track descry, 
 The memory of the horse forms the ground-work 
 of a pleasing little romance entitled, " Lai du Palefroi 
 vair." See Fabliaux du XII. Siecle. 
 
 Ariosto likewise introduces it in a passage full of 
 truth and nature. When Bayardo meets Angelica in 
 the forest, 
 
 . . . . Va mansueto a la Donzella, 
 
 Ch'in Albracca 11 servia gia di sua mano. 
 
 Orlando Furioso, i. 75. 
 
 P. 22, 1. 3. 
 
 Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest, 
 During the siege of Harlem, when that city was 
 reduced to the last extremity, and on the point of 
 opening its gates to a base and barbarous enemy, 
 a design was formed to relieve it; and the intelli- 
 gence was conveyed to the citizens by a letter which 
 Avas tied under the wing of a pigeon. 
 
 Thuanus, Iv. 5. 
 
The same messenger was employed at the siege of 
 IMutina. as we are informed by the elder Pliny. 
 
 Hist. Nat. X. 37. 
 P. 22, I. 12. 
 Hark! the bee, Sfc. 
 This little animal, from the extreme convexity of 
 her eye, cannot see many inches before her. 
 
NOTE S 
 
 THE SECOND PART. 
 
 P. 28, 1. 5. 
 
 The fie still exui, S^-c. 
 
 There is a future Existence even in this world, an 
 Existence in the hearts and minds of tliosc who shall 
 live after us. It is in reserve for every man, however 
 obscure ; and his portion, if he be diligent, must be 
 equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance can 
 we wish to hold a place, but such as know, and are 
 known by us ? These are within the sphere of our 
 influence, and among these and their descendants we 
 may live for evermore. 
 
 It is a state of rewards and punishments ; and, like 
 that revealed to us in the Gospel, has the happiest 
 influence on our lives. The latter excites us to gain 
 the favour of God, the former to gain the love and 
 esteem of wise and good men ; and both lead to the 
 same end ; for, in framing our conceptions of the 
 Deity, we only ascribe to Him exalted degrees of 
 Wisdom and Goodness. 
 
57 
 
 P. 31, 1. 19. 
 
 Yet still how sweet the soothi?igs of his art! 
 The astronomer chalking his figures on the wall, in 
 Hogarth's view of Bedlam, is an admirable exemplifi- 
 cation of this idea. See the Rake's Progress, plate 8. 
 
 P. 32, 1. 11. 
 
 Turiis but to start, and gazes but to sigh! 
 The following stanzas are said to have been written 
 on a blank leaf of this Poem. They present so affect- 
 ing a reverse of the picture, that I cannot resist the 
 opportunity of introducing them here. 
 
 Pleasures of Memory ! — oh ! supremely blest, 
 
 And justly proud beyond a Poet's praise; 
 If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast 
 Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays ! 
 
 By me how en^^ed ! — for to me. 
 
 The herald still of miseiy. 
 
 Memory makes her influence known 
 
 By sighs, and tears, and grief alone : 
 I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong 
 The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funeral song. 
 
 She tells of time mispent, of comfort lost, 
 
 Of fair occasions gone for ever by ; 
 Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely crossed, 
 Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die ; 
 For what, except the instinctive fear 
 Lest she survive, detains me here. 
 When " all the life of life" is fled ?— 
 What, but the deep inherent dread. 
 Lest she ])eyond the grave resume her reign, 
 And realize the hell that priests and beldams feign ? 
 
 I 
 
58 
 
 P. 34, 1. 9. 
 
 Ha.st lliou l/iro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 
 
 On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby 
 there stands a small pillar with this inscription : 
 
 " This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann 
 Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial 
 of her last parting, in this place, with her good and 
 pious mother, IMargaret, Countess Dowager of Cumber- 
 land, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof 
 she hath left an annuity of 4/. to be distributed to 
 the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of 
 April for ever, upon the stone-table placed hard by. 
 Laus Deo !" 
 
 The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, and 
 rises in the wildest part of Westmoreland. 
 
 P. 34, 1. 20. 
 
 O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sighed. 
 
 " I would not exchange my dead son," said he, 
 " for any living son in Christendom." 
 
 Hume. 
 
 The same sentiment is inscribed on an urn at the 
 Leasowes. " H(;u, quanto minus est cum reliquis 
 versari, quam tui meminisse !" 
 
 P. 40, 1. 7. 
 Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove ; 
 A small island covered with trees, among which 
 were formerly the ruins of a religious house. 
 
59 
 
 P. 41,1. 15. 
 
 JV/ien lo ! a sudden hhisl the vessel hleir. 
 In a mountain-lake the agitations are often violent 
 and momentary. The winds blow in gusts and eddies ; 
 and the water no sooner swells, than it subsides. 
 
 See Bourn's Hist, of Westmoreland. 
 
 P. 42, 1. 21. 
 
 To what jmre beings, in a nobler sjjficre. 
 The several degrees of angels may probably have 
 larger views, and some of them be endowed with capa- 
 cities able to retain together, and constantly set before 
 them, as in one picture, all their past knowledge at 
 once. Locke. 
 
 -^^^pr ^^.^y 
 
 ^^. 
 
 ''.j^Z"'^ 
 
HUMAN LIFE. 
 
THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Introduction — Ringing of bells in a neighbouring Village 
 on the Birth of an Heir — General Reflections on Hu- 
 man Life — The Subject proposed — Childhood — Yotith 
 — Manhood — Love — Marriage — Domestic Happiness 
 and Affliction — War — Peace— Civil Dissension — Re- 
 tirejnent from active Life — Old Age and its Enjoi/- 
 menls — Conclusion. 
 
-,m-^^- 
 
 The lark has sung his carol in the sky ; 
 
 The bees have Imnniied their noon-tide lullaby. 
 
 Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, 
 
 Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound: 
 
 For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 
 
 Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, 
 
64 
 
 And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 
 The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 
 
 A few short years — and then these sounds shall hail 
 The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
 So soon the child a youth, the youth a man. 
 Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
 Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin ; 
 The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine : 
 And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
 Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. 
 The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
 " 'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled." 
 
 And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 
 Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees 
 Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, 
 And violets scattered round ; and old and young. 
 In every cottage-porch with garlands green. 
 Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene ; 
 While, her dark eyes declining, by his side 
 Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 
 
 And once, alas, nor in a distant hour. 
 Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; 
 When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen. 
 And weepings heard where only joy has been; 
 When by his children borne, and from his door \ 
 Slowly departing to return no more, > 
 
 He rests in holy earth with them that went before, j 
 
 And such is Human Life ; so gliding on. 
 It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! 
 
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, 
 As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, 
 As any that the wandering tribes require, 
 Stretched in the desert round their evening-fire ; 
 As any sung of old in hall or bower 
 To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour ! 
 
 Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire ; 
 And the green earth, the azure sky admire. 
 Of Elfin-size — for ever as we run. 
 We cast a longer shadow in the sun ! 
 And now a charm, and now a grace is won ! 
 We grow in stature, and in wisdom too ! 
 And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view, 
 Think nothing done while aught remains to do. 
 
 Yet, all forgot, how oft the eye-lids close. 
 And fi'om the slack hand drops the gathered rose ! 
 How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie. 
 While many an emmet comes with curious eye ; 
 And on her nest the watchful wren sits by ! 
 Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see ; 
 So like what once we were, and once again shall be ! 
 
 And say, how soon, where, blithe as innocent. 
 The boy at sun-rise carolled as he went. 
 An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean. 
 Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green ; 
 The man himself how altered, not the scene ! 
 Now journeying home with nothing but the name; 
 Way-worn and spent, another and the same ! 
 
 K 
 
66 
 
 No eye observes the growth or the decay. 
 To-day we look as we did yesterday ; 
 And we shall look to-morrow as to-day. 
 Yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks grow grey ! 
 And in her glass could she but see the face 
 She '11 see so soon amidst another race, 
 How would she shrink ! — Returning from afar. 
 After some years of travel, some of war, 
 Within his gate Ulysses stood unknown 
 Before a wife, a father, and a son ! 
 
 And such is Human Life, the general theme. 
 Ah, what at best, what but a longer dream ? 
 Though with such wild romantic wanderings fraught, 
 Such forms in Fancy's richest colouring wi'ought. 
 That, like the visions of a love-sick brain. 
 Who would not sleep and dream them o'er again ? 
 
 Our pathway leads but to a precipice ; 
 And all must follow, fearful as it is ! 
 From the first step 'tis known; but — No delay! 
 On, 'tis decreed. W^e tremble and obey. 
 A thousand ills beset us as we go. 
 ■ — " Still, could I shun the fatal gulf" — Ah, no, 
 'Tis all in vain — the inexorable Law ! 
 Nearer and nearer to the brink we di'aw. 
 Verdure springs up ; and fruits and flowers invite, "" 
 And groves and fountains — all things that delight. 
 " Oh I would stop, and linger if I might !" — ; 
 
 We fly ; no resting for the foot we find ; 
 All dark before, all desolate behind ! 
 
()' 
 
 At length the brink appears — but one step more ! 
 We faint — On, on ! — we falter — and 'tis o'er ! 
 
 Yet here high passions, high desires unfold, 
 Prompting to noblest deeds ; here links of gold 
 Bind soul to soul ; and thoughts divine inspire "j 
 
 A thirst unquenchable, a holy fire > 
 
 That will not, cannot but with life expire ! j 
 
 Now, seraph-winged, among the stars we soar ; ~| 
 Now distant ages, like a day, explore, > 
 
 And judge the act, the actor now no more ; j 
 
 Or, in a thankless hour condemned to live, 
 From others claim what these refuse to give. 
 And dart, like Milton, an unerring eye 
 Through the dim curtains of Futurity. 
 
 Wealth, Pleasure, Ease, all thought of self resigned, 
 What will not Man encounter for Mankind ? 
 Behold him now unbar the prison-door, "j 
 
 And, lifting Guilt, Contagion from the floor, > 
 
 To Peace and Health, and Light and Life restore ; j 
 Now in Thermopylae remain to share \ 
 
 Death — nor look back, nor turn a footstep there, > 
 Leaving his story to the birds of air ; j 
 
 And now like Pylades (in Heaven they write 
 Names such as his in characters of light) 
 Long with his friend in generous enmity. 
 Pleading, insisting in his place to die ! 
 
 Do what he will, he cannot realize 
 PL'df he conceives — the glorious vision flics. 
 
68 
 
 Go wliere he may, he cannot hope to find 
 The truth, the beauty pictured in his mind. 
 But if by chance an object strike the sense, 
 The faintest shadow of that Excellence, 
 Passions, that slept, are stirring in his fi-ame ; 
 Thoughts undefined, feelings without a name ! 
 And some, not here called forth, may slumber on 
 Till this vain pageant of a world is gone ; 
 Lying too deep for things that perish here, 
 Waiting for life — but in a nobler sphere! 
 
 Look where he comes ! Rejoicing in his birth. 
 Awhile he moves as in a heaven on earth ! 
 Sun, moon, and stars — the land, the sea, the sky 
 To him shine out as in a galaxy ! 
 But soon 'tis past — the light has died away ! 
 With him it came (it was not of the day) 
 And he himself diffused it, like the stone 
 That sheds awhile a lusti'e all its own, 
 Making night beautiful. 'Tis past, 'tis gone, 
 And in his darkness as he journies on. 
 Nothing revives him but the blessed ray 
 That now breaks in, nor ever knows decay, 
 Sent fi'om a better world to light him on his way. 
 
 How great the Mystery ! Let others sing 
 The circling Year, the promise of the Spring, 
 The Summer's glory, and the rich repose 
 Of Autumn, and the Winter's silvery snows. 
 Man through the changing scene let me pursue, 
 Himself how wondrous in his chanocs too! 
 
69 
 
 Not Man, the sullen savage in his den ; 
 But Man called forth in fellowship with men ; 
 Schooled and trained up to Wisdom from his birth ; 
 God's noblest work — His image upon earth! 
 
 The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared ; 
 The child is born, by many a pang endeared. 
 And now the mother's ear has caught his cry ; 
 Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye ! 
 He comes. . .she clasps him. To her bosom pressed. 
 He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 
 
 Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows ; 
 How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
 As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
 What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
 He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
 His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. 
 
70 
 
 And ever, ever to her lap he flies, 
 When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
 Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
 (That name most dear for ever on his tongue) 
 As with soft accents round her neck he clings. 
 And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings. 
 How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, 
 Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
 Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. 
 And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 
 
 But soon a nobler task demands her care. 
 Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
 Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! — 
 And now the volume on her knee has caught 
 His wandering eye — now many a written thought 
 Never to die, with many a lisping sweet 
 His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. 
 
 Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; 
 Oh he would follow — follow through the sky ! 
 Climbs the gaunt mastiff" slumbering in his chain. 
 And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; 
 Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side. 
 Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, 
 A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can. 
 If now he wears the habit of a man. 
 Flings off" the coat so long his pride and pleasure, 
 And, like a miser digging for his treasure. 
 
71 
 
 His tiny spade in his own garden plies, 
 
 And in green letters sees his name arise ! 
 
 Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight, 
 
 She looks, and looks, and still with new delight ! 
 
 Ah who, when fading of itself away, 
 Would cloud the sunshine of his little day ! 
 Now is the May of Life. Careering round, 
 Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him jfi-om the ground ! 
 Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say. 
 When the rich casket shone in bright array, 
 *' These are my Jewels !" Well of such as he. 
 When Jesus spake, well might his language be, 
 " Suffer these little ones to come to me !" 
 
 Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres 
 The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years ; 
 Close by her side his silent homage given 
 As to some pure Intelligence fi-om Heaven ; 
 His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame. 
 His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame, 
 At once lit up as with a holy flame ! 
 He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire; 
 And soon with tears relinquished to the Sire, 
 Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led. 
 Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead; 
 Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire, 
 Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire ! 
 
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate. 
 Crowned but to die — who in her chamber sate 
 Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown, 
 And every ear and every heart was won. 
 And cill in green array were chasing down the sun ! 
 
 
73 
 
 Then is the Age of Admiration — Then 
 Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men ; 
 Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round, 
 Whose very shadows consecrate the ground ! 
 Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire, 
 And high imagining and thought of fire ! 
 Then from within a voice exclaims " Aspire !" 
 Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass, 
 As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass ; 
 They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed, 
 Of every Age — the living and the dead ! 
 Thou, all-accomplished Surrey, thou art known ; 
 The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown ! 
 Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone ! j 
 
 And, with his beaver up, discovering there 
 One who loved less to conquer than to spare, 
 Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent. 
 Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent ! 
 
 Young B in the groves of Academe, 
 
 Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream ; 
 Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum, 
 Dreaming old dreams — a joy for years to come ; 
 Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane; — 
 Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain : * 
 
 * He had anived at Naples ; and was preparing to visit Sieily 
 and Greece, when, hearing of the troubles in England, he thought 
 it ])roper to hasten home. 
 
 L 
 
74 
 
 And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name 
 Well may we glow — as men, we share his fame) 
 And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye. 
 Planning he knows not what — that shall not die ! 
 
 Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold, 
 Beware the poison in the cup of gold. 
 The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high. 
 As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky ! 
 But every step is on enchanted gi'ound. 
 Danger thou lov'st, and Danger haunts thee round. 
 
 Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side ; 
 Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ? 
 Draws, and cries ho ; and, where the sun-beams fall. 
 At his own shadow thrusts along the wall ? 
 Who dances without music ; and anon 
 Sings like the lark — then sighs as woe begone, 
 And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave. 
 Glides in the moon-shine by a maiden's grave ? 
 Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow. \ 
 
 Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now > 
 A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou. j 
 
 He hears me not — Those sighs were from the heart. 
 Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part. 
 He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere, 
 With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear, 
 Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear 
 That none were half so faultless, half so fair, 
 
75 
 
 Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer, 
 A banished man, flying when none are near ; 
 And writes on every tree, and hngers long 
 Where most the nightingale repeats her song ; 
 Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove. 
 Delights to syllable the names we love. 
 
 Two on his steps attend, in motley clad ; 
 One woeful- wan, one merrier yet as mad ; 
 Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells, 
 And flowers spring up among the woodland dells. 
 To Hope he listens, wandering without measure 
 Thro' sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure; 
 And, if to Fear but for a weary mile, 
 Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile. 
 
 At length he goes — a Pilgrim to the Shrine, 
 And for a relic woidd a world resign ! 
 A glove, a shoe-tye, or a flower let fall — 
 Wliat though the least, Love consecrates them all ! 
 And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse ; 
 Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse 
 At early matins ('twas at matin-time 
 That first he saw and sickened in his prime) 
 And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold, 
 Plays with young hearts that will not be controlled. 
 
 *' Absence from Thee — as self from self it seems!" 
 Scaled is the garden-wall ; and lo, her beams 
 Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing 
 His well-known form along the terrace stealing. 
 
76 
 
 — Oh, ere in sight he came, 'twas his to tlirill 
 
 A heart that loved him though in secret still. 
 
 " Am I awake? or is it. . .can it be 
 
 " An idle dream ? Nightly it visits me ! 
 
 ** — That strain," she cries, " as from the water rose.^i 
 
 " Now near and nearer through the shade it flows! — > 
 
 " Now sinks departing — sweetest in its close !" J 
 
 No casement gleams ; no Juliet, like the day, 
 
 Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay. 
 
 Still, like aerial music heard from far. 
 
 Nightly it rises with the evening-star. 
 
 — " She loves another ! Love was in that sigh !" 
 On the cold ground he throws himself to die. 
 Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most deceiving. 
 Who wish are fearful ; who suspect, believing. 
 — And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow. 
 Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now ! 
 She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his cause ; 
 Nor yet — nor yet her hand from his withdraws ; 
 But by some secret Power surprised, subdued, 
 (Ah how resist? And would she if she could?) 
 Falls on his neck as half unconscious where, 
 Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there. 
 
 Then come those full confidings of the past ; 
 All sunshine now, where all was overcast. 
 Then do they wander till the day is gone. 
 Lost in each other; and when Night steals on. 
 
77 
 
 Covering them round, how sweet her accents are ! 
 Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far, 
 Far above singing ! — But soon nothing stirs 
 To break the silence — Joy hke his, hke hers, 
 Deals not in words ; and now the shadows close, 
 Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows 
 Less and less earthly ! As departs the day, 
 All that was mortal seems to melt away, 
 Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given. 
 She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven ! 
 
 Then are they blest indeed ; and swift the hours 
 Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, 
 Kindling her beauty — while, unseen, the least 
 Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest. 
 Known by her laugh that will not be suppressed. 
 Then before All they stand — the holy vow 
 And ring of gold, no fond illusions now. 
 Bind her as his. Across the threshold led. 
 And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, 
 His house she enters — there to be a light, 
 Shining within, when all without is night ; 
 A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, 
 Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing ; 
 Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, 
 Back from a world we love, alas, too long, 
 To fire-side happiness, to hours of case. 
 Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. 
 
78 
 
 How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind 
 To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; 
 Still subject — ever on the watch to borrow 
 Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow. 
 The soul of music slumbers in the shell. 
 Till waked and kindled by the master's spell ; 
 And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly— 
 A thousand melodies unheard before ! 
 
 -pour 
 
79 
 
 Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise 
 Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, 
 And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy, 
 With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy. 
 To meet him coming ; theirs through every year 
 Pure ti'ansports, such as each to each endear ! 
 And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill 
 Their home with gladness. She, when all are still. 
 Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie. 
 In sleep how beautiful ! He, when the sky 
 Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony. 
 When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share 
 His kisses, and with gentle violence there 
 Break in upon a dream not half so fair, 
 Up to the hill-top leads their little feet ; 
 Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet 
 The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear 
 The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ; 
 Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree, 
 That gave him back his words of pleasantry — 
 When the House stood, no merrier man than he ! 
 And, as they wander with a keen delight. 
 If but a leveret catch their quicker sight 
 Down a green alley, or a squirrel then 
 Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again. 
 If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall. 
 He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all ; 
 These with unequal footsteps following flist. 
 These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last. 
 
80 
 
 The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, 
 And the swart seaman, saihng far below. 
 Not undeUghted watch the morning ray 
 Purphng the orient — till it breaks away, 
 And burns and blazes into glorious day ! 
 
 
81 
 
 But happier still is he who bends to trace 
 That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face; 
 The burst, the glow, the animating strife, 
 The thoughts and passions stirring into life ; 
 The forming utterance, the inquii'ing glance, 
 The giant waking from his ten-fold trance, 
 Till up he starts as conscious whence he came, 
 And all is light within the trembling frame ! 
 
 What then a Father's feelings ? Joy and Fear 
 In turn prevail, Joy most; and through the year 
 Tempering the ardent, urging night and day 
 Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, 
 Praising each highly — from a wish to raise 
 Their merits to the level of his Praise, 
 Onward in their observing sight he moves. 
 Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves ! 
 Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ? 
 Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain ? 
 He lives a model in his life to show, 
 That, when he dies and through the world they go, 
 Some men may pause and say, when some admire, 
 " They are his sons, and worthy of their sire !" 
 
 But Man is born to suffer. On the door 
 Sickness has set her mark ; and now no more 
 Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild 
 As of a mother singing to her child. 
 All now in anguish from that room retire. 
 Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire. 
 And Innocence breathes contagion — all but one. 
 But she who gave it birth — from her alone 
 
 M 
 
82 
 
 The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, 
 And through the day, that with its dreary Hght 
 Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, 
 Watching the changes with her anxious eye : 
 While they without, listening below, above, 
 (Wlio but in sorrow know how much they love ?) 
 From every little noise catch hope and fear, 
 Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear. 
 Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness 
 That would in vain the starting tear repress. 
 
 Such grief was ours — it seems but yesterday — 
 When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, 
 'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh 
 At midnight in a Sister's arms to die ! 
 Oh thou wert lovely — lovely was thy frame, 
 And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ! 
 And, when recalled to join the blest above, 
 Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love. 
 Nursing the young to health. In happier hours. 
 When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers. 
 Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee ; 
 And now I write — what thou shalt never see ! 
 
 At length the Father, vain his power to save, 
 Follows his child in silence to the grave, 
 (That child how cherished, whom he would not give, 
 Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live ;) 
 Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade 
 Scatters the earth as " dust to dust" is said, 
 Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief 
 Consoling others in that hour of grief, 
 
S3 
 
 And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing 
 The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing. 
 
 — But hark, the din of arms ! no time for sorrov;. 
 To horse, to horse ! A day of blood to-morrow ! 
 One parting pang, and then — and then I fly, 
 Fly to the field, to triumph — or to die ! — • 
 He goes, and Night comes as it never came ! 
 With shrieks of horror ! — and a vault of flame ! 
 And lo ! when morning mocks the desolate. 
 Red runs the river by ; and at the gate 
 Breathless a horse without his rider stands ! 
 But hush ! . . a shout from the victorious bands ! 
 And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored ! 
 One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword ; 
 One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all 
 Spring to prepare the soldier's festival ; 
 While She best-loved, till then forsaken never, 
 Clinp-s round his neck as she would cling for ever ! 
 
 Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, 
 Days of domestic peace — by him who plays 
 On the great stage how uneventful thought; 
 Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught, 
 A thousand incidents that stir the mind 
 To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind ! 
 Such as the heart delights in — and records 
 Within how silently — in more than words ! 
 A Holiday — the frugal banquet spread 
 On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head 
 With quips and cranks — what time the wood-lark there 
 Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air, 
 
84 
 
 What time the king-fisher sits perched below, 
 Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow : — 
 A Wake — the booths whitening the village-green, 
 Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen ; 
 Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled. 
 Picturing at large the wonders of the world ; 
 
 4lyi'^ 
 
85 
 
 And far and wide, over the vicar's pale. 
 
 Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale, 
 
 All, all abroad, and music in the gale : — 
 
 A Wedding-dance — a dance into the night 
 
 On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light ; 
 
 When the young bride receives the promised dower. 
 
 And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower : — 
 
 A morning-visit to the poor man's shed, 
 
 (Who would be rich while One was wanting bread?) 
 
 When all are emulous to bring relief, 
 
 And tears are falling fast — but not for grief: — 
 
 A Walk in Spring — Grattan, like those with thee 
 
 By the Ifeath-side (who had not envied me ?) 
 
 When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, 
 
 Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon ; 
 
 And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise, 
 
 Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise. 
 
 Thou wouldst call up and question. 
 
 Graver things 
 Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings 
 Its holy office ; and the sabbath-bell. 
 That over wood and wild and mountain-dell 
 Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy 
 W^ith sounds most musical, most melancholy. 
 Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues 
 The pathway leading through the aged yews. 
 Nor unattended ; and, when all are there. 
 Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer, 
 
86 
 
 That House with many a funeral-garland hung* 
 
 Of virgin-white — memorials of the young, 
 
 The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing, 
 
 And hope and joy in other hearts were springing ; 
 
 That House, where Age led in by Filial Love, 
 
 Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above, 
 
 The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven 
 
 Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven ? 
 
 Nor at the fragrant hour — at early dawn — 
 Under the elm-tree on his level lawn, 
 Or in his porch is he less duly found, "j 
 
 When they that cry for Justice gather round, > 
 
 And in that cry her sacred voice is di'owned ; j 
 
 His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate, 
 Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate. 
 Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close ; 
 And they return as friends, that came as foes. 
 
 Thus, while the world but claims its proper part, 
 Oft in the head but never in the heart, 
 His life steals on; within his quiet dwelling 
 That home-felt joy all other joys excelling. 
 Sick of the crowd, when enters he — nor then 
 Forgets the cold indifference of men ? 
 
 Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in. 
 And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin. 
 Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song, 
 Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong 
 * A custom in some of om' countiy-cliurclies. 
 
87 
 
 Blend as they rise ; and (while without are seen, 
 Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green ; 
 And in from far a school-boy's letter flies, 
 Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise) 
 That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not?) 
 Born with the day and with the day forgot ; 
 Its ample page various as human life, 
 The pomp, the woe, the bustle and the strife ! 
 
 But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough 
 Met and solicited, behold him now 
 Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew, 
 The sphere that Wisdom loves, and Virtue too ; 
 They who subsist not on the vain applause 
 Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws. 
 
 'Twas morn — the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung 
 As from his lips the slow consent was wrung ; 
 As from the glebe his fathers tilled of old, 
 The plough they guided in an age of gold, 
 Down by the beech-wood side he turned away : — 
 And now behold him in an evil day 
 Serving the State again — not as before, 
 Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door, — 
 But in the Senate ; and (though round him fly 
 The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry,) 
 With honest dignity, with manly sense, 
 And every charm of natural eloquence, 
 Like Hampden struggling in his Country's cause. 
 The first, the foremost to obey the laws, 
 
88 
 
 The last to brook oppression. On he moves, 
 Careless of blame while his own heart approves, 
 Careless of ruin — (" For the general good 
 'Tis not the first time I shall shed my blood.") 
 On thro' that gate misnamed, thro' which before 
 Went Sidney, Russell, Raleigh, Cranmer, More, 
 
<SJ) 
 
 On into twilight within walls of stone, 
 Then to the place of trial ; and alone, 
 Alone before his judges in array 
 Stands for his life : there, on that awful day, 
 Counsel of friends — all human help denied — 
 All but from her who sits the pen to guide. 
 Like that sweet Saint who sate by Russell's side 
 Under the Judgment-seat. 
 
90 
 
 But guilty men 
 Triumph not always. To his hearth again, 
 Again with honour to his liearth restored, 
 Lo, in the accustomed chair and at the board. 
 Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their claim, 
 (The lowliest servant calling by his name) 
 He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all, ^ 
 
 All met as at a holy festival ! > 
 
 — On the day destined for his funeral ! j 
 
 Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, \ 
 Breathed in his drowsy ear " Away, away ! ■ > 
 
 Take thou my cloak — Nay, start not, but obey — j 
 Take it and leave me." And the blushing Maid, 
 Who thro' the streets as thro' a desert sti-ayed ; 
 And, when her dear, dear Father passed along, 
 Would not be held — but, bursting through the throng, 
 Halberd and battle-axe — kissed him o'er and o'er ; \ 
 Then turned and went — then sought him as before, \ 
 Believing she should see his face no more ! j 
 
 And oh, how changed at once — no heroine here. 
 But a weak woman worn with grief and fear. 
 Her darling Mother ! 'Twas but now she smiled ; 
 And now she weeps upon her weeping child ! 
 — But who sits by, her only wish below 
 At length f. Ifilled — and now prepared to go? 
 His hands on hers — as through the mists of night, \ 
 She gazes on him with imperfect sight ; \ 
 
 Her glory now, as ever her delight ! j 
 
91 
 
 To her, methinks, a second Youth is given ; 
 The hght upon her face a hght from Heaven ! 
 
 An hour hke this is worth a thousand passed 
 In pomp or ease — 'Tis present to the last ! 
 Years ghde away untold — 'Tis still the same ! 
 As fresh, as fair as on the day it came ! 
 
 And now once more where most he loved to be, 
 In his own fields — breathing ti'anquillity — 
 We hail him — not less happy, Fox, than thee ! 
 Thee at St. Anne's so soon of Care beguiled. 
 Playful, sincere, and artless as a child ! 
 Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray, 
 Through the green leaves exploring, day by day. 
 
92 
 
 How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, 
 With thee conversing in thy loved retreat, 
 I saw the sun go down ! — Ah, then 'twas thine 
 Ne'er to forget some volume half divine, 
 Shakspearc's or Dry den's — thro' the chequered shaded 
 Borne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed ; > 
 
 And where we sate (and many a halt we made) j 
 
 To read there with a fervour all thy own, ^ 
 
 And in thy grand and melancholy tone, > 
 
 Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, j 
 
 Fit theme for long discourse — Thy bell has tolled ! 
 — But in thy place among us we behold 
 One who resembles thee. 
 
 'Tis the sixth hour. 
 The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. 
 The ploughman leaves the field ; the traveller hears. 
 And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears 
 Her sweetest smile ; the day-star in the west 
 Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest. 
 
 And such, his labour done, the calm He knows, * 
 Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glows 
 An atmosphere that brightens to the last ; 
 The light, that shines, reflected from the Past, 
 — And from the Future too ! Active in Thought 
 Among old books, old friends ; and not unsought 
 
 * At ilia qiianti sunt, animum tanquam emcritis stipendiis libi- 
 dinis, ambitioiiis, contentionis, inimicitiarum, cupiditatiim omnium, 
 secum esse, secumquc (ut dicitur) vivere? — Cic. De Senectute. 
 
93 
 
 By the wise stranger — in his morning-hours, 
 
 When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers, 
 
 He muses, turning up the idle weed ; 
 
 Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead 
 
 Watches his bees at hiving-time ; * and now, 
 
 The ladder resting on the orchard-bough. 
 
 Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air, \ 
 
 The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear, > 
 
 Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there. j 
 
 At night, when all, assembling round the fire. 
 Closer and closer draw till they retire, 
 A tale is told of India or Japan, 
 Of merchants from Golcond or Asti*acan, 
 What time wild Nature revelled unrestrained. 
 And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reigned: — 
 Of Knights renowned from holy Palestine, 
 And minstrels, such as swept the Ip'e divine. 
 When Blondel came, and Richard in his Cell f 
 Heard, as he lay, the song he knew so well : — 
 Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale 
 Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail, 
 Among the shining Alps of Polar seas 
 Immoveable — for ever there to fi*eeze ! 
 
 * Hinc ubi jam emissum caveis ad sidera coeli 
 Nare per sestotem liquidam suspexeris agmeii, 
 
 Contcmplator Virg. 
 
 f Richard the First. For the romantic story here aUiidcd to, we 
 arc indebted to the French Clu-oniclers — See Falciikt. Keeueil 
 de rOriginc de la Langue et Poesie Fr. 
 
94 
 
 Or some great Caravan, from well to well 
 
 Winding as darkness on the desert fell, 
 
 In their long march, such as the Prophet bids, 
 
 To Mecca from the Land of Pyramids, 
 
 And in an instant lost — a hollow wave 
 
 Of burning sand their everlasting grave ! — 
 
95 
 
 Now the scene shifts to Venice — to a square 
 GHttering with light, all nations masking there, 
 With light reflected on the tremulous tide, 
 Where gondolas in gay confusion glide. 
 Answering the jest, the song on every side ; 
 
9() 
 
 To Naples next — and at tlie crowded gate, 
 
 Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement wait, 
 
 Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, 
 
 Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire ! — 
 
 Then, at a sign that never was forgot, 
 
 A strain l)reaks forth (who hears and loves it not?) 
 
 From harp or organ ! 'Tis at parting given, 
 
 That in their slumbers they may di'eam of Heaven ; 
 
 Young voices mingling, as it floats along, 
 
 In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song ! 
 
 And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all ; 
 So soon to weave a daughter's coronal, 
 And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears ; — 
 So soon to hover round her full of fears, 
 And with assurance sweet her soul revive 
 In child-birth — when a mother's love is most alive ! 
 
 No, 'tis not here that Solitude is known. 
 Through the wide world he only is alone 
 Who lives not for another. Come what will. 
 The generous man has his companion still ; 
 The cricket on his hearth ; the buzzing fly, 
 That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky, 
 Still with its note of gladness passes by: 
 And, in an iron cage condemned to dwell. 
 The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell, 
 He feeds his spider — happier at the worst 
 Than he at large who in himself is curst ! 
 
 O thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind 
 Streams from the depth of ages on mankind, 
 
97 
 
 Streams like the day — who, angel-hke, hast shed 
 Thy full effulgence on the hoary head, 
 Speaking in Cato's venerable voice, 
 " Look up, and faint not — faint not, but rejoice!" 
 From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now 
 Stamped with its signet that ingenuous brow; 
 And, 'mid his old hereditary trees, 
 Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits and sees 
 His childi-en's chikken playing round his knees : 
 Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung, 
 When side by side the archers' bows are strung ; 
 His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize. 
 Envying no more the young their energies 
 Than they an old man when his words are wise ; 
 His a delight how pure . . . without alloy ; 
 Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy ! 
 
 Now in their turn assisting, they repay 
 The anxious cares of many and many a day ; 
 And now by those he loves relieved, restored, 
 His very wants and weaknesses afford 
 A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, 
 Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks. 
 While they look up ! Their questions, their replies, 
 Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise. 
 Gladdening his spirit : and, his theme the past, 
 How eloquent he is ! His thoughts flow fast; 
 And, while his heart (oh can the heart grow old? 
 False are the tales that in the World are told !) 
 
98 
 
 Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end ; 
 Like one discoursing of an absent friend. 
 
 But there are moments which he calls his own. 
 Then, never less alone than when alone. 
 Those that he loved so long and sees no more, 
 Loved and still loves — not dead — but gone before, 
 He gathers round him ; and revives at will 
 Scenes in his life — that breathe enchantment still — 
 That come not now at dreary intervals — 
 But where a light as from the Blessed falls, 
 A light such guests bring ever — pure and holy — 
 Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy ! 
 — Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn) 
 To live with others than to think on them ! 
 
 And now behold him up the hill ascending, 
 Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending; 
 Sustained, excited, till his course is run, 
 By deeds of virtue done or to be done. 
 When on his couch he sinks at length to rest. 
 Those by his counsel saved, his power redressed. 
 Those by the World shunned ever as unblest, 
 At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate, 
 But whom he sought out, sitting desolate. 
 Come and stand round — the widow with her child, 
 As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! 
 They, who watch by him, see not ; but he sees. 
 Sees and exults — Were ever dreams like these ? 
 They, who watch by him, hear not ; but he hears. 
 And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears ! 
 
99 
 
 'Tis past ! That hand we grasped, aUis, in vain ! 
 Nor shall we look upon his face again ! 
 But to his closing eyes, for all were there, 
 Nothing was wanting ; and, through many a year 
 We shall remember with a fond delight 
 The words so precious which we heard to-night ; 
 His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows, 
 Like setting suns or music at the close ! 
 
 Then was the drama ended. Not till then, 
 So full of chance and change the lives of men. 
 Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure 
 From pain, from grief, and all that we endure. 
 He slept in peace — say rather soared to Heaven, 
 Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis given 
 In his right hand to hold the golden key 
 That opes the portals of Eternity. 
 — When by a good man's grave I muse alone, 
 Methinks an Angel sits upon the stone ; 
 Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night, 
 Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright ; 
 And, with a voice inspiring joy not fear, 
 Says, pointing upward, " Know, he is not here ; 
 He is risen!" 
 
 But the day is almost spent; 
 And stars are kindling in the firmament. 
 To us how silent — though like ours perchance 
 Busy and full of life and circumstance ; 
 Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue. 
 Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few ; 
 
100 
 
 And, as the sun goes round — a sun not ours — 
 While from her lap another Nature showers 
 Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, 
 Think on themselves, within, without inquire ; 
 At distance dwell on all that passes there. 
 All that their world reveals of good and fair ; 
 And, as they wander, picturing things, like me, 
 Not as they are but as they ought to be, 
 Trace out the Journey through their little Day, 
 And fondly dream an idle hour away. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 p. 66, I 17. 
 
 Our paihway leads hut to a precipice ; 
 
 Ske Bossuet, Sermon sur la Resurrection. 
 
 P. 66, 1. 28. 
 
 Wejly; no resting for the foot we find ; 
 
 " I have considered/' says Solomon, " all the works 
 
 that are under the sun ; and behold, all is vanity and 
 
 vexation of spirit." But who believes it, till Death 
 
 tells it us.'' It is Death alone that can suddenly 
 
 make man to know himself. He tells the proud and 
 
 insolent, that they are but abjects, and humbles them 
 
 at the instant. He takes the account of the rich 
 
 man, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar. He 
 
 holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, 
 
 and makes them see therein their deformity; and they 
 
 acknowledge it. 
 
 O eloquent, just, and mighty Death ! whom none 
 could advise, thou hast persuaded : what none have 
 dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world have 
 flattered, thou only hast cast out and despised: thou 
 hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all 
 the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it 
 all over with these two narrow words, Ilicjacet. 
 
 Raleigh. 
 
102 
 
 P. 67, 1. 14. 
 
 Through the dim curtains of Fuluriti/. 
 
 Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what 
 temper INIilton surveyed the silent progress of his 
 work, and marked his reputation stealing its way in a 
 kind of subterraneous current through fear and silence. 
 I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little 
 disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own 
 merit with steady consciousness, and waiting, without 
 impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, and the im- 
 partiality of a future generation, Johnson. 
 After 1. 14, in the MS. 
 
 O'er place and time we triumph ; on we go. 
 Ranging at will the realms above, below ; 
 Yet, ah, how little of ourselves we know ! 
 And why the heart beats on, or how the brain 
 Says to the foot, " Now move, now rest again." 
 From age to age we search and search in vain. 
 
 P. 67, 1. 27. 
 Do what he will, S)X. 
 
 These ideas, whence are they derived ; or, as Plato 
 would have expressed himself, how were they ac- 
 quired? There could not be a better argument for 
 his doctrine of a prae-existent state. 
 P. 68, 1. 15. 
 But soon 'tis past — 
 
 This light, which is so heavenly in its lustre, and 
 which is every where and on every thing when we 
 look round us on our arrival here ; which, Avhile it 
 lasts, never leaves us, rejoicing us by night as well as 
 by day and lighting up our very dreams ; yet, when 
 
\0i] 
 
 it fades, fades so fast, and, when it goes, goes out for 
 ever — we may address it in the words of the Poet, 
 words which Ave might apply so often in this transitory 
 life. 
 
 Too soon your vahie from your loss we learn ! 
 
 Epistles in Verse, ii. 
 
 P. 68, 1. 17. 
 
 like the stone 
 
 That sheds awhile a lustre all its own, 
 See " Observations on a Diamond that shines in the 
 dark." Boyle's Works, I. 789. 
 
 P. 69, 1. 3. 
 
 Schooled and trai^ied up to Wisdom from his birth; 
 Cicero, in his Essay De Seneclute, has drawn his 
 images from the better walks of life ; and Shakspeare, 
 in his Seven Ages, has done so too. But Shakspeare 
 treats his subject satirically; Cicero as a Philosopher. 
 In the venerable portrait of Cato we discover no traces 
 of " the lean and slippered Pantaloon." 
 
 Every object has a bright and a dark side ; and I 
 have endeavoured to look at things as Cicero has done. 
 By some however I may be thought to have followed 
 too much my own dream of happiness ; and in such a 
 dream indeed I have often passed a solitary hour. It 
 was Castle-building once ; now it is no longer so. 
 But whoever would try to realize it, would not per- 
 haps repent of his endeavour. 
 
 P. m, 1. 5. 
 
 The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared; 
 A Persian Poet has left us a beautiful thought 
 on this subject, which the reader, if he has not niet 
 
104 
 
 witli it, will 1)0 glad to know, and, if he has, to re- 
 inend)er. 
 
 Thee on thy motlicr's knees, a ne\v-1)oin child, 
 In tears we saw, when all around thee smiled. 
 So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, 
 Smiles may he thine, when all around thee weej). 
 
 For my version I am in a great measure indebted to 
 Sir William Jones. 
 
 P. 71,1. 11. 
 
 " These are my Jewels!" 
 The anecdote here alluded to, is related by Valerius 
 Maximus, Lib. iv. c. 4. 
 
 P. 71, 1. 13. 
 
 " Suffer these little ones to come to me !" 
 
 In our early Youth, while yet we live only among 
 those we love, we love without restraint, and our 
 hearts overflow in every look, word, and action. But 
 when we enter the world and are repulsed by strangers, 
 forgotten by friends, we grow more and more timid in 
 our approaches even to those we love best. 
 
 How delightful to us then are the little caresses 
 of children ! All sincerity, all aflfection, they fly into 
 our arms ; and then, and then only, we feel our first 
 confidence, our first pleasure. 
 
 P. 71, h 14. 
 
 he reveres 
 
 The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years ; 
 
 This is a law of Nature. Age was anciently synony- 
 mous with power ; and we may ahvays observe that 
 the old are held in more or less honour as men are 
 more or less virtuous. " Shame," says Homer, " bids 
 
lo; 
 
 the youth beware how he accosts the man of many 
 years." " Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, 
 and honour the face of an old man." Leviticus. 
 
 Among us, and wherever birth and possessions give 
 rank and authority, the young and the profligate are 
 seen continually above the old and the worthy: there 
 Age can never find its due respect. But among many 
 of the ancient nations it was otherwise ; and they 
 reaped the benefit of it. Rien ne maintient plus les 
 mceurs, qu'une extreme subordination des jeunes gens 
 envers les vieillards. Les uns et les autres seront con- 
 tenus, ceux-la par le respect qu'ils auront pour les 
 vieillards, et ceux-ci par le respect qu'ils auront pour 
 eux-memes. Montesquieu. 
 
 P. 72, 1. 1. 
 
 Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate, 
 
 Before I went into Germany, I came to Brodegate 
 in Leicestershire, to take my leave of that noble Lady 
 Jane Grey, to whom I was exceeding much beholding. 
 Her parents, the Duke and Duchess, with all the 
 Household, Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, were hunt- 
 ing in the park. I found her in her chambei", reading 
 Phsedo Platonis in Greek, and that with as much de- 
 light as some Gentlemen would read a merry tale in 
 Boccace. After salutation, and duty done, with some 
 other talk, I asked her, why she would lose such pas- 
 time in the park ? Smiling, she answered me ; " I wist, 
 all their sport in tlie park is but a shadow to that plea- 
 sure that I find in Plato." Roger Aschaim. 
 
 r 
 
106 
 
 P. 73, 1. 1. 
 
 Theii is the Age of Admiration — 
 Dtmte in his old age was pointed out to Petrarch 
 when a boy ; and Dryden to Pope. 
 
 Who does not wish that Dante and Dryden could have 
 known the value of the homage that was paid them, 
 and foreseen the greatness of their young admirers ? 
 P. 74, 1. 1. 
 And Milton's self, 
 I began thus far to assent ... to an inward prompt- 
 ing which now grew daily upon me, that by labour 
 and intent study, (which I take to be my portion in 
 this life) joined with the strong propensity of nature, 
 I might perhaps leave something so written to after- 
 times, as they should not willingly let it die. Milton. 
 P. 75, 1. 21. 
 'tivas at matin-time 
 Love and devotion are said to be nearly allied. 
 Boccaccio fell in love at Naples in the church of St. 
 Lorenzo; as Petrarch had done at Avignon in the 
 church of St. Clair. 
 
 P. 76, 1. 17. 
 
 Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now ! 
 Is it not true, that the young not only appear to be, 
 but really are most beautiful in the presence of those 
 they love } It calls forth all their beauty. 
 
 P. 78, 1. 7. 
 
 And Jeeling hearts — totich them hut rightly — j)Our 
 A thousand melodies unheard before! 
 Xcnophou has left us a delightful instance of con- 
 jugal affection. 
 
\o: 
 
 The King of Armenia not fulfilling liis promise, 
 Cyrus entered the country, and, having taken him 
 and all his family prisoners, ordered them instantly 
 before him, Armenian, said he, jou are free ; for 
 you are noAV sensible of your error. And uhat will 
 you give me, if I restore your wife to you ? — All that 
 I am able. — What, if I restore your children ? — All 
 that I am able. — And you, Tigranes, said he, turning 
 to the Son, What would you do, to save your wife 
 from servitude.'' Now Tigranes was but lately mar- 
 ried, and had a great love for his wife. Cyrus, he 
 replied, to save lier from servitude, I would willingly 
 lay down my life. 
 
 Let each have his own again, said Cyrus ; and, 
 when he was departed, one spoke of his clemency ; 
 and another of his valour ; and another of his beauty 
 and the graces of his person. Upon which Tigranes 
 asked his wife, if she thought him handsome. Really, 
 said she, I did not look at him. — At whom then did 
 you look ? — At him who said he would lay down his 
 life for me. Cyropaedia, L. III. 
 
 P. 83, 1. 7- 
 He goes, and Night comes as it never came! 
 
 These circumstances, as well as some others that 
 follow, are happily, as far as they regard England, of 
 an ancient date. To us the miseries inflicted by a 
 foreign invader are now known only by description. 
 IMany generations have passed away since our country- 
 women saw the smoke of an enemy's camp. 
 
 But tlie same passions are always at work every 
 where, and their effects arc always nearly the same ; 
 
though the circumstances that attend them are in- 
 finitely various. 
 
 P. 83, 1. 25. 
 Such as the heart (lelighls in — and 7'ecords 
 WitMn how silently — 
 Si tout cela consistoit en faits, en actions, en pa- 
 roles, on pourroit le decrire et le rendre en quelque 
 fa^on : mais comment dire ce qui n'etoit ni dit, ni fait, 
 ni pense meme, mais goute, mais senti. — Le vrai bon- 
 heur ne se decrit pas. Rousseau, 
 
 P. 86, 1. 24. 
 
 Soon through the gadding vitie, 8^c. 
 
 An English breakfast ; which may well excite in 
 others what in Rousseau continued through life, un 
 gout vif pour les dejeunes. C'est le tems de la journee 
 ou nous sommes le plus tranquilles, ou nous causons 
 le plus a notre aise. 
 
 The luxuries here mentioned, familiar to us as 
 they now are, were almost unknown before the Re- 
 volution. 
 
 P. 87, 1. 25. 
 With honest dignity. 
 
 He, who resolves to rise in the world by Politics 
 or Religion, can degrade his mind to any degree, when 
 he sets about it. Overcome the first scruple, and the 
 work is done. " You hesitate," said one who spoke 
 from experience. " Put on the mask, young man ; 
 and in a very little while you will not know it from 
 vour own face." 
 
109 
 
 P. 87, 1. 27. 
 Like Hampdkn struggling in his Country's cause, 
 
 Zeuxis is said to have drawn his Helen from an 
 assemblage of the most beautiful women ; and many 
 a Writer of Fiction^ in forming a life to his mind, has 
 recourse to the brightest moments in the lives of 
 others. 
 
 I may be suspected of having done so here, and of 
 having designed, as it were, from living models ; but, 
 by making an allusion now and then to those who 
 have really lived, I thought I should give something 
 of interest to the picture, as well as better illustrate 
 my meaning. 
 
 P. 88, 1. 5. 
 On thro' that gate misnamed, 
 
 Traitor's gate, the water-gate in the Tower of 
 London. 
 
 P. 89, 1. 2. 
 
 2'hen to the place of trial; 
 
 This very slight sketch of Civil Dissension is taken 
 from our own annals ; but, for an obvious reason, not 
 from those of our own Age. 
 
 The persons, here immediately alluded to, lived more 
 than a hundred years ago in a reign which Blackstone 
 has justly represented as wicked, sanguinary, and 
 turbulent ; but such times have always afforded the 
 most signal instances of heroic courage and ardent 
 affection. 
 
 Great reverses, like theirs, lay open the human 
 heart. They occur indeed but seldom ; yet all men are 
 
no 
 
 liable to tliem ; all, when they occur to others, make 
 them more or less their own ; and, were we to describe 
 our condition to an inhabitant of some other planet, 
 could we omit what forms so striking a circumstance 
 in human life? 
 
 P. 89, 1. 2. 
 
 and alone, 
 
 A prisoner, prosecuted for high treason, may now 
 make his defence by counsel. In the reign of William 
 the Third the law was altered ; and it was in rising to 
 tirge the necessity of an alteration, that Lord Shaftes- 
 bury, with such admirable quickness, took advantage 
 of the embarrassment that seized him. " If I," said 
 he, " who rise only to give my opinion of this bill, am 
 so confounded that I cannot say what I intended, 
 what must be the condition of that man, who, with- 
 out any assistance, is pleading for his life ?" 
 
 P. 89, 1. 7. 
 Like that sweet Saint who sate by Russell's side 
 Under the Judgment-seat. 
 
 Lord Russell. May I have somebody to write^ to 
 assist my memory ? 
 
 Mr. Attorney General. Yes, a Servant. 
 Lord Chief Justice. Any of your Servants shall as- 
 sist you in writing any thing you please for you. 
 Lord Russell. My Wife is here, my Lord, to do it. 
 
 State Trials, II. 
 P. 90, 1. 15. 
 Aiid, when her dear, dear Father passed along. 
 
 An allusion to the last interview of Sir Thomas 
 
Ill 
 
 More and his daughter Blargaret. " Dear IMeg," 
 said he, when afterwards with a coal he wrote to bid 
 her farewell, " I never liked your manner towards me 
 better; for I like when daughterly love and dear 
 charity have no leisure to look to worldly courtesy." 
 
 Roper's Life, 48. 
 
 P. 90, 1. 28. 
 
 Her glory now, as ever her deltghl ! 
 
 Epaminondas, after his victory at Leuctra, rejoiced 
 most of all at the pleasure which it would give his 
 
112 
 
 father and motlier ; and who would not have envied 
 them their feelings ? 
 
 Cornelia was called at Rome the ]\Iother-in-law of 
 Scipio. " When," said she to her sons, " shall I be 
 called the Mother of the Gracchi ?" 
 
 P. 94, 1. 6. 
 
 Of burning sand their everlasting grave!-— 
 
 After 1. 6 in the MS. 
 
 Now tlie scene shifts to Cashmere — to a glade 
 Where, with her loved gazelle, the blue-eyed JMaid 
 ( Her fragrant chamber for awhile resigned, 
 Her lute, by fits discoursing with the wind) 
 Wanders well-pleased, what time the Nightingale 
 Sings to the Rose, rejoicing hill and dale ; 
 And now to Venice — to a bridge, a square, &c. 
 
 P. 96, 1. 3. 
 
 Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, 
 
 An act of filial piety represented on the coins of 
 Catana, a Greek city, some remains of which are still 
 to be seen at the foot of mount ^Etna. The story is 
 told of two brothers, who in this manner saved both 
 their parents. The place, from which they escaped, was 
 long called the field of the pious ; and public games 
 were annually held there to commemorate the Event. 
 
 P. 96, 1. 7. 
 From harp or organ! 
 
 What a pleasing picture of domestic life is given to 
 us by Bishop Berkeley in his letters ! " The more 
 we have of good instruments the better : for all my 
 children, not excepting my little daughter, learn to 
 
11.S 
 
 plav, and are preparing to fill my lionse with liarmony 
 against all events ; that, if we have worse times, we 
 may have better spirits." 
 
 P. 96, 1. 19. 
 
 Who lives not fur another. 
 How often, says an excellent writer, do we err in 
 our estimate of happiness ! When I hear of a man 
 who has noble parks, splendid palaces, and every 
 luxury in life, I always inquire whom he has to love ; 
 and, if I find he has nobody or does not love those he 
 has — in the midst of all his grandeur I pronounce him 
 a being in deep adversity. 
 
 P. 96, 1. 28. 
 
 thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind 
 Cicero. It is remarkable that, among the comforts 
 of Old Age, he has not mentioned those arising from 
 the society of women and children. Perhaps the hus- 
 band of Terentia and " the father of Marcus felt some- 
 thing on the subject, of which he was willing to spare 
 himself the recollection." 
 
 P. 99, 1. 25. 
 
 And stars are kindling in the ^firmament, 
 An old writer breaks ofif in a very lively manner at 
 a later hour of the night. " But the Hyades run low 
 in the heavens, and to keep our eyes open any longer 
 were to act our Antipodes. The Huntsmen are up 
 in America, and they are already past their first sleep 
 in Persia." 
 
Bkforr I conclude, I would say something in 
 fuv^our of the old-fashioned triplet, which I have here 
 ventured to use so often. Dryden seems to have de- 
 lighted in it, and in many of his poems has used it 
 much oftener than I have done, as for instance in the 
 Hind and Panther, * and in Theodore and Honoria, 
 where he introduces it three, four, and even five times 
 in succession. 
 
 If I have erred any where in the structure of my 
 verse from a desire to follow yet earlier and higher 
 examples, I rely on the forgiveness of those m whose 
 ear the music of our old versification is still soutiding. 
 
 * Pope used to mention this poem as the most correct spe- 
 cimen of Dryden's versification. It was indeed written when 
 he had completely formed his manner, and may be supposed to 
 exhibit, negligence excepted, his deliberate and ultimate scheme 
 of metre Johnson. 
 
AN EPISTLE 
 
 TO 
 
 A FRIEND. 
 
 ^'illllla, . . . . et paiipei' agelle, 
 
 Me tibi, et hos una iiiccum, qiios semj)c'r aiiiavi, 
 
 (\)niniendo. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Every reader turns with pleasure to those pass- 
 ages of Horace, and Pope, and Boileau, which de- 
 scribe how they Hved and where they dwek; and 
 which, being interspersed among their satirical writ- 
 ings, derive a secret and irresistible grace fi'om the 
 contrast, and are admirable examples of what in 
 Painting is termed repose. 
 
 We have admittance to Horace at all hours. We 
 enjoy the company and conversation at his table; 
 and his suppers, like Plato's, " non solum in prae- 
 sentia, sed etiam postero die jucundae sunt." But, 
 when we look round as we sit there, we find our- 
 selves in a Sabine farm, and not in a Roman villa. 
 His windows have every charm of prospect ; but his 
 furniture might have descended from Cincinnatus ; 
 and gems, and pictures, and old marbles, are men- 
 tioned by him more than once with a seeming in- 
 difference. 
 
 His English Imitator thought and felt, perha})s, 
 more correctly on the subject ; and embellished his 
 garden and grotto with great industry and success. 
 
118 
 
 Bui to tliese alone he solicits our notice. On the 
 ornaments of his house he is silent; and he a})pears 
 to have reserved all the minuter touches of his pen- 
 cil for the library, the chapel, and the banqueting- 
 room of Timon. *' Le savoir de notre siccle," says 
 Rousseau, " tend beaucoup plus a detruire qu'a edi- 
 fier. On censure d'un ton de maitre; pour pro- 
 poser, il en faut prendre un autre." 
 
 It is the design of this Epistle to illustrate the 
 virtue of True Taste ; and to show how little she 
 requires to secure, not only the comforts, but even 
 the elegancies of life.' True Taste is an excellent 
 Economist. She confines her choice to few objects, 
 and delights in producing great effects by small 
 means : while False Taste is for ever sighing after 
 the new and the rare ; and reminds us, in her works, 
 of the Scholar of A})elles, -wdio, not being able to 
 paint his Helen beautiful, determined to make her 
 fine. 
 
An invitation — The approach to a Villa described — Its situation 
 — Its few apartments — Furnished with casts from the An- 
 tique, S^c. — The dining-room — The library— A cold-hath — 
 A winter-walk — A summer-walk — Tlie invitation renewed — 
 Conclusion. 
 
 When, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind 
 Has classed the insect-tribes of human-kind, 
 Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing, 
 Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting; 
 
1;>0 
 
 Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, 
 
 Point out the green lane rough with fern and flowers ; 
 
 7Mie sheltered gate that opens to my field, 
 
 And the white front thro' mingling elms revealed. 
 
 In vain, alas, a village-friend invites 
 To simple comforts, and domestic rites, 
 When the gay months of Carnival resume 
 Their annual round of glitter and perfume; 
 When London hails thee to its splendid mart, 
 Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art; 
 And, lo, majestic as thy manly song. 
 Flows the full tide of human life along. 
 
 Still must my partial pencil love to dwell 
 On the home-prospects of my hermit-cell ; 
 The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green. 
 Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen ; 
 And the brown path-way, that, with careless flow, 
 Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. 
 Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) 
 Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. 
 Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass 
 Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass ; 
 The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight. 
 Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight ; 
 And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, 
 With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. 
 Far to the south a mountain-vale retires. 
 Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires ; 
 
1^1 
 
 Its upland-lawns, and clitfs with foliage Imng, 
 Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung: 
 And through the various year, the various day, 
 What scenes of glory burst, and melt away ! 
 
 When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, 
 And the furred Beauty comes to winter there, 
 She bids old Nature mar the plan no more ; 
 Yet still the seasons circle as before. 
 Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, 
 Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze ; 
 As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song, 
 Tho' Evening lingers at the mask so long. 
 
 There let her strike with momentary ray, 
 As tapers shine their little lives away ; 
 There let her practise from herself to steal, 
 And look the happiness she does not feel ; 
 The ready smile and bidden blush employ 
 At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy ; 
 Fan with affected ease the essenced air, 
 And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. 
 Be thine to meditate an humbler flight, 
 When morning fills the fields with rosy light ; 
 Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim. 
 Repose with dignity, Mith Quiet fame. 
 
 Here no state-chamljers in long line unfold, 
 Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold ; 
 Yet modest ornament, with use combined, 
 Attracts the eve to exercise the mind. 
 
122 
 
 Small change of scene, small space his home requires, 
 Who leads a life of satisfied desires. 
 
 \^'hat tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows. 
 From every point a ray of genius flows ! 
 Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill. 
 That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will ; 
 And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes, 
 The fairest relics of the purest times. 
 Here from the mould to conscious being start 
 Those finer forms, the miracles of art ; 
 Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine. 
 That slept for ages in a second mine ; 
 And here the faithful graver dares to trace 
 A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace ! 
 Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls ; 
 And my low roof the Vatican recalls ! 
 
 Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies, 
 To waking sense what brighter visions rise ! 
 O mark ! again the coursers of the Sun, 
 At GuiDo's call, their round of glory run! 
 Again the rosy Hours resume their flight. 
 Obscured and lost in floods of golden light ! 
 
 But could thine erring friend so long forget 
 (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) 
 That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, 
 Lo ! here the lost restores, the absent brings ; 
 And still the Few best loved and most revered 
 Rise round the board their social smile endeared ? 
 
123 
 
 Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours ; 
 There shall tliy ranging mind be fed on flowers ! * 
 There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, 
 Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams ; 
 And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there. 
 Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. 
 — Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls. 
 Which breathes a soul into the silent walls ; f 
 Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue, 
 All on whose words departed nations hung ; 
 Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet ; 
 Guides in the world, companions in retreat ! 
 
 Tho' my thatched bath no rich Mosaic knows, 
 A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. 
 Emblem of Life ! which, still as we survey, ' 
 
 Seems motionless, yet ever glides away ! 
 The shadowy walls record, with Attic art. 
 The strength and beauty which its waves impart. 
 Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears 
 Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. 
 There Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise. 
 As her fair self reflected seems to rise ! 
 
 Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, 
 
 And all the dull impertinence of life, 
 
 * . . apis Matinse 
 
 More inodoque 
 Grata carpentis thyma . . — I Ion. 
 •f Postea vero qiiam Tyraiiiiio milii libros disposiiit, mens addita 
 videtur mois ffidibiis. — Cic. 
 
124 
 
 These eyelids open to the rising ray, 
 
 And close, when Nature bids, at close of day. 
 
 Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows; 
 
 There noon-day levees call fi-om faint repose. 
 
 Here the flushed wave flings back the parting light; 
 
 There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. 
 
 When from his classic dreams the student steals, * 
 
 Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels, 
 
 To muse unnoticed — while around him press 
 
 The meteor-forms of equipage and dress ; 
 
 Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand 
 
 A very stranger in his native land ! 
 
 And (tho' perchance of current coin possest. 
 
 And modern phrase by living lips exprest) 
 
 Like those blest Youths, forgive the flibling page. 
 
 Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age, 
 
 Spent in sweet slumbers ; till the miner's spade 
 
 Unclosed the cavern, and the morning played. 
 
 Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild delight ! 
 
 New arts of life, new manners meet tlieir sight ! 
 
 In a new world they wake, as from the dead; 
 
 Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled ! 
 
 O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth. 
 Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health ; 
 
 * Ingcnium, sibi quod vacuas desumsit Athenas, 
 Et studiis annos septem dedit, insenuitque 
 Libris et curis, sUtiia taciturnius exit 
 Pleriimque . . . Hor. 
 
125 
 
 Long, in this sheltered scene of lettered talk, 
 With sober step repeat the pensive walk; 
 Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please, 
 The cheap amusements of a mind at ease ; 
 Here every care in sweet oblivion cast, 
 And many an idle hour — not idly passed. 
 
 No tuneful echoes, ambushed at my gate, 
 Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. 
 Vain of its various page, no Album breathes 
 The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. 
 Yet some good Genii o'er my hearth preside, 
 Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide ; 
 And there I trace, when the grey evening lours, 
 A silent chronicle of happier hours ! 
 
 When Christmas revels in a world of snow, 
 And bids her berries blush, her carols flow ; 
 His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings; 
 Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings. 
 O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, 
 And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves ; 
 — Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues, 
 What time the sun the yellow crocus woos, 
 Screened from the arrowy North ; and duly hies * 
 To meet the morning-rumour as it flies ; 
 To range the murmuring market-place, and view 
 The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew. 
 
 * Fallacem circiim, vespcrtimimque ])erfno 
 Sicpc foium IJoii. 
 
126 
 
 When Spring bursts forth in blossoms thro' the vale, 
 And her wild music triumphs on the gale, 
 Oft with my book 1 muse from stile to stile ; * 
 Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile. 
 Framing loose numbers, till declining day 
 Thro' the green trellis shoots a crimson ray; 
 Till the West-wind leads on the twilight hours. 
 And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. 
 
 Nor boast, O Choisy, seat of soft delight, 
 The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. 
 Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power ! 
 Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour. 
 Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen. 
 Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, 
 To hail our coming. Not a step profane 
 Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain ; 
 And, while the frugal banquet glows revealed, 
 Pure and unbought, f — the natives of my field ; 
 While blushing fruits thro' scattered leaves invite, 
 Still clad in bloom, and veiled in azure light; — 
 With wine, as rich in years as Horace sings. 
 With water, clear as his own fountain flings, 
 The shifting side-board plays its humbler part, 
 Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. 
 
 Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught 
 With mental light, and luxury of thought, 
 
 * Taiitot, un livre en miiin, cnaiit diin;; les pn'ries . . — BoiLtAU. 
 f Dupes ineintus . . . — Hon. 
 
127 
 
 My life steals on ; (O could it blend with thine !) 
 Careless my course, yet not without design. 
 So thro' the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, 
 The light raft dropping with the silent tide ; 
 So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, 
 The busy people wing their various flight, 
 Cullino' unnumbered sweets from nameless flowers, 
 That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. 
 
 Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, 
 Caught thro' St. James's groves at blush of day; 
 Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings 
 Thro' trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. 
 Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, * 
 Tho' skilled alike to dazzle and to please ; 
 Tho' each gay scene be searched with anxious eye. 
 Nor thy shut door be passed without a sigh. 
 
 If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more. 
 Some, formed like thee, should once, like thee, explore ; 
 Invoke the lares of his loved retreat. 
 And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet ; 
 Then be it said, (as, vain of better days. 
 Some grey domestic prompts the partial praise) 
 " Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest; 
 Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest. 
 In the clear mirror of his moral page. 
 We trace the manners of a purer age. 
 
 * Iniiocuas amo delicias doctamcuu^ qiiictoni. 
 
128 
 
 His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught, 
 Scorned the false lustre of licentious thought. 
 — One fair asylum from the world he knew, 
 One chosen seat, that charms with various view ! 
 Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) 
 Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas ! in vain. 
 Thro' each he roves, the tenant of a day, 
 yVnd, with the swallow, wings the year away!" 
 
NOTES. 
 
 p. 120, 1. 21. 
 
 Oft o'er the vicad, at pleasing distance, pass 
 Cosmo of Medicis took most pleasure in his Apen- 
 nine villa, because all that he commanded from its 
 windows was exclusively his own. How iinlike the 
 wise Athenian, who, when he had a farm to sell, di- 
 rected the crier to proclaim, as its best recommenda- 
 tion, that it had a good neighbourhood ! 
 
 Plut. in Vit. Themist. 
 
 P. 121, 1. 3. 
 
 And through the various year, the various day, 
 Horace commends the house, " longos quae pro- 
 spicit agros." Distant views contain the greatest 
 variety, both in themselves, and in their accidental 
 variations. 
 
 P. 122, 1. 1. 
 Small change of scene, small space his home requires, 
 Many a great man, in passing througli the apart- 
 ments of his palace, has made the melancholy reflec- 
 tion of the venerable Cosmo : " Questa e troppo gran 
 casa ti si poca famiglia." BIach. 1st Fior. lib. vii. 
 
 " Parva, sed apta mihi," was Ariosto's inscription 
 over his door in Ferrara ; and who can wish to say 
 
 s 
 
130 
 
 more ? " I confess," says Cowley, " I love littleness 
 almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a 
 little cheerful house, a little company, and a very 
 little feast." Essay vi. 
 
 When Socrates was asked why he had built for 
 himself so small a house, " Small as it is," he replied, 
 " I wish I could fill it with friends." 
 
 Ph^edrus, iii. 9. 
 
 These indeed are all that a wise man can desire 
 to assemble; " for a crowd is not company, and faces 
 are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling 
 cymbal, where there is no love." 
 
 P. 122,1.4. 
 From every point a ray of genius Jiows ! 
 
 By these means, when all nature wears a lowering 
 countenance, I withdraw myself into the visionary 
 worlds of art ; where I meet with shining landscapes, 
 gilded triumphs, beautiful faces, and all those other 
 objects that fill the mind with gay ideas. — Addison. 
 
 It is remarkable that Antony, in his adversity, passed 
 some time in a small but splendid retreat, which he 
 called his Timonium, and from which might originate 
 the idea of the Parisian Boudoir, that favourite apart- 
 ment, ou I'on se retire pour elre seul, mats ou I'on ne 
 bolide point. Strabo, 1. xvii. Plut. in Vit. Anton. 
 
 P. 122, 1. 20. 
 At GuiDo's call, Sfc. 
 Alluding to his celebrated fresco in the Rospigliosi 
 Palace at Rome. 
 
i;n 
 
 p. 122, 1. 27. 
 
 yl/id .still the Few best loved and most revered 
 
 The dining-room is dedicated to Conviviality; or, 
 as Cicero somewhere expresses it, " Communitati vitse 
 atque victfis." There we wish most for the society of 
 our friends ; and, perhaps, in their absence, most re- 
 quire their portraits. 
 
 The moral advantages of this furniture may be illus- 
 trated by the story of an Athenian courtezan, who, in 
 the midst of a riotous banquet with her lovers, acci- 
 dentally cast her eye on the portrait of a philosopher, 
 that luing opposite to her seat : the happy character of 
 wisdom and virtue struck her with so lively an image 
 of her own unworthiness, that she instantly left the 
 room ; and, retiring home, became ever afterwards an 
 example of temperance, as she had been before of de- 
 bauchery. 
 
 P. 122,1.28. 
 
 Rise round the board 
 
 " A long table and a square table," says Bacon, 
 " seem things of form, but are things of substance ; 
 for at a long table a few at the upper end, in effect, 
 sway all the business." Perhaps Arthur was right, 
 when he instituted the order of the round table. In 
 the town-house of Aix-la-Chapelle is still to be seen 
 the round table, which may almost literally be said 
 to have given peace to Europe in 1748. Nor is it 
 only at a congress of Plenipotentiaries that place gives 
 precedence. 
 
\32 
 
 P. 123, 1. 4. 
 
 Read ancient hooks, or dream inspiring dreams; 
 
 The reader will lierc remember that passage of Ho- 
 race, Nunc vclerum libris, nunc soinno, Sfc. which was 
 inscribed by Lord Chesterfield on the frieze of his 
 library. 
 
 P. 123, 1. 5. 
 
 And, when a sage's btist arrests thee there, 
 
 Siquidem non solum ex auro argentove, aut certe 
 ex aere in bibliothecis dicantur illi, quorum immortales 
 animae in iisdem locis ibi loquuntur : quinimo etiam 
 quse non sunt, finguntur, pariuntque desideria non 
 •traditi vultus, sicut in Homero evenit. Quo majus 
 (ut equidem arbitror) nullum est felicitatis specimen, 
 quam semper omnes scire cupere, qualis fuerit aliquis. 
 
 Plin. Nat. Hist. 
 
 Cicero speaks with pleasure of a little seat under 
 Aristotle in the library of Atticus. " Literis sustentor 
 et recreor ; maloque in ilia tua sedecula, quam habes 
 sub imagine Aristotelis, sedere, quam in istorum sella 
 curuli !" Ep. ad Att. iv. 10. 
 
 Nor should we forget that Dryden drew inspiration 
 from the " majestic face" of Shakspeare ; and that a 
 portrait of Newton was the only ornament of the closet 
 of Buffon. Ep. to Kneller. Voyage a Montbart. 
 
 In the chamber of a man of genius we 
 
 Write all down : 
 Such and such pictures ; — there the window ; 
 
 the arras, figures, 
 
 Why, such and such. 
 
133 
 
 P. 12.% I. 9. 
 
 Which gathers round the Wise oj every Tongue^ 
 
 Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hospitibus, ex- 
 claims Petrarch. — Spectare, etsi nihil aliud, certc ju- 
 vat. — Homerus apud me mutus, \mh ver5 ego apud 
 ilium surdiis sum. Gaudeo tamen vel aspectu solo, ct 
 saepe ilium amplexus ac suspirans dico : O magne 
 vir, &c. Epist. Var. lib. 20. 
 
 P. 123, 1. 22. 
 As her fair self rcjlcclcd seems to rise! 
 After 1. 22, in a former edition. 
 But hence away ! yon rocky cave beware ! 
 A sullen captive broods in silence there ! 
 There, tho' the dog-star flame, condemned to dwell, 
 In the dark centre of its inmost cell, 
 Wild Winter ministers his dread controul 
 To cool and crystallize the nectared bowl. 
 His faded form an awful grace retains ; 
 Stern tho' subdued, majestic tho' in chains ! 
 
 P. 124, 1. 1. 
 
 These eyelids open to the rising ray, 
 Your bed-chamber, and also your library, says Vi- 
 truvius, should have an eastern aspect ; usus enim 
 matutinum postulat lumen. Not so the picture-gal- 
 lery ; which requires a north light, uti colores in ope, 
 propter constantiam luminis, immutata permaneant 
 qualitate. This disposition accords with his plan of 
 
 a Grecian house. 
 
 P. 124, 1. 15. 
 Like those blest Youths, 
 See the Legend of the Seven Sleepers. Gibbon, 
 c. 33. 
 
134 
 
 P. 125, 1. 8. 
 
 Calch the blest accents of' the wise a7id great, 
 
 Mr. Pope delights in enumerating his illustrious 
 guests. Nor is this an exclusive privilege of the poet. 
 The JMedici Palace at Florence exhibits a long and im- 
 posing catalogue. " Semper hi parietes columnajque 
 eruditis vocibus resonuerunt." 
 
 P. 126,1. 14. 
 Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, 
 
 At a Roman supper statues were sometimes em- 
 ployed to hold the lamps. 
 
 — aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per tedes, 
 Lampadas iguiferas manibus retinentia dextris. 
 
 Lucu. ii. 24. 
 
 A fashion as old as Homer ! Odyss. vii. 100. 
 
 On the proper degree and distribution of light we 
 may consult a great master of effect. II lume grande, 
 ed alto, e non troppo potente, sara quello, che rendera 
 le particole de' corpi molto grate. 
 
 Tratt. della Pittura di Lionardo di Vinci, c. xli. 
 
 Hence every artist requires a broad and high light. 
 Hence also, in a banquet-scene, the most picturesque 
 of all poets has thrown his light from the ceiling. 
 
 ^n. i. 726. 
 
 And hence the " starry lamps" of JMilton, that 
 
 .... from the arched roof 
 Pendent by subtle magic, .... 
 
 yielded light 
 
 As from a sky. 
 
135 
 
 P. 120,1.24. 
 
 Beyond the triumphs of a Lnriot's art. 
 At the pctits soupts of Choisy were first introduced 
 those admirable pieces of mechanism, afterwards car- 
 ried to perfection by Loriot, the Confidente and the 
 Scrvante ; a table and a side-board, which descended, 
 and rose again covered with viands and wines. And 
 thus the most luxurious Court in Europe, after all its 
 boasted refinements, was glad to return at last, by 
 this singular contrivance, to the quiet and privacy of 
 humble life. Vie privee de Louis XV. ii. 43. 
 
 Between 1. 24. and 1. 25. were these lines, since omitted : 
 Hail, sweet Society ! in crowds unknown. 
 Though the vain world would claim thee for its own. 
 Still where thy small and cheerful converse flows, 
 Be mine to enter, ere the circle close. 
 When in retreat Fox lays his thunder by, 
 And AVit and Taste their mingled charms supply ; 
 When SiDDONS, born to melt and freeze the heart. 
 Performs at home her more endearing part ; 
 When He, who best interprets to mankind 
 The winged messengers from mind to mind, 
 Leans on his spade, and, playful as profound, 
 His genius sheds its evening-sunshine round. 
 Be mine to listen ; pleased yet not elate, 
 Ever too modest or too proud to rate 
 Myself by my companions, self-compelled 
 To earn the station that in life I held. 
 They were written in 1 79f>. 
 
 P. 127, 1- 3. 
 So thro' the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, 
 An allusion to the floating bee-house, wliich is 
 seen in some parts of France and Piedmont. 
 
136 
 
 P. 127, 1. 10. 
 
 Coughl l/iro St. James's groves al blush of lUqi ; 
 After 1. 10. in the MS. 
 
 Groves that Belinda's star illumines still, 
 And ancient Courts and faded splendours fill. 
 
 P. 128, 1. 8. 
 
 And, with the swallow, wings the year away! 
 
 It was the boast of Lucullus that he changed his 
 climate with the birds of passage. 
 
 HoAV often must he have felt the truth here incul- 
 cated, that the master of many houses has no home ! 
 
JACQUELINE. 
 
'tlliUilllHIIUHilWM <i| L, 
 
I. 
 
 'TwAS Autumn ; thro' Provence had ceased 
 
 The vintage, and the vintage-feast. 
 
 The sun had set behind the hill, 
 
 The moon was up, and all was still. 
 
 And from the Convent's neighbouring tower 
 
 The clock had tolled the midnight-houi;. 
 
 When Jacqueline came forth alone. 
 
 Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown; 
 
 A guilty thing and full of fears. 
 
 Yet ah, how lovely in her tears ! 
 
140 
 
 She starts, and what has caught her eye? 
 What — but her shadow ghding by ? 
 She stops, she pants ; with lips apart 
 She hstens — to her beating heart ! 
 Then, thro' the scanty orchard stealing, 
 The clustering boughs her track concealing, 
 She flies, nor casts a thought behind. 
 But gives her terrors to tlie wind ; 
 Flies from her home, the humble sphere 
 Of all her joys and sorrows here, 
 Her father's house of mountain-stone, 
 And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown. 
 At such an hour in such a night, 
 So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright. 
 Who would have seen, and not confessed 
 It looked as all within were blest? 
 What will not woman, when she loves ? 
 Yet lost, alas, who can restore her? — 
 She hfts the latch, the w^icket moves ; 
 And now the world is all before her. 
 
 Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone ; 
 — And Jacqueline, his child, was gone ! 
 Oh what the madd'ning thought that came ? 
 Dishonour coupled with his name ! 
 By Conde at Rocroy he stood ; 
 By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. 
 Two banners of Castile he gave 
 Aloft in Notre Dame to wave ; 
 
141 
 
 Nor did thy cross, St. Louis, rest 
 
 Upon a purer, nobler breast. 
 
 He slung his old sword by his side, 
 
 And snatched his staff and rvished to save; 
 
 Then sunk — and on his threshold cried, 
 
 "Oh lay me in my grave ! 
 
 — Constance ! Claudine ! where were ye then ? 
 
 But stand not there. Away! away! 
 
 Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. 
 
 Though old, and now forgot of men, 
 
 Both must not leave him in a day." 
 
 Then, and he shook his hoary head, 
 
 " Unhappy in thy youth !" he said. 
 
 " Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain ; 
 
 No voice sends back thy name again. 
 
 To mourn is all thou hast to do ; 
 
 Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too." 
 
 And who but she could soothe the boy, 
 Or turn his tears to tears of joy? 
 Long had she kissed him as he slept, 
 Long o'er his pillow hung and wept ; 
 And, as she passed her father's door. 
 She stood as she would stir no more. 
 But she is gone, and gone for ever ! 
 No, never shall they clasp her — never ! 
 They sit and listen to their fears ; 
 And he, who thro' the breach had led 
 Over the dying and tlie dead. 
 Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears ! 
 
142 
 
 Oh ! slie was good as she was fair. 
 None — none on earth above her! 
 As pure in thought as angels are, 
 To know her was to love her. 
 When little, and her eyes, her voice, 
 Her every gesture said " rejoice," 
 Her coming was a gladness ; 
 And, as she grew, her modest grace. 
 Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, 
 When, shading with her hand her face, 
 She half inclined to sadness. 
 Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted ; 
 Like music to the heart it went. 
 And her dark eyes — how eloquent ! 
 Ask what they would, 'twas granted. 
 Her father loved her as his fame ; 
 — And Bayard's self had done the same ! 
 
 Soon as the sun the glittering pane 
 On the red floor in diamonds threw, 
 His songs she sung and sung again, 
 Till the last light withdi-ew. 
 But she is dead to him, to all ! 
 Her lute hangs silent on the wall ; 
 And on the stairs, and at the door 
 Her fairy-step is heard no more! 
 At every meal an empty chair 
 Tells him that she is not there ; 
 She, who would lead him where he went, 
 Charm with her converse while he leant ; 
 
Hi] 
 
 Or, hovering, every wish prevent; 
 
 At eve Hght up the chimney-nook. 
 
 Lay there his glass within his book ; 
 
 And that small chest of curious mould, 
 
 (Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,) 
 
 Tusk of elephant and gold ; 
 
 Which, when a tale is long, dispenses 
 
 Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. 
 
 In her who mourned not, when they missed her, 
 
 The old a child, the young a sister ? 
 
 No more the orphan runs to take 
 
 From her loved hand the barley-cake. 
 
 No more the matron in the school 
 
 Expects her in the hour of rule. 
 
 To sit amid the elfin brood, 
 
 Praising the busy and the good. 
 
 The widow trims her hearth in vain. 
 
 She comes not — nor will come again. 
 
 Not now, his little lesson done, 
 
 With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun ; 
 
 Nor spinning by the fountain-side, 
 
 (Some story of the days of old, 
 
 Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told 
 
 To him who would not be denied;) 
 
 Not now, to while an hour away, 
 
 Gone to the falls in Valombre, 
 
 Where 'tis night at noon of day; 
 
 Nor wandering up and down the wood, 
 
 To all but her a solitude, 
 
144 
 
 Where once a wild deev, wild no more, 
 Her chaplet on his antlers wore, 
 And at her bidding stood. 
 
 \.10 
 
 r^ 
 
14.J 
 
 II. 
 
 The clay was in the golden west ; 
 
 And, curtained close by leaf and flower, 
 
 The doves had cooed themselves to rest 
 
 In Jacqueline's deserted bower; 
 
 The doves — that still would at her casement peck, 
 
 And in her walks had ever fluttered round 
 
 u 
 
14{) 
 
 With purple feet and shining neck, 
 True as the echo to the sound. 
 That casement, underneath the trees, 
 Half open to the western breeze. 
 Looked down, enchanting Garonnelle, 
 Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell. 
 Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose. 
 The blush of sunset on their snows : 
 While, blithe as lark on summer-morn. 
 When green and yellow waves the corn. 
 When harebells blow in every grove, 
 And thrushes sing " I love ! I love !" 
 Within (so soon the early rain 
 Scatters, and 'tis fair again ; 
 Though many a drop may yet be seen 
 To tell us where a cloud has been) 
 Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er 
 Building castles on the floor. 
 And feigning, as they grew in size, 
 New troubles and new dangers ; 
 With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes, 
 As he and Fear were strangers. 
 
 St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled. 
 His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ; 
 But every leaf was turned in vain. 
 Then in that hour remorse he felt. 
 And his heart told him he had dealt 
 Unkindly with his child. 
 
147 
 
 A father may awhile refuse ; 
 
 But who can for another chuse ? 
 
 When her young blushes had revealed 
 
 The secret from herself concealed, 
 
 Why promise what her tears denied, 
 
 That she should be De Courcy's bride ? 
 
 — Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art, 
 
 O'er Nature play the tyrant's part. 
 
 And with the hand compel the heart ? 
 
 Oh rather, rather hope to bind 
 
 The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind ; 
 
 Or fix thy foot upon the ground 
 
 To stop the planet rolling round. 
 
 The light was on his face ; and there 
 You might have seen the passions driven — 
 Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair — 
 Like clouds across the face of Heaven. 
 Now he sighed heavily; and now, 
 His hand withdrawing from his brow, 
 He shut the volume with a frown, 
 To walk his troubled spirit down : 
 — When (faithful as that dog of yore * 
 Who wagged his tail and could no more) 
 Manchon, who long had snuffed the ground, 
 And sought and sought, but never found. 
 Leapt up and to the casement flew, 
 And looked and barked, and vanished thro'. 
 * Argus. 
 
148 
 
 " 'Tis Jacqueline! 'Tis Jacqueline!" 
 Her little brother laugliing cried. 
 " I know her by her kirtle green, 
 She comes along the mountain-side ; 
 Now turning by the traveller's seat, — 
 Now resting in the hermit's cave, — 
 Now kneeling, where the pathways meet. 
 To the cross on the stranger's grave. 
 And, by the soldier's cloak, I know 
 (There, there along the ridge they go) 
 D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave ! 
 Look up — why will you not?" he cries. 
 His rosy hands before his eyes ; 
 For on that incense-breathing eve 
 The sun shone out, as loth to leave. 
 *' See — to the rugged rock she clings ! 
 She calls, she faints, and D'Arcy springs ; 
 D'Arcy so dear to us, to all ; 
 Who, for you told me on your knee. 
 When in the fight he saw you fall. 
 Saved you for Jacqueline and me !" 
 
 And true it was ! And true the tale ! 
 When did she sue, and not prevail ? 
 Five years before — it was the night 
 That on the village-green they parted, 
 The lilied banners streaming bright 
 O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted ; 
 
149 
 
 The drum — it drowned the Uist adieu, 
 When D'Arcy from the crowd she drew. 
 " One charge I have, and one alone. 
 Nor that refuse to take. 
 My father — if not for his own, 
 Oh for his daughter's sake !" 
 Inly he vowed — 'twas all he could ; 
 And went and sealed it with his blood. 
 
 Nor can ye wonder. When a child. 
 And in her playfulness she smiled, 
 Up many a ladder-path * he guided 
 Where meteor-like the chamois glided, 
 Thro' many a misty grove. 
 They loved — but under Friendship's name ; 
 And Reason, Virtue fanned the flame. 
 Till in their houses Discord came, 
 And 'twas a crime to love. 
 Then what was Jacqueline to do ? 
 Her father's angry hours she knew, 
 And when to soothe, and when persuade ; 
 But now her path De Courcy crossed, 
 Led by his falcon through the glade — 
 He turned, beheld, admired the maid ; 
 And all her little arts were lost ! 
 De Courcy, Lord of Argentiere ! 
 Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre, 
 Thy tliirst for vengeance sought the snare. 
 
 * Called in the language of the country Pufi-de-VEchdle. 
 
150 
 
 The (lay was named, tlie guests invited ; 
 The bride-groom, at the gate, alighted ; 
 When up the windings of the dell 
 A pastoral pipe was heard to swell, 
 And lo, an humble Piedmontese, 
 Whose music might a lady please. 
 This message thro' the lattice bore, 
 (She listened, and her trembling fi-ame 
 Told her at once from whom it came) 
 "Oh let us fly — to part no more !" 
 
4&)* 
 
 III. 
 
 That morn ('twas in Ste. Julienne's cell. 
 As at Ste. Julienne's sacred well 
 Their ckeam of love began) 
 
152 
 
 That morn, ere many a star was set, 
 
 Their hands had on the altar met 
 
 Before the holy man. 
 
 — And now, her strength, her courage spent, 
 
 And more than half a penitent, 
 
 She comes along the path she went. 
 
 And now the village gleams at last ; 
 
 The woods, the golden meadows passed. 
 
 Where, when Toulouse, thy splendour shone. 
 
 The Troubadour would journey on 
 
 Transported — or, from grove to grove, 
 
 Framing some roundelay of love. 
 
 Wander till the day was gone. 
 
 " All will be well, my Jacqueline ! 
 
 Oh tremble not — but trust in me= 
 
 The Good are better made by 111, 
 
 As odours crushed are sweeter still ; 
 
 And gloomy as thy past has been, 
 
 Bright shall thy future be !" 
 
 So saying, thro' the fragrant shade 
 
 Gently along he led the maid. 
 
 While Manchon round and round her played : 
 
 And, as that silent glen they leave. 
 
 Where by the spring the pitchers stand, 
 
 Where glow-worms light their lamps at eve, 
 
 And fairies dance — in fairy-land, 
 
 (When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round, 
 
 Her finger on her lip, to see ; 
 
 And many an acorn-cup is found 
 
Under the greenwood tree) 
 
 From every cot above, below, 
 
 They gather as they go — 
 
 Sabot, and coif, and collerette, 
 
 The housewife's prayer, the grandam's blessing ! 
 
 Girls that adjust their locks of jet. 
 
 And look and look and linger yet, 
 
 The lovely bride caressing ; 
 
 Babes that had learnt to lisp her name, 
 
 And heroes he had led to fame. 
 
 But what felt D'Arcy, when at length 
 Her father's gate was open flung ? 
 Ah, then he found a giant's strength ; 
 For round him, as for life, she clung ! 
 And when, her fit of weeping o'er, 
 Onward they moved a little space, 
 And saw an old man sitting at the door, 
 Saw his wan cheek, and sunken eye 
 That seemed to gaze on vacancy, 
 Then, at the sight of that beloved face, 
 At once to fall upon his neck she flew ; 
 But — not encouraged — back she drew. 
 And trembling stood in di'ead suspense, 
 Her tears her only eloquence ! 
 All, all — the while — an awful distance keeping; 
 Save D'Ai'cy, who nor speaks nor stirs ; 
 And one, his little hand in hers. 
 Who weeps to see his sister weeping. 
 
 X 
 
154 
 
 Then Jacqueline the silence broke. 
 Slie clasped her father's knees and spoke, 
 Her brother kneeling too ; 
 While D'Arcy as before looked on, 
 Tho' from his manly cheek was gone 
 Its natm'al hue. 
 
 " His praises from your lips I heard, 
 Till my fond heart was won ; 
 And, if in aught his Sire has erred. 
 Oh turn not from the Son ! — 
 She, whom in joy, in grief you nursed ; 
 Who climbed and called you father first, 
 By that dear name conjures — 
 On her you thought — but to be kind ! 
 When looked she up, but you inclined ? 
 These things, for ever in her mind, 
 Oh are they gone from yours ? 
 Two kneeling at your feet behold ; 
 One — one how young ; — nor yet the other old. 
 Oh spurn them not — nor look so cold — 
 If Jacqueline be cast away, 
 Her bridal be her dying day. 
 Well, well might she believe in you ! — 
 She listened, and she found it true." 
 
 He shook his aged locks of snow ; 
 And twice he turned, and rose to go. 
 She htmg ; and was St. Pierre to blame. 
 If tears and smiles together came? 
 
l.j.J 
 
 " Oh no — begone ! I '11 hear no more." 
 But, as he spoke, his voice relented. 
 " That very look thy mother wore 
 When she implored, and old Le Roc consented. 
 True, I have done as well as suffered wrong. 
 Yet once I loved him as my own ! 
 — Nor can'st thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment long ; 
 For she herself shall plead, and I atone. 
 Henceforth," he paused awhile, unmanned, 
 For D'Arcy's tears bedewed his hand; 
 " Let each meet each as friend to friend, 
 All things by all forgot, forgiven. 
 And that dear Saint — may she once more descend 
 To make our home a heaven ! — 
 But now, in my hands, your's with her's unite. 
 A father's blessing on your heads alight ! 
 Nor let the least be sent away. 
 All hearts shall sing ' Adieu to sorrow !' 
 St. Pierre has found his child to-day ; 
 And old and young shall dance to-morrow." 
 
 Had Louis* then before the gate dismounted, 
 Lost in the chase at set of sun ; 
 Like Henry, when he heard recounted t 
 The generous deeds himself had done, 
 
 * Louis tlie Fourteentli. 
 
 f Alluding to a i)opul<ir story related of Henry the Fourth of 
 France : similar to ours of " The KIml' and Aliller of Mansfield." 
 
156 
 
 (That night the miller's maid Colette 
 
 Sung, while he supped, her chansonnette) 
 
 Then — when St. Pierre addressed his village-train, 
 
 Then had the monarch with a sigh confessed 
 
 A joy by him unsought and unpossessed, 
 
 — Without it what are all the rest ? — 
 
 To love, and to be loved again. 
 
157 
 
 ODE TO SUPERSTITION.* 
 
 I. 1. 
 
 Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence ! 
 Thy chain of adamant can bind 
 That little world, the human mind. 
 
 And sink its noblest powers to impotence. 
 Wake the lion's loudest roar, 
 Clot his shaggy mane with gore, 
 With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine ; 
 Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine ! 
 Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steeled the breast. 
 Whence, thro' her April-shower, soft Pity smiled ; 
 Has closed the heart each godlike virtue blessed, 
 To all the silent pleadings of his child. + 
 At thy command he plants the dagger deep. 
 
 At thy command exults, tho' Nature bids him weep! 
 
 * Written in oarly yoiitli. 
 f The sicriiice of Iphigenia. 
 
158 
 
 When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth, " 
 Thou dartedst thy huge head from high, 
 Night waved her banners o'er the sky. 
 And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth. 
 Rocking on the billowy air, 
 Ha! what withering phantoms glare! 
 As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, 
 At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell ! 
 The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, 
 Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by; 
 In every grove is felt a heavier gloom. 
 That veils its genius from the vulgar eye : 
 The spirit of the water rides the storm. 
 And, thro' the mist, reveals the terrors of his form. 
 
 I. 3. 
 
 O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns. 
 And holds each mountain-wave in chains, 
 The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer 
 By glistering star-light thro' the snow. 
 Breathes softly in her wondering ear 
 Each potent spell thou bad'st him know. 
 By thee inspired, on India's sands. 
 Full in the sun the Bramin stands ; 
 
 ♦ Lucretius, I. G3. 
 
lo9 
 
 And, wliile the panting tigress hies 
 
 To quench her fever in the stream, 
 
 His spirit laughs in agonies, 
 Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam. 
 
 Mark wlio mounts the sacred pyre, * 
 
 Blooming in her bridal vest : 
 She hurls the torch ! she fans the fire ! 
 To die is to be blest : 
 
 She clasps her lord to part no more. 
 
 And, sighing, sinks ! but sinks to soar. 
 
 O'ershadowdng Scotia's desert coast, 
 
 The Sisters sail in dusky state, t 
 
 And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost, 
 Weave the airy web of Fate ; 
 While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main, + 
 Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train. 
 
 II. 1. 
 
 Thou spak'st, and lo ! a new creation glowed. 
 Each unhewn mass of living stone 
 Was clad in horrors not its own, 
 And at its base the ti'embling nations bowed. 
 Giant Error, darkly grand. 
 Grasped the globe with iron hand. 
 
 * The funeral rite of the Hindoos. 
 
 f The Fates of the Northern Mythology. See Mai.i.ft's An- 
 tiquities. ^ An allusion to the Second Sight. 
 
160 
 
 Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light 
 Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height. 
 The statue, waking with immortal powers, * 
 Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the spheres; 
 The indignant pyramid sublimely towers, 
 And braves the efforts of a host of years. 
 SM'eet Music breathes her soul into the wind; 
 And bright-eyed Painting stamps the image of the mind. 
 
 n. 2. 
 
 Round their rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise ! 
 A timbrelled anthem swells the gale, 
 And bids the God of Thunders hail ; t 
 With lowings loud the captive God replies. 
 Clouds of incense woo thy smile. 
 Scaly monarch of the Nile ! + 
 But ah ! what myriads claim the bended knee ? § 
 Go, count the busy di'ops that swell the sea. 
 Proud land ! what eye can trace thy mystic lore, 
 Locked up in characters as dark as night? || 
 What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore, 1 
 To which the parted soul oft wings her flight ; 
 Again to visit her cold cell of clay, 
 Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay ? 
 
 * JEn. II. 172, &c. f The bull, Apis. j The Crocodile. 
 § According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult in Egypt 
 to find a god than a man. 
 
 II The Hieroglyphics. ^ Tlie Catacombs. 
 
101 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 On yon hoar summit, mildly bright* 
 With purple ether's liquid light, 
 High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze 
 On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire ; 
 Start at each blue, portentous blaze, 
 Each flame that flits with adverse spire. 
 But say, what sounds my ear invade 
 From Delphi's venerable shade ? 
 The temple rocks, the laurel waves ! 
 " The God! the God!" the Sibyl cries. f 
 Her figure swells ! she foams, she raves ! 
 Her figure swells to more than mortal size ! 
 Streams of rapture roll along. 
 Silver notes ascend the skies : 
 Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song, 
 Oh catch it, ere it dies ! 
 The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er. 
 The holy harpings charm no more. 
 In vain she checks the God's controul; 
 His madding spirit fills her frame, 
 And moulds the features of her soul. 
 Breathing a prophetic flame. 
 The cavern frowns ; its hundred mouths unclose ! 
 And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows ! 
 
 * " The Persiiins," says Herodotus, " have no teiiiplcs, altars, or 
 statues. They sacrifice on the tops ot the liif,'liest niomitaiiis." I. I;]). 
 t Alu. VI. 46, &c. 
 
 V 
 
16^ 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead ! 
 Kites thy brown oaks would never dare 
 Even whisper to tlie idle air ; 
 Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed. 
 Shivered by thy piercing glance, * 
 
 Pointless falls the hero's lance. 
 Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly, * 
 And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. 
 Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! 
 At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: 
 While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, 
 Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar ; 
 Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, 
 Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below. 
 
 III. 2. 
 
 Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears ! 
 
 The red-cross squadrons madly rage, f 
 
 And mow thro' infancy and age ; 
 Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. 
 
 Veiling from the eye of day. 
 
 Penance dreams her life away; 
 In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, 
 While from each shrine still, small responses rise. 
 
 * See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29. 
 
 f This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Joni- 
 salem in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, I\'. 2. 
 
103 
 
 Hear, vvitli what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell 
 Swings its slow summons thro' the hollow pile ! 
 The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight-cell, 
 To walk, with taper dim, the winding isle ; 
 With choral chantings vainly to aspire 
 Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire. 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 liOrd of each pang the nerves can feel, 
 Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. 
 Faith lifts the soul above this little ball ! 
 While gleams of glory open round, 
 And circling choirs of angels call, 
 Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned, 
 Hope to obscure that latent spark. 
 Destined to shine w'hen sims are dark ? 
 Thy triumphs cease ! thro' every land, 
 Hark ! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease ! 
 Her heavenly form, with glowing hand. 
 Benignly points to piety and peace. 
 Flushed with youth, her looks impart 
 
 Each fine feeling as it flows ; 
 Her voice the echo of a heart 
 
 Pure as the mountain-snows : 
 Celestial transports round her play^ 
 And softly, sweetly die away. 
 She smiles! and where is now the cloud 
 That blackened o'er thy baleful reign? 
 
164 
 
 Grim darkness fui'ls his leaden shroud, 
 
 Shrinking from her glance in vain. 
 Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, 
 And lo ! it visits man with beams of light and love. 
 
 Si'*^^"^ 
 
WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN RV 
 MRS. SIDDONS.* 
 
 Yes, 'tis the pulse of life ! my fears were vain ; 
 I wake, 1 breathe, and am myself again. 
 Still in this nether world ; no seraph yet ! 
 Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set. 
 With troubled step to haunt the fatal board. 
 Where I died last — by poison or the sword ; 
 
 * After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, ;it the Theiitre 
 Royal in Drury-lanc, April 27, 179.5. 
 
166 
 
 Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, 
 Done licre so oft by dim and tloubtfid light. 
 
 — To drop all metaphor, that little bell 
 Called back reality, and broke the spell. 
 No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone ; 
 A very woman — scarce restrains her own ! 
 Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, 
 When to be grateful is the part assigned? 
 Ah, no ! she scorns the trappings of her Art ; 
 No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart ! 
 
 But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask ? 
 Is here no other actress, let me ask. 
 Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect. 
 Know every Woman studies stage-effect. 
 She moulds her manners to the part she fills, 
 As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills ; 
 And, as the grave or gay her talent calls. 
 Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. 
 
 First, how her little breast with triumph swells, 
 When the red coral rings its golden bells ! 
 To play in pantomime is then the ra^e, 
 Along the carpet's many-coloured stage ; 
 Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour. 
 Now here, now there, — in noise and mischief ever ! 
 
 A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers. 
 And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours ; 
 Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances ; 
 Playful at church, and serious when she dances; 
 
16- 
 
 'I'ramplcs alike on customs and on toes, 
 And whispers all she hears to all she knows ; 
 Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions ! 
 A romp ! that longest of perpetual motions ! 
 — Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, 
 She sports her lovely face at public places ; 
 And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her Ian, 
 First acts her part with that great actor, man. 
 
 Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies ! 
 Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, siglis ! 
 Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice ; 
 Till fading beauty hints the late advice. 
 Her prudence dictates what her pride disdained, 
 And now she sues to slaves herself had chained! 
 
 Then comes that good old character, a A^'ife, 
 With all the dear, distracting cares of life ; 
 A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, 
 And, in return, a thousand cards receive ; 
 Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, 
 With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire ; 
 Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, 
 A meteor, traced by none, tlio' seen by all ; 
 And, when her shattered nerves forbid to roam, 
 In very spleen — rehearse the girls at home. 
 
 Last the grey Dowager, in ancient flounces, 
 With snufFand spectacles the age denounces; 
 Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle 
 Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile. 
 
1G8 
 
 The .scourge and vidicule of Goth and Vandal, 
 Her tea slie sweetens, as slie sips, with scandal ; 
 With modern Belles eternal warfare wages. 
 Like her own hirds that clamour from their cages ; 
 And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, 
 Like some old Ruin, " nodding to its fall !" 
 
 Thus Woman makes her entrance and her exit ; 
 Not least an actress when she least suspects it. 
 Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, 
 Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot ; 
 Full oft, with energy that scorns controul, 
 At once lights up the features of the soul ; 
 Unlocks each thought chained down by coward Art, 
 And to full day the latent passions start ! 
 — And she, whose first, best wish is your applause,- 
 Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. 
 Born on the stage — thro' every shifting scene, 
 Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, 
 Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired ! 
 And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired? 
 Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, 
 All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things ! 
 To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows ; 
 For all that life endears — to you she owes. 
 
I()9 
 
 ON . . . ASLEEP. 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile. 
 Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
 Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, 
 And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! — 
 
 Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks. 
 And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 
 Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
 What most I wish — and fear to know. 
 
 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
 Her fair hands folded on her breast. 
 — And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
 A seraph in the realms of rest ! 
 
 Sleep on secure ! Above controul, 
 Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ! 
 And may the secret of thy soul 
 Remain within its sanctuary ! 
 
170 
 
 FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. 
 
 While on the cliff with cahii deHght she kneels, 
 And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, 
 See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 
 O fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. 
 
 Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, 
 And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 
 
 FROM EURIPIDES. 
 
 There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. 
 
 The village-girls, singing wild madrigals, 
 
 Dip their white vestments in its waters clear. 
 
 And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her ; 
 
 There on that day. Her dark and eloquent eyes 
 
 'Twas heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice. 
 
 As tuneable as harp of many strings. 
 
 At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul ! 
 
 Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ; 
 And all, who know it, come and come again. 
 
171 
 
 The small birds build there ; and, at summer-noon, 
 Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers, 
 As in the shining grass she sate concealed. 
 Sine to herself. 
 
 FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. 
 
 Love, under Friendship's vesture white, 
 Laughs, his little limbs concealing ; 
 And oft in sport, and oft in spite. 
 Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, 
 Smiles thro' his tears revealing. 
 
 But now as Rage the God appears ! 
 He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !- 
 Frowning, or smiling, or in tears, 
 'Tis Love ; and Love is still the same. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals. 
 And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals; 
 Her softer charms, but by their influence known, 
 Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own. 
 
Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake 
 When the hern screams along the distant lake. 
 Her little heart oft flutters to be free, 
 Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. 
 In vain ! the nurse that rusted relic wears. 
 Nor moved by gold — nor to be moved by tears ; 
 And terraced walls their black reflection tlnow 
 On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 1800. 
 
 Once more, enchanting maid, adieu ! 
 I must be gone while yet I may. 
 Oft shall I weep to think of you; 
 But here I will not, cannot stay. 
 
 The sweet expression of that face, 
 For ever changing, yet the same, 
 Ah no, I dare not turn to trace. 
 It melts my soul, it fires my frame ! 
 
 Yet give me, give me, ere I go. 
 One little lock of those so blest. 
 That lend your cheek a warmer glow, 
 And on your white neck love to rest. 
 
 — Say, when, to kindle soft delight, 
 That hand has chanced with mine to meet, 
 How could its thrilling touch excite 
 A sigh so short, and yet so sweet ? 
 
 O say — but no, it must not be. 
 Adieu ! A long, a long adieu ! 
 — Yet still, methinks, you frown on me ; 
 Or never could I flv from you. 
 
THE SAILOR. 
 
 The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, 
 As all its lessening turrets bluely fade ; 
 He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, 
 And busy fancy fondly lends her aid. 
 
 Ah ! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, 
 Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime. 
 Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view ; 
 Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time. 
 
17.') 
 
 True as the needle, liomeward points his heart, 
 Thro' all the liorrors of the stormy main ; 
 This, the last wish that would with life depart, 
 To meet the smile of her he loves again. 
 
 When Morn first faintly draAvs her silver line, 
 Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave ; 
 When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join, 
 Still, still he sees the parting look slie gave. 
 
 Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, 
 Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; 
 And, when the beating billows round him roar, 
 Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul. 
 
 Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, 
 In many a plantain-forest, waving wide ; 
 Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, 
 And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. 
 
 But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail ! 
 Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend ! 
 And hark, what mingled mui-murs swell the gale ! 
 In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 
 
 — 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand ! 
 Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled; 
 Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land, 
 And clasps the maid he singled from the world. 
 
TO AN OLD OAK. 
 
 Immota manet; niultosque nepotes, 
 Miika virAm volveiis durando sascula, vincit Virg. 
 
 Round thee, alas, no shadows move ! 
 From thee no sacred murmurs breathe ! 
 
177 
 
 Yet within thee, thyself a grove, 
 Once did the eagle scream above, 
 And the wolf howl beneath. 
 
 There once the steel-clad knight reclined, 
 His sable plumage tempest-tossed; 
 And, as the death-bell smote the wind, 
 From towers long fled by human kind. 
 His brow the hero crossed ! 
 
 Then Culture came, and days serene ; 
 And village-sports, and garlands gay. 
 Full many a pathway crossed the green ; 
 And maids and shepherd-youths were seen 
 To celebrate the May. 
 
 Father of many a forest deep. 
 Whence many a navy thunder-fraught ! 
 Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep. 
 Soon destined o'er the world to sweep. 
 Opening new spheres of thought ! 
 
 Wont in the night of woods to dwell, 
 The holy Druid saw thee rise ; 
 And, planting there the guardian-spell. 
 Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell 
 Of human sacrifice ! 
 
 A A 
 
178 
 
 Thy singed top and branches bare 
 Now straggle in the evening-sky ; 
 And the wan moon wheels round to glare 
 On the long corse that shivers there 
 Of him who came to die ! 
 
 
179 
 
 TO TWO SISTERS. 
 
 Well may you sit within, and, fond of" grief, 
 Look in each other's lace, and melt in tears. 
 Well may you shun all counsel, all relief. 
 Oh she was great in mind, tho' young in years ! 
 
 Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed 
 Light when she spoke ; and kindled sweet surprise, 
 As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread. 
 Played round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes. 
 
 Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade. 
 Still to the last enlivened and endeared. 
 Those eyes at once her secret soul conveyed, 
 And ever beamed delight when you appeared. 
 
 Yet has she fled the life of bliss below. 
 That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew? 
 False were the tints ! false as the feverish glow 
 That o'er her burning cheek Distemper threw ! 
 
 And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves ! 
 (Glory and joy reserved for you to share.) 
 Far, far more blest in blessing those slie loves. 
 Than they, alas ! unconscious of her care. 
 
 * On tlie (k'iitli ot ;i younger sister. 
 
,A: ^ 
 
 ON A TEAR. 
 
 Oh ! that the Chemist's magic art 
 Could crystalHze this sacred treasure ! 
 Long should it glitter near my heart, 
 A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
 
 The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
 Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 
 Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 
 The spring of Sensibility ! 
 
181 
 
 Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 
 In thee the rays of Virtue shine; 
 More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
 Than any gem that gilds the mine. 
 
 Benign restorer of the soul ! 
 Who ever fly'st to bring relief, 
 When first we feel the rude controul 
 Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 
 
 The sage's and the poet's theme, 
 In evei'y clime, in every age ; 
 Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream. 
 In Reason's philosophic page. 
 
 That very law * which moulds a tear. 
 And bids it trickle from its source, 
 That law preserves the earth a sphere. 
 And guides the planets in their course. 
 
 * The law of gravitation. 
 
TO 
 
 A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST. 
 
 VaJie, quid affectas facieni milii ponere, pictor? 
 
 Aeiis et linguae sum filia ; 
 
 Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum. — Ausonh'S. 
 
 Once more, Enchantress of the soul, 
 Once more we hail thy soft controul. 
 — Yet whither, whither didst thou fly? 
 To what bright region of the sky ? 
 
183 
 
 Say, in what distant star to dwell ? 
 (Of other worlds thou seem'st to tell) 
 Or trembling, fluttering here below, 
 Resolved and unresolved to go, 
 In secret didst thou still impart 
 Thy raptures to the pure in heart? 
 
 Perhaps to many a desert shore, 
 Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore ; 
 Thy broken murmurs swept along, 
 Mid Echoes yet untuned by song; 
 Arrested in the realms of Frost, 
 Or in the wilds of Ether lost. 
 
 Far happier thou ! 'twas thine to soar, 
 Careering on the winged wind. 
 Thy triumphs who shall dare explore ? 
 Suns and their systems left behind. 
 No tract of space, no distant star. 
 No shock of elements at war, 
 Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire 
 Bore thee amid the Cherub-choir; 
 And there awhile to thee 'twas given 
 Once more that Voice* beloved to join, 
 Which taught thee first a flight divine. 
 And nursed thy infant years M'ith many a strain 
 from Heaven ! 
 
 * Mrs. Sheridan's. 
 
THE BOY OF EGREMOND. 
 
 " Say, what remains when Hope is fled? " 
 She answered, " Endless weeping!" 
 For in the herdsman's eye she read 
 Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 
 
 At Embsay rung the matin-bell, 
 The stag was roused on Bardcn-fell ; 
 The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, 
 And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; 
 
18; 
 
 When near the cabin in the M'ood, 
 
 In tartan clad and forest-green, 
 
 With hovmd in leash and hawk in hood, 
 
 The Boy of Egremond was seen. * 
 
 Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; 
 
 But where the rock is rent in two, 
 
 And the river rushes through, 
 
 His voice was heard no more ! 
 
 'Twas but a step ! the gulf he passed ; 
 
 But that step — it was his last ! 
 
 As through the mist he winged his way, 
 
 (A cloud tliat hovers night and day,) 
 
 The hound hung back, and back he drew 
 
 The Master and his merlin too. 
 
 That narrow place of noise and strife 
 
 Received their little all of Life ! 
 
 There now the matin-bell is rung ; 
 The " Miserere !" duly sung ; 
 And holy men in cowl and hood 
 Are wandering up and down the wood. 
 But what avail they? Ruthless Lord, 
 Thou didst not shudder when the sword 
 
 * In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the val- 
 leys of Craven with fire and sword ; and was afterwards established 
 there by his uncle, David King of Scotland. 
 
 He was the last of the race ; his son, commonly called the Boy of 
 Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related ; when a 
 Priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as 
 near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That 
 place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's 
 answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often rejjcntcd 
 in Wliarfedale. — See Wiut'AKEK's Hist, of Craven. 
 
186 
 
 Here on the young its fury spent, 
 
 The helpless and the innocent. 
 
 Sit now and answer groan for groan. 
 
 The child before thee is thy own. 
 
 And she who wildly wanders there, 
 
 The mother in her long despair. 
 
 Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, 
 
 Of those who by the VVharfe were weeping ; 
 
 Of those who would not be consoled 
 
 When red with blood the river rolled. 
 
187 
 
 WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. 
 1793. 
 
 There, in that bed so closely curtained round, 
 Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, 
 A father sleeps ! Oh hushed be every sound ! 
 Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! 
 
 He stirs — yet still he sleeps. May heavenly di'eams 
 Long o'er his smoothed and settled pillow rise ; 
 Nor fly, till morning thro"" the shutter sti'eams, 
 And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies. 
 
iSS 
 
 TO 
 
 Ah ! little thought she, when, with M'ild delight, 
 By many a torrent's shining track she flew, 
 When mountain-glens and caverns full of night 
 O'er her young mind divine enchantment threw, 
 
 That in her veins a secret horror slept, 
 That her light footsteps should be heard no more, 
 That she should die — nor watched, alas, nor wept 
 By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore. 
 
 Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew 
 The kindred forms her closing eye required. 
 There didst thou stand— there, with the smile she knew ; 
 She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. 
 
 And now to thee she comes ; still, still the same 
 As in the hours gone unregarded by ! 
 To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came ; 
 Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye ! 
 
 Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears. 
 When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, 
 By the way-side she shed her parting tears — 
 For ever lovely in the light of Youth ! 
 
 * Oh the death of her sister. 
 
Sf^t^arti. JtA 
 
 TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 
 
 1798. 
 
 On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers 
 The maid thy eavhest, fondest wishes knew. 
 Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers ; 
 Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. 
 
 As on she moves with hesitating grace, 
 She wins assurance from his soothing voice ; 
 And, with a look the pencil could not trace, 
 Smiles thro' her blushes, and confirms the choice. 
 
190 
 
 Spare the fiue tremorb of her feehng frame ! 
 To thee slie turns — forgive a virgin's feai's ! 
 To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim ; 
 Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ! 
 
 At each response the sacred ifte requires. 
 From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. 
 A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires ; 
 And on her lips the trembling accents die. 
 
 Cer her fair face what wild emotions play! 
 What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend ! 
 Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, 
 And settled sunshine on her soul descend ! 
 
 Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought ! 
 That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers ; 
 And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, 
 Gild the calm current of domestic hours ! 
 
191 
 
 TO THE 
 YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY • • 
 
 Ah ! why with tell-tale tongue reveal * 
 What most her blushes would conceal ? 
 Why lift that modest veil to trace 
 The seraph-sweetness of her face ? 
 Some fairer, better sport prefer ; 
 And feel for us, if not for her. 
 
 For this presumption, soon or late, 
 Know thine shall be a kindred fate. 
 Another shall in vengeance rise — 
 Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes ; 
 And, echoing back her wood-notes wild, 
 — Trace all the mother in the child ! 
 
 * Alluding to some verses wliieh slie liad writton on an elder 
 sister. 
 
'^T 
 
 THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. 
 
 The sun-beams streak the azure skies, 
 And line with Hght the mountain's brow : 
 With hounds and horns the hunters rise, 
 And chase the roebuck thro' the snow. 
 
193 
 
 From rock to rock, witli giant-bound, 
 High on their iron poles they pass; 
 Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound, 
 Rend from above a frozen mass. 
 
 The goats wind slow their wonted way. 
 Up craggy steeps and ridges rude ; 
 Marked by the wild wolf for his prey, 
 From desert cave or hanging wood. 
 
 And while the torrent thunders loud, 
 And as the echoing cliffs reply. 
 The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud, 
 Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high. 
 
 Stctha>-d, Jiut 
 
 (■ c 
 
194 
 
 WRITTEN AT MIDNKiHT. 
 1786. 
 
 While thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs, 
 And my step falters on the faithless floor, 
 Shades of departed joys around me rise, 
 With many a face that smiles on me no more ; 
 With many a voice that thrills of transport gave. 
 Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave ! 
 
 TO 
 
 Go — you may call it madness, folly ; 
 You shall not chase my gloom away. 
 There 's such a charm in melancholy, 
 I would not, if I could, be gay. 
 
 Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
 That fills my bosom when I sigh. 
 You would not rob me of a treasure 
 Monarchs are too poor to buy. 
 
19o 
 
 TO THE FRAGMENT OF 
 A STATUE OF HERCULES, 
 
 CO.M.MOXLY CALLED 
 
 THE TORSO. 
 
 And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, 
 (Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurled) 
 Still sit as on the fragment of a world; 
 Surviving all, majestic and alone ? 
 What tho' the Spirits of the North, that swept 
 Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept, 
 Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk 
 Deep in the dust mid tower and temple sunk; 
 Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to rise, 
 Still, still unquelled thy glorious energies ! 
 Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught * 
 Bright revelations of the Good they sought ; 
 By thee that long-lost spell "♦" in secret given, 
 To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to Heaven ! 
 
 * In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Julius II., 
 it was long the favourite study of those great men to whom we owe 
 the revival of the arts, oMichael Angclo, Raphael, and the Caracci. 
 
 f Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may believe an 
 ancient epigram on the Gnidian Venus. 
 
 Analecta Vet. Poetarum, 111. 200. 
 
^ :± 
 
 A W I S PI. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear , 
 A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 
 AVith many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 
 
19" 
 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
 And share my meal, a w elfoiiie guest. 
 
 Around my ivy'd })()rch shall spring 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing- 
 In russet-gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village-church, among the trees, 
 Where first oiu' marriage-vows were given, 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
IJJS 
 
 TO THE GNAT. 
 
 When by the gieen-wood side, at summer eve, 
 
 Poetic visions charm my closing eye ; 
 
 And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, 
 
 Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy; 
 
 'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey. 
 
 Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, 
 
 Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away, 
 
 And all is Solitude, and all is Night! 
 
 — Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, 
 
 Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air ! 
 
 No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, 
 
 Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. 
 
 Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings, 
 
 Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. 
 
 Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings ! 
 
 — I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more ! 
 
!)!i 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.* 
 
 Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, 
 When piping winds are hushed around, 
 A small note wakes from underground, 
 Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
 No more in lone and leafless groves, 
 With ruffled wing and faded breast, 
 His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 
 — Gone to the world where birds are blest ! 
 Where never cat glides o'er the green, 
 Or school-boy's giant form is seen ; 
 But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring- 
 Inspire their little souls to sing ! 
 
 * Insnibed on nn urn in tlu' Howcr-paiden <at Hafod, 
 

 AN ITALIAN SONG. 
 
 Dear is my little native vale, 
 
 The ring-dove builds and muvmuvs there ; 
 
 Close by my cot she tells her tale 
 
 To every passing villager. 
 
201 
 
 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
 And shells his nuts at liberty. 
 
 In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, 
 That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
 I charm the fairy-footed hours 
 ■With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 
 Or crowns of living laurel weave. 
 For those that win the race at eve. 
 
 The shepherd's horn at break of day. 
 The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
 The canzonet and roundelay 
 Sung in the silent green-wood shade ; 
 These simple joys, that never fail, 
 Shall bind me to my native vale. 
 
 D D 
 
'202 
 
 TO THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, 
 Minghng with her thou lov'st in fields of light ; 
 And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, 
 QuaiF fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. 
 There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, 
 Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 
 — Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept 
 On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. 
 And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
 To burst a seraph in the blaze of day! 
 
WRITTEN IN 
 THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, 
 
 SEPTEMBER 2, 1812. 
 
 Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone, 
 Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, 
 When, Luss, I left thee ; when the breeze 
 Bore me from thy silver sands, 
 
20 i 
 
 Thy kiik-yard wall among the trees, 
 Where, grey with age, the dial stands ; 
 That dial so well-known to me ! 
 — Tho' many a shadow it had shed. 
 Beloved Sister, since with thee 
 The legend on the stone was read. 
 
 The fairy-isles fled far away ; 
 That with its w^oods and uplands green. 
 Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, 
 And songs are heard at close of day ; 
 That too, the deer's wild covert, fled. 
 And that, the asylum of the dead : 
 While, as the boat went merrily. 
 Much of Rob Roy the boat-man told ; 
 His arm that fell below his knee. 
 His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. 
 
 Tarbat, * thy shore I climbed at last ; 
 And, thy shady region passed. 
 Upon another shore I stood. 
 And looked upon another flood ; "^ 
 Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills 
 That vast and awful depth of hills ;) 
 W here many an elf was playing round. 
 Who treads unshod his classic ground ; 
 And speaks, his native rocks among. 
 As FiNGAL spoke, and Ossian sung. 
 
 * Signifying; in the Gaelic language an Istliinii 
 f Loch- Long. 
 
205 
 
 Night fell ; and dark and darker grew 
 That narrow sea, that narrow sky, 
 As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; 
 The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 
 And now the grampus, half-descried, 
 Black and huge above the tide ; 
 The cliffs and promontories there, 
 Front to front, and broad and bare ; 
 Each beyond each, with giant-feet 
 Advancing as in haste to meet ; 
 The shattered fortress, whence the Dane 
 Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain, 
 Tyrant of the drear domain ; 
 All into midnight-shadow sweep — 
 When day springs upward from the deep ! * 
 Kindling the waters in its flight. 
 The prow wakes splendour ; and the oar, 
 That rose and fell unseen before. 
 Flashes in a sea of light ! 
 Glad sign, and sure ! for now we hail 
 Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ; 
 And bright indeed the path should be, 
 That leads to Friendship and to Thee ! 
 
 Oh blest retreat, and sacred too ! 
 Sacred as when the bell of prayer 
 Tolled duly on the desert air. 
 And crosses decked thy summits blue. 
 
 * A plu'iioiiK'iioii (lesnil(t'(l liy niHiiy UHvigalor.s. 
 
206 
 
 Oft, like some loved romantic tale, 
 Oft shall my weary mind recall, 
 Amid the hum and stir of men. 
 Thy beechen grove and waterfall. 
 Thy ferry with its gliding sail, 
 And Her — the Lady of the Glen ! 
 
20^ 
 
 AN INSCRIPTION 
 
 IN THK CHIMKA. 
 
 Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, 
 Wliate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst. 
 Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, 
 Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse. 
 This iron cup chained for the general use. 
 And these rude seats of earth within the grove. 
 Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 
 'Twas here she turned from her beloved sire. 
 To see his face no more. * Oh, if thou canst, 
 
 * There is a beautiful stoiy, delivered down to us from antiquity, 
 which will here perhaps occur to the reader. 
 
 Icarius, when he gave Penelope in marriage to Ulysses, endea- 
 voured to persuade him to dwell in Lacedaemon ; and, when all he 
 urged was to no purpose, he entreated his daughter to remain with 
 him. When Ulysses set out with his bride for Ithaca, the old man 
 followed the chariot, till, overcome by his importunity, Ulysses con- 
 sented that it should be left to Penelope to decide whether she would 
 proceed with him or return with her father. It is related, says Pau- 
 sanias, that she made no reply, but that she covered herself with her 
 veil; and that Icaiiiis, perceiving at once by it that she inclined to 
 Ulysses, suffered her to depart with him. 
 
 A statue was afterwards placed by her father as a memorial in 
 that part of the road where she had covered herself witli her veil. It 
 was still standing there in the days of Pausanias, ami was called the 
 statue of Alodesty. 
 
5^08 
 
 ('Tis not fav oft") visit his tomb with flowers ; 
 And with a drop of this sweet water fill 
 The two small cells scooped in the marble there, 
 That birds may come and drink upon his grave, 
 Making it holy* 
 
 AN INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE 
 DEDICATED TO THE GRACE S.f 
 
 Approach with reverence. There are those within, 
 Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove, 
 From them flow all the decencies of Life ; 
 Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self 
 Admired not loved : and those on whom They smile, 
 Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful. 
 Shine forth with double lustre. 
 
 * A Tiirkisli superstition. 
 f At Wobiirii-Al»l)ey. 
 
f209 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1815. 
 
 Well, when her clay is over, be it said. 
 That tho' a speck on the terrestrial globe, 
 Found with long search and in a moment lost. 
 She towered among the nations. Every sea 
 Was covered with her ships, in every port 
 Her language spoken ; and the mightiest kings, 
 Each in his hour of strife exhausted, fallen. 
 Drew strength from her, their coffers from her own 
 Filled to o'erflowing. When her fleets of war 
 Had swept the ocean, not an adverse prow 
 From pole to pole, far as the sea-bird flies. 
 Ruffling the tide ; and they themselves were gone, 
 Gone from the eyes and from the minds of men. 
 Their dreadful errands so entirely done, 
 Up rose her armies ; on the land they stood, 
 Fearless, erect ; and in an instant felled 
 Him with his legions. * 
 
 * An allusion to the battle of Waterloo. The illustrious Man 
 who commanded there on our side, and who, in his anxiety to do 
 justice to others, never fails to forget himself, said many years after- 
 wards to the Author with some agitation, when relating an occur- 
 rence of that day, " It was a battle of giants !" 
 
 E E 
 
210 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Man to the last is but a tVoward child ; 
 
 So eager for the future, come what may, 
 
 And to the present so insensible ! 
 
 Oh, if he could in all things as he would. 
 
 Years would as days and hours as moments be ; 
 
 He would, so restless is his spirit here. 
 
 Give wings to Time, and wish his life away! 
 
 The heart, they say, is wiser than the schools ; 
 And well they may. All that is great in thought, 
 That strikes at once as with electric fire. 
 And lifts us, as it were, from earth to heaven. 
 Comes from the heart ; and who confesses not 
 Its voice as sacred, nay almost divine. 
 When inly it declares on what we do. 
 Blaming, approving ? Let an erring world 
 Judge as it will, we care not while we stand 
 Acquitted there ; and oft, when clouds on clouds 
 Compass us round and not a track appears, 
 Oft is an upright heart the surest guide, 
 Surer and better than the subtlest head ; 
 Still with its silent counsels thro' the dark 
 Onward and onward leading. 
 
211 
 
 WRITTEN AT DROPMORE, 
 
 JULY, 1831. 
 
 Grenville, to thee my gratitude is due 
 
 For many an hour of studious musing here, 
 
 For many a day-dream, such as hovered round 
 
 Hafiz or Sadi ; thro' the golden East, 
 
 Search where we would, no fairer bowers than these. 
 
 Thine own creation ; where, called forth by thee, 
 
 " Flowers worthy of Paradise, with rich inlay, 
 
 Broider the ground," and every mountain-pine 
 
 Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds. 
 
 His kindi'ed sweeping with majestic march 
 
 From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge 
 
 Of Caucasus, or nearer yet the Moon) 
 
 Breathes heavenly music. — Yet much more I owe 
 
 For what so few, alas, can hope to share, 
 
 Thy converse ; when, among thy books reclined, 
 
 Or in thy garden-chair that wheels its course 
 
 Slowly and silently thro' sun and shade, 
 
 Thou speak'st, as ever thou art wont to do, 
 
 In the calm temper of philosophy; 
 
 — Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theme. 
 
tiUi 
 
 WRITTEN IN 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY,* 
 
 OCTOBER 10, 1806. 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, 
 
 Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie. t 
 
 There sleeps the dust of FOX for ever gone; 
 
 How near the Place where late his glory shone ! 
 
 And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer, 
 
 Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there. 
 
 Still, like an awful Dream that comes again, 
 
 Alas, at best, as transient and as vain. 
 
 Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night 
 
 The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite) 
 
 The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle, 
 
 That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile ; 
 
 The illustrious line, that in long order led. 
 
 Of those, that loved Him living, mourned Him dead; 
 
 Of those the Few, that for their Country stood 
 
 Round Him who dared be singularly good ; 
 
 * After the Funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 
 f Venez voir le pen qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c. — Bos- 
 suet. Oraison funebre de Louis de Bourbon. 
 
21.3 
 
 All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own; 
 And nothing wanting — but Himself alone ! * 
 
 Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name ; 
 Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame ? 
 Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead ! 
 Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed ? 
 (Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave ; 
 How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !) 
 In Him, resentful of another's wrong. 
 The dumb w-ere eloquent, the feeble strong. 
 Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew — 
 Ah, w^ho so mighty and so gentle too? 
 
 What tho' with War the madding Nations rung, 
 ' Peace,' when He spoke, was ever on his tongue ! 
 Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, 
 Fearless, resolved, and negligently great ! 
 In vain malignant vapours gathered round ; 
 He walked, erect, on consecrated ground. 
 Tlie clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, 
 Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away! 
 
 When in retreat He laid his thunder by, 
 For lettered ease and calm Philosophy, 
 Blest were his hours within the silent gi'ove, 
 Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove ; 
 Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, 
 For many a deed, long done in secret there. 
 There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page. 
 There, listening, sate the hero and the sage ; 
 
 * Et lien eiiliii iic iiuiiiquc dans tons cos lioiiiifiiis, (jiio celui A 
 qui on k's lend. — Ibid. 
 
214 
 
 And they, by virtue and by blood allied, 
 
 Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died. 
 
 Friend of all Hmiian-kind ! not here alone 
 (The voice, that speaks, was not to Thee unknown) 
 Wilt Thou be missed. — O'er every land and sea 
 Long, long shall England be revered in Thee ! 
 And, when the Storm is hushed — in distant years — 
 Foes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears ! 
 
THE 
 
 VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS 
 
 CHI SE' TV, CHE VIENI — ? 
 DA ME 8TESSO NON VEGNO. 
 
 UANTE. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following Poem (or, to speak more properly, 
 what remains of it*) has here and there a lyrical 
 turn of thought and expression. It is sudden in its 
 transitions, and full of historical allusions ; leaving 
 much to be imagined by the reader. 
 
 The subject is a voyage the most memorable in 
 the annals of mankind. Columbus was a person of 
 extraordinary virtue and piety, acting under the 
 sense of a divine impulse ; and his achievement the 
 discovery of a New World, the inhabitants of which 
 were shut out from the light of Revelation, and 
 given up, as they believed, to the dominion of 
 malignant spirits. 
 
 Many of the incidents will now be thought ex- 
 travagant ; yet they were once perhaps received with 
 something more than indulgence. It was an age of 
 
 * The Original in the Castilian language, according to the 
 Inscription that follows, was foiuid among other MSS. in an old 
 religious house near Palos, situated on an island formed by the 
 river Tinto, and dedicated to our Lady of La Rabida. The Writer 
 describes himself as having sailed with ('olinnbus; but his style 
 :ind manner arc evident!}- of an after-time. 
 
 F F 
 
218 
 
 miracles ; and who can say tliat among the venerable 
 legends in the library of the Escurial, or the more 
 authentic records which fill the great chamber in 
 the Archivo of Simancas, and which relate entirely 
 to the deep tragedy of America, there are no volumes 
 that mention the marvellous things here described ? 
 Indeed the story, as already told throughout Europe, 
 admits of no heightening. Such was the religious 
 enthusiasm of the early writers, that the Author had 
 only to transfuse it into his verse ; and he appears 
 to have done little more ; though some of the cir- 
 cumstances, which he alludes to as well-known, have 
 long ceased to be so. By using the language of 
 that day, he has called up Columbus " in his habit 
 as he lived ;" and the authorities, such as exist, are 
 carefully given by the Translator. 
 
INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL 
 MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 Unclasp me, Stranger; and unfold, 
 Witli trembling care, my leaves of gold, 
 Rich in gothic portraiture — 
 If yet, alas, a leaf endure. 
 
220 
 
 111 II A Bi da's monastic fane 
 I cannot ask, and ask in vain. 
 The language of Castile I speak; 
 Mid many an Arab, many a Greek, 
 Old in the days of Charlemain ; 
 When minstrel-music wandered round, 
 And Science, waking, blessed the sound. 
 
 No earthly thought has here a place, 
 The cowl let down on every face ; 
 Yet here, in consecrated dust, 
 Here would I sleep, if sleep I must. 
 From Genoa when Columbus came, 
 (At once her glory and her shame) 
 'Twas here he caught the holy flame. 
 'Twas here the generous vow he made ; 
 His banners on the altar laid. 
 
 Here, tempest-worn and desolate,* 
 A Pilot, journeying thro' the wild, 
 Stopt to solicit at the gate 
 A pittance for his child. 
 
 * We have an interesting account of his first appearance in Spain, 
 tliat Coimtry which was so soon to be the theatre of his glory. Ac- 
 cording to the testimony of Garcia Fernandez, the Physician of Palos, 
 a sea-faring man, accompanied by a very young boy, stopped one 
 day at the gate of the Convent of La Rabida and asked of tlie porter 
 a little bread and water for his child. While they were receiving 
 this hnmhlr refreshment, the Prior, Juan Perez, happening to pass 
 
221 
 
 'Twas here, unknowing and unknown, 
 He stood upon tlie threshold-stone. 
 But hope was his — a faith subhme, 
 That triumphs over place and time ; 
 And here, his mighty labour done. 
 And his course of glory run. 
 Awhile as more than man he stood, 
 So large the debt of gratitude ! 
 
 One hallowed morn, methought, I felt 
 As if a soul within me dwelt ! 
 But who arose and gave to me 
 The sacred trust I keep for thee, 
 And in his cell at even-tide 
 Knelt before the cross and died — 
 Inquire not now. His name no more 
 Glimmers on the chancel-floor, 
 Near the lights that ever shine 
 Before vSt. Mary's blessed shrine. 
 
 To me one little hour devote, 
 And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee ; 
 
 by, was struck with the look and manner of the stranger, and, enter- 
 ing into conversation with liim, soon learnt the particulars of his 
 story. The stranger was Columbus ; the boy was his son Diego ; and, 
 but for this accidental interview, America might have remained long 
 undiscovered : for it was to the zeal of Juan Perez that he was finally 
 indebted for the accomplishment of his great purpose. See that 
 excellent History of Columbus, written by Washington Irving. 
 
222 
 
 Read in the temper that he wrote, 
 And may his gentle spirit guide thee ! 
 My leaves forsake me, one by one ; 
 The book-worm thro' and thro' has gone. 
 Oh haste — unclasp me, and unfold ; 
 The tale within was never told ! 
 
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 There is a spirit in the old Spanish Chroniclers 
 of the sixteenth century that may be compared to the 
 freshness of water at the fountain-head. Their sim- 
 plicity, their sensibihty to the sti'ange and the won- 
 derful, their very weaknesses give an infinite value, 
 by giving a life and a character to every thing they 
 touch ; and their religion, which bursts out every 
 where, addresses itself to the imagination in the 
 highest degree. If they err, their errors are not their 
 own. They think and feel after the fashion of the 
 time ; and their narratives are so many moving pic- 
 tures of the actions, manners, and thoughts of their 
 contemporaries. 
 
 What they had to communicate, might well make 
 them eloquent; but, inasmuch as relates to Colum- 
 bus, the Inspiration went no farther. No National 
 Poem appeared on the subject; no Camoens did 
 honour to his Genius and his Virtues. Yet the 
 materials, that have descended to us, are surely not 
 unpoetical ; and a desire to avail myself of them, to 
 convey in some instances as far as I could, in others 
 
22i' 
 
 as far as I dared, their warmth of colouring and 
 wildness of imagery, led me to conceive the idea of 
 a Poem written not long after his death, when the 
 great consequences of the Discovery were beginning 
 to unfold themselves, but while the minds of men 
 were still clinging to the superstitions of their fathers. 
 The Event here described may be thought too 
 recent for the Machinery; but I found them toge- 
 ther.* A belief in the agency of Evil Spirits prevailed 
 over both hemispheres ; and even yet seems almost 
 necessary to enable us to clear up the Darkness, 
 
 And justify the ways of God to Men. 
 
 * Perhaps even a contemporary subject should not be rejected 
 as such, however wild and extravagant it may be, if the manners 
 be foreign and the place distant — major e longinquo reverentia. 
 L'eloignement des pays, says Racine, repare en quelque sorte la 
 trop grande proximity des temps ; car le peuple ne met guere de 
 difference entre ce qui est, si j'ose ainsi parler, a mille ans de lui, 
 et ce qui en est a mille lieues. 
 
THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Columbus, having wandered from kingdom to king- 
 dom, at length obtains three ships and sets sail on the 
 Atlantic. The compass alters from its ancient di- 
 rection; the wind becomes constant and unremitting; 
 night and day he advances, till he is suddenly stopped 
 in his course by a mass of vegetation, extending as far 
 as the eye can reach, and assuming the appearance 
 of a country overwhelmed by the sea. Alarm and 
 despondence on board. He resigns himself to the 
 care of Heaven, and proceeds on his voyage. 
 
 Meanwhile the deities of America assemble in coun- 
 cil ; and one of the Zemi, the gods of the islanders, 
 announces his approach. " In vain," says he, " have 
 we guarded the Atlantic for ages. A mortal has 
 baffled our power ; nor Avill our votaries arm against 
 him. Yours are a sterner race. Hence ; and, while 
 wc have recourse to stratagem, do you array the na- 
 tions round your altars, and prepare for an exter- 
 minating war." They disperse while he is yet speak- 
 ing ; and, in the shape of a condor, he directs his 
 flight to the fleet. His journey described. He ar- 
 rives there. A panic. A mutiny. Columbus re- 
 
 G G 
 
226 
 
 stores order ; continues on his voyage ; and lands in 
 a New World, Ceremonies of the first interview. 
 Rites of hospitality. The ghost of Cazziva. 
 
 Two months pass away, and an Angel, appearing 
 in a dream to Columbus, thus addresses liim : " Re- 
 turn to Europe ; though your Adversaries, such is 
 the will of Heaven, shall let loose the hurricane 
 against you. A little while shall they triumph ; in- 
 sinuating themselves into the hearts of your followers, 
 and making the World, which you came to bless, a 
 scene of blood and slaughter. Yet is there cause for 
 rejoicing. Your work is doiie. The cross of Christ 
 is planted here ; and, in due time, all things shall be 
 made perfect I" 
 
i 
 
 :J%._._ 
 
 CANTO f. 
 
 Niffftt — Columbus on the Atlantic — fJtn Viirintion of 
 the Compass, SfC. 
 
 Say who, when age on age had rolled away, 
 And still, as sunk the golden Orb of dav, 
 The seaman watched him, while he lingered here. 
 With many a wish to follow, many a fear, 
 
228 
 
 And gazed and gazed and wondered where he went, 
 So bright his path, so glorious his descent, 
 Who first adventured — In his birth obscure, 
 Yet born to build a Fame that should endure, 
 Who the great secret of the Deep possessed. 
 And, issuing through the portals of the West, 
 Fearless, resolved, with every sail unfurled, 
 Planted his standard on the Unknown World ? 
 Him, by the Paynim bard descried of yore, 
 And ere his coming sung on either shore, 
 Him could not I exalt — by Heaven designed 
 To lift the veil that covered half mankind ! 
 Yet, ere I die, I would fulfil my vow ; 
 Praise cannot wound his generous spirit now. 
 
 'Twas night. The Moon, o'er the wide wave, disclosed 
 Her awful face ; and Nature's self reposed ; 
 When, slowly rising in the azure sky, 
 Three white sails shone — but to no mortal eye. 
 Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast. 
 The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast, 
 Half breathed his orisons! Alone unchanged. 
 Calmly, beneath, the great Commander ranged, 
 Thoughtful not sad ; and, as the planet grew, "j 
 
 His noble form, wrapt in his mantle blue, > 
 
 Athwart the deck a deepening shadow threw. J 
 
0^9 
 
 " Thee hath it pleased — Thy will be done !" he said,N 
 
 Then sought his cabin ; and, their garments spread, > 
 
 Around him lay the sleeping as the dead, J 
 
 When, by his lamp, to that mysterious Guide, 
 
 On whose still counsels all his hopes relied, 
 
 That Oracle to man in mercy given. 
 
 Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven, 
 
 Who over sands and seas directs the stray. 
 
 And, as with God's own finger, points the way, 
 
 He turned ; but what strange thoughts perplexed his soul , 
 
 When, lo, no more attracted to the Pole, 
 
 The Compass, faithless as the circling vane. 
 
 Fluttered and fixed, fluttered and fixed again ! 
 
 At length, as by some unseen Hand imprest, 
 
 It sought with trembling energy the West ! * 
 
 " Ah no !" he cried, and calmed his anxious brow. \ 
 
 " 111, nor the signs of ill, 'tis thine to show ; > 
 
 Thine but to lead me where I wished to go !" j 
 
 Columbus erred not. In that awful hour. 
 Sent forth to save, and girt with God-like power, 
 And glorious as the regent of the sun, t 
 An Angel came ! He spoke, and it was done ! 
 He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty W^ind, 
 Not like the fitful blast, with fury blind. 
 But deep, majestic, in its destined course, 
 Sprung with unerring, unrelenting force, 
 
 * Henera, dec. I. lib. i. c. 0. f Rev. xix. 17. 
 
230 
 
 From the bright East. Tides duly ebbed and flowed ; 
 Stars rose and set; and new horizons glowed; 
 Yet still it blew ! As with primeval sway 
 Still did its ample spirit, night and day, 
 Move on the waters ! — All, resigned to Fate, 
 Folded their arms and sate ; and seemed to wait 
 Some sudden change ; and sought, in chill suspense, 
 New spheres of being, and new modes of sense ; 
 As men departing, though not doomed to die, 
 And midway on their passage to eternity. 
 
 ^ k 
 
231 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The Vojjage continued. 
 
 " What vast foundations in the Abyss are there, 
 As of a former world? Is it not where 
 Atlantic kings their barbarous pomp displayed ; 
 Sunk into darkness with the realms they swayed, 
 When towers and temples, thro' the closing wave, 
 A glimmering ray of ancient splendour gave — 
 And we shall rest with them. — Or are we thrown" 
 (Each gazed on each, and all exclaimed as one) 
 *' Where things familiar cease and strange begin. 
 All progress barred to those without, within ? 
 — Soon is the doubt resolved. Arise, behold — 
 We stop to stir no more . . . nor will the tale be told." 
 
 The pilot smote his breast ; the watchman cried 
 " Land ! " and his voice in faltering accents died. 
 At once the fury of the prow was quelled ; 
 And (whence or why from many an age withlield) 
 Shrieks, not of men, were mingling in the blast; 
 And armed shapes of god-like stature passed! 
 
2S2 
 
 Slowly along the evening-sky they went, 
 As on the edge of some vast battlement ; 
 Helmet and shield, and spear and gonfalon 
 Streaming a baleful light that was not of the sun ! 
 
 Long from the stern the great Adventurer gazed 
 With awe not fear ; then high his hands he raised. 
 
 " Thou All-supreme in goodness as in power, 
 
 Who, from his birth to this eventful hour, 
 
 Hast led thy servant over land and sea, * 
 
 Confessing Thee in all, and all in Thee, 
 
 Oh still " — He spoke, and lo, the charm accurst 
 
 Fled whence it came, and the broad barrier burst ! 
 
 A vain illusion ! (such as mocks the eyes 
 
 Of fearful men, when mountains round them rise 
 
 From less than nothing) nothing now beheld. 
 
 But scattered sedge — repelling, and repelled ! 
 
 And once again that valiant company 
 Right onward came, ploughing the Unknown Sea. 
 Already borne beyond the range of thought. 
 With Light divine, with Truth immortal fraught, 
 From world to world their steady course they keep, ^ 
 Swift as the winds along the waters sweep, > 
 
 Mid the mute nations of the purple deep. j 
 
 — And now the sound of harpy-wings they hear ; 
 Now less and less, as vanishing in fear ! 
 
 * They may give me what name they please. I am servant of 
 Him, &c. Hist, del Almirante, c. 2. 
 
233 
 
 And see, the heavens bow down, the waters rise. 
 And, rising, shoot in columns to the skies. 
 That stand — and still, when they proceed, retire. 
 As in the Desert burned the sacred fire ; 
 Moving in silent majesty, till Night 
 Descends, and shuts the vision from their sight. 
 
iiS4' 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 An Assembly of Evil S/n'rifx. 
 
 Tho' changed my cloth of gold for amice grey- 
 In my spring-time, when every month was May, 
 With hawk and hound I coursed away the hour, 
 Or sung my roundelay in lady's bower. 
 And tho' my world be now a narrow cell, 
 (Renounced for ever all I loved so well) 
 Tho' now my head be bald, my feet be bare. 
 And scarce my knees sustain my book of prayer, 
 Oh I was there, one of that gallant crew. 
 And saw — and wondered whence his Power He drew. 
 Yet little thought, tho' by his side I stood. 
 Of his great Foes in earth and air and flood, 
 Then uninstructed. — But my sand is run. 
 
 And the Night coming and my Task not done ! - ■ 
 
 'Twas in the deep, immeasurable cave 
 Of Andes, echoing to the Southern wave, 
 Mid pillars of Basalt, the work of fire, 
 That, giant-like, to upper day aspire, 
 'Twas there that now, as wont in heaven to shine, 
 Forms of angelic mould and grace divine 
 
235 
 
 Assembled. All, exiled the realms of rest, 
 In vain the sadness of their souls suppressed ; 
 Yet of their glory many a scattered ray 
 Shot thro' the gathering shadows of decay. 
 Each moved a God ; and all, as Gods, possessed 
 One half the globe; from pole to pole confessed! 
 
 Oh could I now — but how in mortal verse — 
 Their numbers, their heroic deeds rehearse 1 
 These in dim shrines and barbarous symbols reign, 
 Where Plata and oSIaragngn meet the Main. 
 Those the wild hunter worships as he roves, 
 In the green shade of Chili's fragrant groves ; 
 Or warrior-tribes with rites of blood implore, 
 Whose night-fires gleam along the sullen shore 
 Of Huron or Ontario, inland seas. 
 What time the song of death is in the breeze ! 
 
 'Twas now in dismal pomp and order due. 
 While the vast concave flashed with lightnings blue. 
 On shining pavements of metallic ore. 
 That many an age the fusing sulphur bore. 
 They held high council. All was silence round, 
 WHien, with a voice most sweet yet most profound, 
 A sovereign Spirit burst the gates of night. 
 And from his wings of gold shook drops of liquid light! 
 Merion, commissioned with his host to sweep 
 From age to age the melancholy deep ! 
 Chief of the Zemi, whom the Isles obeyed. 
 By Ocean severed from a world of shade. 
 
23G 
 
 I. 
 
 " Prepare, again prepare," 
 Ihus o'er the soul the thrilling accents came, 
 " Thrones to resign for lakes of living flame, 
 
 And triumph for despair. 
 He, on whose call afflicting thunders wait. 
 
 Has willed it ; and his will is fate ! 
 In vain the legions, emulous to save. 
 
 Hung in the tempest o'er the troubled main ; 
 Turned each presumptuous prow that broke the wave. 
 
 And dashed it on its shores again. 
 All is fulfilled I Behold, in close array. 
 What mighty banners stream in the bright track of day ! 
 
 II. 
 
 " No voice, as erst, shall in the desert rise ; 
 
 Nor ancient, dread solemnities 
 
 With scorn of death the trembling tribes inspire. 
 
 Wreaths for the Conqueror's brow the victims bind! 
 
 Yet, tho' we fled yon firmament of fire. 
 
 Still shall we fly, all hope of rule resigned ?" 
 
 He spoke; and all was silence, all was night! 
 Each had already winged his formidable flight. 
 
237 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 The Voyage continued. 
 
 " Ah, why look back, tho' all is left behind? 
 
 No sounds of life are stirring in the wind. — 
 
 And you, ye birds, winging your passage home, 
 
 How blest ye are ! — We know not where we roam. 
 
 We go," they cried, "go to return no more; "i 
 
 Nor ours, alas, the transport to explore 
 
 A human footstep on a desert shore !" J 
 
 — Still, as beyond this mortal life impelled 
 By some mysterious energy, He held 
 His everlasting course. Still self-possessed. 
 High on the deck He stood, disdaining rest ; 
 (His amber chain the only badge he bore. 
 His mantle blue such as his fathers wore) 
 Fathomed, with searching hand, the dark profound. 
 And scattered hope and glad assurance round ; 
 Tho', like some sti*ange portentous dream, the Past 
 Still hovered, and the cloudless sky o'ercast. 
 
 At day-break might the Caravels * be seen, 
 Chasing their shadows o'er the deep serene ; 
 
 * Light vessels, toiiiierly used liy the Spaniaifls and Portuguese. 
 
238 
 
 Their burnished prows lasliecl by the sparkhng tide, 
 Their green-cross standards waving far and wide. 
 And now once more to better thoughts inchned, 
 The sea-man, mounting, clamoured in the wind. 
 The soldier told his tales of love and war ; 
 The courtier sung — sung to his gay guitar. 
 Round, at Primero, sate a whiskered band ; 
 So Fortune smiled, careless of sea or land! 
 Leon, Montalvan, (serving side by side ; 
 Two with one soul — and, as they lived, they died) 
 Vasco the brave, thrice found among the slain, 
 Thrice, and how soon, up and in arms again. 
 As soon to wish he had been sought in vain. 
 Chained down in Fez, beneath the bitter thong. 
 To the hard bench and heavy oar so long ! 
 Albert of Florence, who, at twilight-time. 
 In my rapt ear poured Dante's tragic rhyme. 
 Screened by the sail as near the mast we lay. 
 Our nights illumined by the ocean-spray ; 
 And Manfred, who espoused with jewelled ring 
 Young Isabel, then left her sorrowing : 
 Lerma ' the generous,' Avila ' the proud ;' 
 Velasquez, Garcia, thro' the echoing crowd 
 Traced by their mirth — from Ebro's classic shore, 
 From golden Tajo, to return no more I 
 
^uJ) 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 The Voijdire continued. 
 
 Yet who but He undaunted could explore 
 
 A world of waves, a sea without a shore, 
 
 Trackless and vast and wild as that revealed 
 
 When round the Ark the birds of tempest wheeled ; 
 
 When all was still in the destroying hour — 
 
 No sign of man! no vestige of his power! 
 
 One at the stern before the hour-glass stood. 
 
 As 'twere to count the sands ; one o'er the flood 
 
 Gazed for St. Elmo ; * while another cried 
 
 *' Once more good morrow !" and sate down and sighed. 
 
 Day, when it came, came only with its light. 
 
 Though long invoked, 'twas sadder than the night ! 
 
 Look where He would, for ever as He turned, 
 
 He met the eye of one that inly mourned. 
 
 Then sunk his generous spirit, and He wept. 
 The friend, the father rose ; the hero slept. 
 
 * A luminous ai)pcaraiice of good omen. 
 
240 
 
 Palos, thy port, with many a pang resigned, 
 Filled with its busy scenes his lonely mind; 
 The solemn march, the vows in concert given,* 
 The bended knees and lifted hands to heaven, 
 The incensed rites, and choral harmonies, 
 The Guardian's blessings mingling with his sighs ; 
 While his dear boys — ah, on his neck they hung. 
 And long at parting to his garments clung. 
 
 Oft in the silent night-watch doubt and fear 
 Broke in uncertain murmurs on his ear. 
 Oft the stern Catalan, at noon of day, 
 Muttered dark threats, and lingered to obey; 
 Tho' that brave Youth — he, whom his courser bore ^ 
 Right thro' the midst, when, fetlock-deep in gore, > 
 The great Gonzalo battled with the Moor, j 
 
 (What time the Alhambra shook — soon to unfold \ 
 Its sacred courts, and fountains yet untold, > 
 
 Its holy texts and arabesques of gold) j 
 
 Tho' RoLDAN, sleep and death to him alike, 
 Grasped his good sword and half unsheathed to strike. 
 " Oh born to wander with your flocks," he cried, 
 " And bask and dream along the mountain-side; 
 
 * His public procession to the convent of La Rabida on the 
 day before he set sail. It was there that his sons had received their 
 education ; and he himself appears to have passed some time there, 
 the venerable Guardian, Juan Perez de Marchena, being his zealous 
 and affectionate friend. — The ceremonies of his departure and re- 
 turn are represented in many of the fresco-paintings in the palaces 
 of Genoa. 
 
241 
 
 To urge your mules, tinkling from hill to hill; 
 Or at the vintage-feast to drink your fill, 
 And strike your castanets, with gipsy-maid 
 Dancing Fandangos in the chestnut shade — 
 Come on," he cried, and threw his glove in scorn, 
 " Not this your wonted pledge, the brimming horn. 
 Valiant in peace ! Adventurous at home ! 
 Oh, had ye vowed with pilgrim-staff to roam ; 
 Or with banditti sought the sheltering wood. 
 Where mouldering crosses mark the scene of blood ! — " 
 He said, he drew ; then, at his Master's frown, 
 Sullenly sheathed, plunging the weapon down. 
 
 [ r 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 The flight of an Angel of Darkness. 
 
 War and the Great in War let others sinsf. 
 Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing; 
 The morning-march that flashes to the sun, 
 The feast of vultures when the day is done ; 
 And the strange tale of many slain for one ! 
 I sing a Man, amidst his sufferings here, 
 Who watched and served in humbleness and fear ; 
 Gentle to others, to himself severe. 
 
 Still unsubdued by Danger's varying form, 
 Still, as unconscious of the coming storm. 
 
2\S 
 
 He looked elate ; and, with his wonted smile, 
 On the great Ordinance leaning, would beguile 
 The hour with talk. His beard, his mien sublime, ") 
 Shadowed by Age — by Age before the time, * > 
 
 From many a sorrow borne in many a clime, ) 
 
 Moved every heart. And now in opener skies 
 Stars yet unnamed of purer radiance rise ! 
 Stars, milder suns, that love a shade to cast, 
 And on the brirjlit wave fling the trembling mast ! 
 Another firmament ! the orbs that roll, 
 Singly or clustering, round the Southern pole ! 
 Not yet the four that glorify the Night — "j 
 
 Ah, how forget when to my ravished sight > 
 
 The Cross shone forth in everlasting light ! j 
 
 'Twas the mid hour, when He, whose accents dread 
 Still wandered thro' the regions of the dead, 
 (Merion, commissioned with his host to sweep 
 From age to age the melancholy deep) 
 To elude the seraph-guard that watched for man. 
 And mar, as erst, the Eternal's perfect plan, 
 Rose like the Condor, and, at towering height. 
 In pomp of plumage sailed, deepening the shades of 
 
 night. 
 Roc of the West ! to him all empire given ! 
 Who bears Axalhua's dragon-folds to heaven; 
 His flight a whirlwind, and, when heard afar, 
 Like thunder, or the distant din of war ! 
 
 • Ili^t. c. .3. 
 
244 
 
 Mountains and seas fled backward as he passed 
 O'er the great globe, by not a cloud o'ercast 
 From the Antarctick, from the Land of Fire * 
 To where Alaska's wintry wilds retire ; 
 From mines of gold, and giant-sons of earth, 
 To grots of ice, and tribes of pigmy birth 
 Who freeze alive, nor, dead, in dust repose, 
 High-hung in forests to the casing snows. 
 
 Now mid angelic multitudes he flies, 
 That hourly come with blessings from the skies ; 
 Wings the blue element, and, borne sublime. 
 Eyes the set sun, gilding each distant clime ; 
 Then, like a meteor, shooting to the main. 
 Melts into pure intelligence again. 
 
 * Tierra del Fiiego. 
 
245 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 A Mutiny excited. 
 
 What tho' Despondence reigned, and wild Affright- 
 Stretched in the midst, and, thro' that dismal night, 
 By his white plume revealed and huskins white, } 
 Slept RoLDAN. When he closed his gay career, 
 Hope fled for ever, and with Hope fled P'ear. 
 Blest with each gift indulgent Fortune sends, 
 Birth and its rights, wealth and its train of friends. 
 Star-like he shone! Now beggared and alone. 
 Danger he wooed, and claimed her for his own. 
 O'er him a Vampire his dark wings displayed. 
 'Twas Merion's self, covering with dreadful shade. 
 He came, and, couched on Roldan's ample breast, 
 Each secret pore of breathing life possessed, 
 Fanning the sleep that seemed his final rest ; 
 Then, inly gliding like a subtle flame, 
 Thrice, with a cry that thrilled the mortal frame, 
 Called on the Spirit within. Disdaining flight, 
 Calmly she rose, collecting all her might. * 
 
 * — niiigiuaii si pc'ctoru jtussit 
 Excu3sis.se (iuiiiii. 
 
24() 
 
 Dire was the dark encounter! Long unquelled, 
 Her sacved seat, sovereign and pure, she held. 
 At length the great Foe binds her for his prize, 
 And awful, as in death, the body lies ! 
 
 Not long to slumber! In an evil hour 
 Informed and lifted by the unknown Power, 
 It starts, it speaks 1 " We live, we breathe no more ! 
 The fatal \vind blows on the dreary shore ! 
 On yonder cliffs beckoning their fellow-prey, 
 The spectres stalk, and murmur at delay ! * 
 — Yet if thou canst (not for myself I plead ! 
 Mine but to follow where 'tis thine to lead) 
 Oh turn and save ! To thee, with streaming eyes, 
 To thee each widow kneels, each orphan cries ! 
 Who now, condemned the lingering hours to tell, 
 Think and but think of those they loved so well !" 
 
 All melt in tears ! but what can tears avail ? 
 These climb the mast, and shift the swelling sail. 
 These snatch the helm ; and round me now I hear 
 Smiting of hands, out-cries of grief and fear, -j- 
 (That in the aisles at midnight haunt me still, 
 Turning my lonely thoughts from good to ill) 
 " Were there no graves — none in our land," they cry, 
 " That thou hast brought us on the deep to die?" 
 
 Silent with sorrow, long within his cloak 
 His face he muffled — then the Hero spoke. 
 
 * Euripides in Alccst, v. -loo. 
 t \ oci alte e fioche, e suon di iii;in con cllc Dante. 
 
247 
 
 " Generous and brave! when God himself is here, 
 Wliy sliake at shadows in your mid career ? 
 He can suspend the laws himself designed, 
 He walks the waters, and the winged wind ; 
 Himself your guide! and yours the high behest, 
 To lift your voice, and bid a world be blest! 
 And can you shrink? to you, to you consigned 
 The glorious privilege to serve mankind ! 
 Oh had I perished, when my fliiling frame 
 Clung to the shattered oar mid wrecks of flame ! 
 — Was it for this I lingered life away, 
 The scorn of Folly, and of Fraud the prey ; 
 Bowed down my mind, the gift His bounty gave, 
 At courts a suitor, and to slaves a slave ? 
 — Yet in His name whom only we should fear, 
 ('Tis all, all I shall ask, or you shall hear) 
 Grant but three days" — He spoke not uninspired ; 
 And each in silence to his watch retired. 
 
 At length among us came an unknown Voice ! 
 " Go, if ye will ; and, if ye can, rejoice. 
 Go, with unbidden guests the banquet share. 
 In his own shape shall Death receive you there." 
 
CANTO VIII. 
 
 Land discovered. 
 
 Twice in the zenith blazed the orb of hght ; 
 No shade, all sun, insufferably bright ! 
 Then the long line found rest — in coral groves 
 Silent and dark, where the sea-lion roves : — 
 
249 
 
 And all on deck, kindling to life again, 
 Sent forth their anxious spirits o'er the main. 
 
 " Oh whence, as wafted from Elysium, whence 
 These perfumes, strangers to the raptured sense ? 
 These boughs of gold, and fruits of heavenly hue, 
 Tinging with vermeil light the billows blue i 
 And (thrice, thrice blessed is the eye that spied, 
 The hand that snatched it sparkling in the tide) 
 Whose cunning carved this vegetable bowl, * 
 Symbol of social rites, and intercourse of soul ?" 
 Such to their grateful ear the gush of springs, 
 Who course the ostrich, as away she wings ; 
 Sons of the desert! who delight to dwell 
 'Mid kneeling camels round the sacred well ; 
 Who, ere the terrors of his pomp be past. 
 Fall to the demon in the redd'ning blast, f 
 
 The sails were furled : with many a melting close, 
 Solemn and slow the evening-anthem rose. 
 Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day, 
 When setting suns o'er summer-seas display 
 A path of glory, opening in the west 
 To golden climes, and islands of the blest ; 
 And human voices, on the silent air. 
 Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there ! 
 
 Chosen of Men ! 'Twas thine, at noon of night. 
 First from the prow to hail the glimmering light ; 
 
 * Ex ligiio liicido confectiim, ct arte miiu laboratum. P. Mailyr. 
 dec. i. 5. t "^lit-' yiiiioom. 
 
 K K 
 
250 
 
 (Euibleni of Truth divine, whose secret ray 
 Enters the soul, and makes the darkness day !) 
 " Pedro ! Rourigo ! there, methought, it shone ! 
 There — in the west ! and now, alas, 'tis gone ! — 
 'Twas all a dream ! we gaze and gaze in vain ! 
 — But mark and speak not, there it comes again ! 
 It moves ! — what form unseen, what being there 
 With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ? 
 His instincts, passions, say, how like our own? 
 Oh ! when will day reveal a world unknown?" 
 
CANTO IX. 
 
 The New World. 
 
 Long on the deep the mists of morning lay, 
 Then rose, reveahng, as they rolled away, 
 Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods 
 Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods 
 And say, when all, to holy transport given, 
 Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven, 
 
252 
 
 When one and all of us, repentant, ran. 
 
 And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous Man ; 
 
 Say, was 1 then deceived, or from the skies 
 
 Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? 
 
 *' Glory to God .' " unnumbered voices sung, 
 
 *' Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rung, 
 
 Voices that hailed Creation's primal morn. 
 
 And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. 
 
 Slowly, bare-headed, thro' the surf we bore 
 The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the shore. 
 But what a scene was there ? Nymphs of romance, 
 Youths gi'aceful as the Faun, with eager glance. 
 Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep. 
 Then head-long rush, bounding from steep to steep, 
 And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run, 
 " Come andbehold the Children of the Sun!" 
 When hark, a signal-shot ! The voice, it came 
 Over the sea in darkness and in flame ! 
 They saw, they heard ; and up the highest hill, 
 As in a picture, all at once were still ! 
 Creatures so fair, in garments strangely wrought. 
 From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder fraught, 
 Checked their light footsteps — statue-like they stood. 
 As worshipped forms, the Genii of the Wood I 
 
 At length the spell dissolves ! The warrior's lance 
 Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance ! 
 And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state ! 
 Still, where it moves, the wise in council wait ! 
 
See now ])ovne forth the monstrous mask of gold, 
 
 And ebon chair ol' many a serpent-fold ; 
 
 These now exchanged for gifts that thrice surpass 
 
 The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass. 
 
 What long-drawn tube transports the gazer home, 
 
 Kindling with stars at noon the ethereal dome ? 
 
 'Tis here : and here circles of solid light 
 
 Charm with another self the cheated sight ; 
 
 As man to man another self disclose, 
 
 That now with terror starts, with triumph glows ! 
 
2oi 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 Cura— luxuriant Vcjyctation—thc Humming-hirJ—the Fountain 
 of Yoiitli. 
 
 Then Cora came, the youngest of her race, 
 
 And in her hands she hid her lovely face ; 
 
 Yet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast, "j 
 
 And now with playful step the Mirror passed, > 
 
 Each bright reflection brighter than the last ! j 
 
 And oft behind it flew, and oft before ; 
 
 The more she searched, pleased and perplexed the more ! 
 
 And looked andlaughed,and blushed with quick surprise ; 
 
 Her lips all mirth, all ecstasy her eyes ! 
 
 But soon the telescope attracts her view; 
 And lo, her lover in his light canoe 
 Rocking, at noon-tide, on the silent sea, 
 Before her lies ! It cannot, cannot be. 
 Late as he left the shore, she lingered there, 
 Till, less and less, he melted into air ! — 
 Sigh after sigh steals from her gentle frame. 
 And say — that murmur — was it not his name? 
 
She turns, and thiiiks; ; and, lost in wild amaze, 
 Gazes again, and could ibv ever gaze ! 
 
 Nor can thy flute, Alonso, now excite, 
 As in Valencia, when, with fond dehght, 
 Francisca, waking, to the lattice flew. 
 So soon to love and to be wretched too ! 
 Hers thro' a convent-grate to send her last adieu. 
 — Yet who now conies uncalled ; and round and round, 
 And near and nearer flutters to the sound ; 
 Then stirs not, breathes not — on enchanted ground ? 
 Who now lets fall the flowers she culled to wear 
 When he, who promised, should at eve be there ; 
 And faintly smiles, and hangs her head aside 
 The tear that glistens on her cheek to hide ? 
 Ah, who but Cora ? — till inspired, possessed, 
 At once she springs, and clasps it to her breast! 
 
 Soon from the bay the mingling crowd ascends, 
 Kindred first met ! by sacred instinct Friends ! 
 Thro' citron-groves, and fields of yellow maize. 
 Thro' plantain- walks where not a sun-beam plays. 
 Here blue savannas fade into the sky. 
 There forests frown in midnight majesty; 
 Ceiba, and Indian fig, and plane sublime. 
 Nature's first-born, and reverenced by Time ! 
 There sits the bird that speaks ! there, quivering, ri.se 
 Wings that reflect the glow of evening skies ! 
 Half bird, half fly, the fairy king of flowers 
 Reigns there, and revel:> thro' the liagrant hours;; 
 
256 
 
 Gem full of life, and joy, and song divine, 
 Soon in tlie virgin's graceful ear to shine. 
 
 'Twas he that sung, if ancient Fame speaks truth, 
 ** Come ! follow, follow to the Fount of Youth ! 
 I quaff the ambrosial mists that round it rise, 
 Dissolved and lost in dreams of Paradise !" 
 For there called forth, to bless a happier hour. 
 It met the sun in many a rainbow-shower ! 
 Murmuring delight, its living waters rolled 
 'JUid branching palms and amaranths of gold! 
 
CANTO XL 
 
 Evening — a bam/uet — the ghost of Cazziva. 
 
 The tamarind closed her leaves ; the marmoset 
 Dreamed on his bough, and played the mimic yet. 
 Fresh from the lake the breeze of twilight blew, 
 And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew ; 
 When many a fire-fly, shooting thro' the glade. 
 Spangled the locks of many a lovely maid, 
 
 L L 
 
258 
 
 ^^'ho now danced forth to strew our \rMh with flowers, 
 And hymn our welcome to celestial bowers, * 
 
 There odorous lamps adorned the festal rite, 
 And guavas blushed as in the vales of light. 
 There silent sate many an unbidden Guest, 
 Whose steadfast looks a secret dread impressed ; 
 Not there forgot the sacred fruit that fed 
 At nightly feasts the Spirits of the Dead, 
 Mingling in scenes that mirth to mortals give, 
 But by their sadness known from those that live. 
 
 There met, as erst, within the wonted grove, 
 Unmarried girls and youths that died for love ! 
 Sons now beheld their ancient sires again ; 
 And sires, alas, their sons in battle slain! 
 
 But whence that sigh ? 'Twas from a heart that broke ! 
 And whence that voice ? As from the grave it spoke ! 
 And who, as unresolved the feast to share. 
 Sits half- with drawn in faded splendour there ? 
 'Tis he of yore, the warrior and the sage, 
 Whose lips have moved in prayer from age to age ; 
 Whose eyes, that wandered as in search before, 
 Now on Columbus fixed — to search no more ! 
 Cazziva, gifted in his day to know 
 The gathering signs of a long night of woe ; 
 Gifted by Those who give but to enslave ; 
 No rest in death ! no refuge in the grave ! 
 
 * P. Martyr, dec. i. 5. 
 
259 
 
 — With sudden spring as at the shout of war, \ 
 
 He flies ! and, turning in his flight, from far > 
 
 Glares thro' the gloom like some portentous star ! j 
 Unseen, unheard ! Hence, Minister of 111 ! \ 
 
 Hence, 'tis not yet the hour ! tho' come it will ! > 
 
 'J'hey that foretold — too soon shall they fulfil ; J 
 
 When forth they rush as with the torrent's sweep, 
 And deeds are done that make the Angels weep ! 
 Hark, o'er the busy mead the shell proclaims* 
 Triumphs, and masques, and high heroic games. 
 And now the old sit round ; and now the young 
 Climb the green boughs, the murmuring doves among. 
 \\ho claims the prize, when winged feet contend ; 
 When twanging bows the flaming arrows send ? f 
 Who stands self-centred in the field of fame. 
 And, grappling, flings to earth a giant's frame ? 
 Whilst all, with anxious hearts and eager eyes. 
 Bend as he bends, and, as he rises, rise ! 
 And Cora's self, in pride of beauty here. 
 Trembles with grief and joy, and hope and fear ! 
 (She who, the fairest, ever flew the first. 
 With cup of balm to quench his burning thirst; 
 Knelt at his head, her fan-leaf in her hand, 
 And hummed the air that pleased him, while she fanned) 
 How blest his lot! — tho', by the Muse unsung. 
 His name shall perish, when his knell is rung. 
 
 * r. Martyr, dec. iii. c. 7. f Rochcfort. c. xx. 
 
260 
 
 That night, transported, with a sigh I said 
 " 'Tis all a dream !" — Now, like a dream, 'tis fled ; 
 And many and many a year has passed away, 
 And I alone remain to watch and pray ! 
 Yet oft in darkness, on my bed of straw. 
 Oft I awake and think on what I saw ! 
 The groves, the birds, the youths, the nymphs recall, 
 And Cora, loveliest, sweetest of them all ! 
 
CANTO XII. 
 A I'isioii. 
 
 Still would I speak of Him before I went, 
 Who among us a life of sorrow spent, 
 And, dying, left a world his monument ; 
 Still, if the time allowed ! My Hour draws near ; 
 But He will prompt me when I faint with fear. 
 - - - Alas, He hears me not ! He cannot hear ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Twice the Moon filled her silver urn with light. 
 Then from the Throne an Angel winged his flight ; 
 He, who unfixed the compass, and assigned 
 O'er the wild waves a pathway to the wind ; 
 Who, while approached by none but Spirits pure. 
 Wrought, in his progress thro' the dread obscure, 
 Siffns like the ethereal bow — that shall endure ! 
 
 As he descended thro' the upper air, 
 Day broke on day as God Himself were there ! 
 Before the great Discoverer, laid to rest. 
 He stood, and thus his secret soul addressed. 
 
262 
 
 " 'J'he wind recalls thee ; its still voice obey. 
 Millions await thy coming ; hence, away. 
 To thee blest tidings of great joy consigned, 
 Another Nature, and a new Mankind! 
 The vain to di'eara, the wise to doubt shall cease ; 
 Young men be glad, and old depart in peace ! * 
 Hence! tho' assembling in the fields of air, 
 Now, in a night of clouds, thy Foes prepare 
 To rock the globe with elemental w'ars, 
 And dash the floods of ocean to the stars ; 
 To bid the meek repine, the valiant weep, 
 And Thee restore thy Secret to the Deep! 
 
 *' Not then to leave Thee ! to their vengeance cast, 
 Thy heart their aliment, their dire repast ! t 
 
 To other eyes shall Mexico unfold 
 
 Her feathered tapestries, and roofs of gold. 
 
 To other eyes, from distant cliff descried, \ 
 
 Shall the Pacific roll his ample tide ; > 
 
 There destined soon rich argosies to ride. J 
 
 Chains thy reward ! beyond the Atlantic wave 
 
 Hung in thy chamber, buried in thy grave ! 
 
 Thy reverend form to time and grief a prey, 
 
 A phantom wandering in the light of day ! 
 
 *' What tho' thy grey hairs to the dust descend. 
 Their scent shall track thee, track thee to the end ; + 
 
 * P. Martyr, Epist. 133. 152. 
 t Sec the Eumenides of ^schylus, v. 305, &c. \ Ibid. v. 246. 
 
26S 
 
 Thy sons reproached with their great father's fame, 
 And on his world inscribed another's name ! 
 That world a prison-house, full of sights of woe, 
 Where groans burst forth, and tears in torrents flow ! 
 These gardens of the sun, sacred to song. 
 By dogs of carnage, howling loud and long, 
 Swept — till the voyager, in the desert air. 
 Starts back to hear his altered accents there ! 
 
 " Not thine the olive, but the sword to bring, 
 Not peace, but war ! Yet from these shores shall spring 
 Peace without end ; * from these, with blood defiled, 
 Spread the pure spirit of thy Master mild! 
 Here, in His train, shall arts and arms attend, 
 Arts to adorn, and arms but to defend. 
 Assembling here, all nations shall be blest ; 
 The sad be comforted ; the weary rest : 
 Untouched shall drop the fetters from the slave ; 
 And He shall rule the world he died to save ! 
 
 " Hence, and rejoice. The glorious work is done. 
 A spark is thrown that shall eclipse the sun ! 
 And, tho' bad men shall long thy course pursue, 
 As erst the ravening brood o'er chaos flew, t 
 He, whom I serve, shall vindicate his reign ; 
 The spoiler spoiled of all ; the slayer slain ; 
 The tyrant's self, oppressing and opprest. 
 Mid gems and gold unenvied and unblest : 
 
 * See Washington's farewell address to liis fellow-citizens. 
 f See Paradise Lost. X. 
 
2CA 
 
 Wliile to the starry sphere thy name shall rise, 
 (Not there unsung thy generous enterprise !) 
 Thine in all hearts to dwell — hy Fame enshrined, 
 With those, the Few, that live but for Mankind ; 
 Thine evermore, transcendent happiness ! 
 World beyond world to visit and to bless." 
 
."iliAS^fcftl 
 
 On the two last leaves, and written in another 
 hand, are some stanzas in the romance or ballad 
 measure of the Spaniards. The subject is an adventure 
 soon related. 
 
 M M 
 
266 
 
 Thy lonely watch-tower, Larenille, 
 
 Had lost the western sun ; 
 
 And loud and long from hill to hill 
 
 Echoed the evening-gun, 
 
 When Hernan, rising on his oar, 
 
 Shot like an arrow from the shore. 
 
 — " Those lights are on St. Mary's Isle; 
 
 They glimmer from the sacred pile." * 
 
 The waves were rough ; the hour was late. 
 
 But soon across the Tinto borne, 
 
 Thrice he blew the signal-horn, 
 
 He blew and would not wait. 
 
 Home by his dangerous path he went; 
 
 Leaving, in rich habiliment. 
 
 Two Strangers at the Convent-gate. 
 
 They ascended by steps hewn out in the rock; and, 
 having asked for admittance, were lodged there. 
 
 Brothers in arms the Guests appeared ; 
 
 The Youngest with a Princely grace ! 
 
 Short and sable was his beard. 
 
 Thoughtful and wan his face. 
 
 His velvet cap a medal bore, 
 
 And ermine fringed his broidered vest ; 
 
 * The Convent of La Rabida. 
 
267 
 
 And, ever sparkling on his breast, 
 An imag-e of St. John he wore. * 
 
 The Eldest had a rougher aspect, and there was 
 craft in his eye. He stood a little behind in a long 
 black mantle, his hand resting on the hilt of his 
 sword; and his white hat and white shoes glittered 
 in the moon-shine. "*" 
 
 " Not here unwelcome, tho' unknown. 
 Enter and rest !" the Friar said. 
 The moon, that thro' the portal shone, 
 Shone on his reverend head. 
 Thro' many a court and gallery dim 
 Slowly he led, the burial-hymn 
 Swelling from the distant choir. 
 But now the holy men retire ; 
 The arched cloisters issuing thro', 
 In long long order, two and two. 
 
 ****** 
 
 When other sounds had died away. 
 And the waves were heard alone, 
 They entered, tho' unused to })ray, 
 
 * See Beriial Diaz, c. 203 ; and also a well-known iioitrait of 
 Cortes, ascribed to Titian. Cortes was now in the 43rd, Pizarro in 
 the 60th year of his age. 
 
 t Aiigustin Zarati', lib. iv. c. 9. 
 
268 
 
 Wliere God was worshipped, night and day, 
 And the dead knelt round in stone ; 
 They entered, and from aisle to aisle 
 Wandered with folded arms awhile, 
 Where on his altar-tomb reclined 
 The crosiered Abbot ; and the Knight 
 In harness for the Christian fight, 
 His hands in supplication joined ; — • 
 Then said as in a solemn mood, 
 " Now stand we where Columbus stood!" 
 ****** 
 
 " Perez, t thou good old man," they cried, 
 " And art thou in thy place of rest? — 
 Tho' in the western world His grave, * 
 That other world, the gift He gave, + 
 AVould ye were sleeping side by side ! 
 Of all his friends He loved thee best." 
 
 The supper in the chamber done. 
 Much of a Southern Sea they spake, 
 And of that glorious City § won 
 Near the setting of the Sun, 
 Throned in a silver Like ; 
 
 f Late Superior of the House. 
 * In the chancel of the cathedral of St. Domingo. 
 ) The words of tlie cj)itaj)h. "A C'astilia y a Leon iiiievo Mundo 
 die Colon." § Mexico. 
 
2G9 
 
 Of seven kings in chains of gold * 
 And deeds of death by tongue untold, 
 Deeds such as breathed in secret there 
 Had shaken the Confession-chair ! 
 
 The Eldest swore by our Lady, f the Youngest 
 by his conscience ; ^ while the Franciscan, sitting 
 by in his grey habit, turned away and crossed him- 
 self again and again. " Here is a little book," said 
 he at last, " the work of him in his shroud below. 
 It tells of things you have mentioned; and, were 
 Cortes and Pizarro here, it might perhaps make them 
 reflect for a moment." The Youngest smiled as he 
 took it into his hand. He read it aloud to his com- 
 panion with an unfaltering voice ; but, when he laid 
 it down, a silence ensued ; nor was he seen to smile 
 again that night. II " The curse is heavy," said he at 
 parting, " but Cortes may live to disappoint it." — 
 " Ay, and Pizarro too !" 
 
 * Afterwards the arms of Cortes and his descendants. 
 
 f Fernandez, lib ii. c. 63. | B. Diaz, c. 20.3. 
 
 II " After the death of Guatimotzin," says B. Diaz, " he became 
 gloomy and restless; rising continually from his bed, and wandering 
 about in the dark." — " Notliing prosjjered with him ; and it was 
 ascribed to the curses he was loaded with." 
 
 *^* A circumstance, recorded by Hercra, renders 
 this visit not improbable. " In May, 1528, Cortes 
 
270 
 
 arrived unexpectedly at Palos ; and, soon after he had 
 landed, he and Pizarro met and rejoiced ; and it was 
 remarkable that they should meet, as they were two 
 of the most renowned men in the world." B. Diaz 
 makes no mention of the interview ; but, relating an 
 occurrence that took place at this time in Palos, says, 
 ' that Cortes was now absent at Nuestra Senora de 
 la Rabida.' The Convent is within half a league of 
 the town." 
 
 \ *-■'... 
 
N O T E S. 
 
 p. 228, 1. J). 
 
 . . descried of i/ore, 
 
 In him was fulfilled the ancient prophecy, 
 
 veiiieiit aniiis 
 
 Secula seris, qiiibus Oceanus 
 ^'illCllla rerum laxet, &c. 
 
 Seneca in Medea, v. .'i74. 
 
 Which Tnsso has imitated in his Gierusalenime 
 
 Liberata. 
 
 Tenij)o \enh, che fian d'Ercole i segni 
 Favola vile, 8:e. c. xv. HO. 
 
 The Poem opens on Friday the 14th of September, 
 1492. 
 
 P. 228, 1. 22. 
 Ihe great Covnnander 
 
 In the original, El Almiranle. " In Spanish Ame- 
 rica," says M. de Humboldt, " when El Almirante is 
 pronounced without the addition of a name, that of 
 Columbus is understood ; as, from the lips of u 
 I\Iexican, FA Marchcse signifies Cortes ;" and as among 
 the Florentines, // Segreltnio has always signified 
 Machiavel . 
 
'272 
 
 P. 229, 1. 1. 
 " Thee hath it pleased — Thy will be dune.'" he said, 
 
 " It has pleased our Lord to grant me faith and 
 assurance for this enterprise — He has opened mj'^ un- 
 derstanding, and made me most willing to go." See 
 his Life by his son, Ferd. Columbus, entitled. Hist, 
 del Almirante Don Christoval. Colon, c. 4 & 37. 
 
 His Will begins thus. ' In the name of the most 
 holy Trinity, who inspired me with the idea, and who 
 afterwards made it clear to me, that by traversing the 
 Ocean westwardly/ &c. 
 
 P. 229, 1. 7. 
 Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven, 
 The compass might well be an object of supersti- 
 tion. A belief is said to prevail even at this day, that 
 it will refuse to traverse when there is a dead body on 
 board. 
 
 P. 229, 1. 19. 
 
 Columbus erred not. 
 
 When these regions were to be illuminated, says 
 
 Acosta, cum divino concilio decretum esset, prospec- 
 
 tum etiam divinitus est, ut tam longi itineris dux cer- 
 
 tus hominibus prseberetur. De Natura Novi Orbis. 
 
 A romantic circumstance is related of sonie early 
 
 navigator in the Histoire Gen. des ^''oyages, I. i. 2. 
 
 "On trouva dans I'isle de Cuervo une statue cquestre, 
 
 couverte d'un manteau, mais la tete nue, qui tenoit de 
 
 la main gauche la bride du cheval, et qui montroit 
 
 I'occident de la main droite. II y avoit sur le bas 
 
 d'un roc quelques lettres gravees, qui ne furent point 
 
273 
 
 entendues ; mais il parut clairement que le signe de 
 la main regardoit rAmerique." 
 
 P. 229, 1. 23. 
 
 He spoke, and, at his call, a migktij Wind, 
 
 The more Christian opinion is, that God, with eyes 
 of compassion, as it were, looking down from heaven, 
 called forth those winds of mercy, whereby this new 
 world r(;ceived the hope of salvation. — Preambles 
 to the Decades of the Ocean. 
 
 P. 230, 1. 0. 
 Folded their arms and sat ; 
 
 To return was deemed impossible, as it blew always 
 from home. Hist, del Almirante, c. 19. Nos pavidi 
 — at pater Anchises — Itetus. 
 
 P. 231,1. 1. 
 
 What vast foundations in the Abyss are there, 
 
 Tasso employs preternatural agents on a similar 
 occasion, 
 
 Trappassa, et ecco in quel silvestre loco 
 
 Sorge improvisa la citta del foco. xiii. 33. 
 
 Gli incanti d'Ismeno, che ingannano con delusioni, 
 altro non significano, che la falsita delle ragioni, et 
 delle persuasioni, la qual si genera nella moltitudiuc, 
 et varietii de' pareri, et de' discorsi humani. 
 
 P. 231,1. 3. 
 Atlantic kings their barbarous pomp displayed; 
 
 See Plato's Timseus; where mention is made of 
 mighty kingdoms, which, in a day and a night, had 
 
 N N 
 
274 
 
 disappeared in the Atlantic^ rendering its Avaters 
 unnavigable. 
 
 Si qiueras Helicon et Burin, Achaidas lU'bes, 
 
 Inveiiies sub aqiiis. 
 
 At the destruction of CallaOj in 1747, no more 
 than one of all the inhabitants escaped ; and he, by a 
 providence the most extraordinary. This man was on 
 the fort that overlooked the harbour, going to strike 
 the Hag, when he perceived the sea to retire to a con- 
 siderable distance ; and then SAvelling mountain-high, 
 it returned with great violence. The people ran from 
 their houses in terror and confusion ; he heard a cry of 
 Miserere rise from all parts of the city; and imme- 
 diately all was silent ; the sea had entirely over- 
 whelmed it, and buried it for ever in its bosom : but the 
 same Avave that destroyed it, drove a little boat by the 
 place where he stood, into which he threAv himself and 
 was saved. 
 
 P. 231, 1. 12 
 We stop to stir tio more 
 
 The description of a submarine forest is hero 
 omitted by the translator. 
 
 League beyond league gigantic foliage spread, 
 
 SbadoAAdng old Ocean on his rocky bed ; 
 
 Tlie lofty summits of resounding woods. 
 
 That grasped the depths, and grappled with the floods ; 
 
 Such as had climbed the mountain's azure height. 
 
 When forth he came and reassumed his right. 
 
 P. 231, 1. 14. 
 
 " Land!" and his voice in faltering accents died. 
 
 Historians are not silent on the subject. The 
 sailors, according to Herrera, saA\' the signs of an 
 
97A 
 
 inundated country (tierrus iinogiuliis) ; and it was the 
 general expectation that they sliouhl end their lives 
 there, as t>thers had done in the frozen sea^ " where; 
 St. Amaro suffers no sliip to stir hackward or forward." 
 Hist, del AhnirantC;, c. 19. 
 
 P. 231,1. 16. 
 
 And (whence or why from many an age withheld J 
 The author seems to have anticipated his long 
 slumber in the library of the Fathers. 
 
 P. 232, 1. 21. 
 
 From world to world their steady course they keep, 
 
 As St. Christopher carried Christ over the deej) 
 waters, so Columbus went over safe, himself and his 
 company. — Hist c. 1. 
 
 P. 233, 1. 2. 
 
 And, risiiig, shoot in columns to the skies. 
 Water-spouts. See Edwards's History of the West 
 Indies, I. 12. Note. 
 
 P. 234, 1.1. 
 
 Tho' changed my cloth of gold for amice grey — 
 
 Many of the first discoverers ended their days in a 
 hermitage or a cloister. 
 
 P. 234, 1.15 & 16. 
 
 'Twas in the deep, immeasurable cave 
 
 0/" Andes, 
 Vast indeed must be those dismal regions, if it be 
 true, as conjectured (Kircher. Blund. Subt. I. 202), 
 that Etna, in her eruptions, has discharged twenty 
 
276 
 
 times her original bulk. Well might she be called 
 by Euripides (Troades, v. 222) the Mother of Moun- 
 tains ; yet Etna herself is but " a mere firework, 
 when compared to the burning summits of the 
 Andes." 
 
 P. 235, 1. 6. 
 
 One half the globe ; from pole to pole confessed ! 
 
 Gods, yet confessed later. — Milton, lis ne lais- 
 
 sent pas d'en etre les esclaves, & de les honorcr plus 
 que le grand Esprit, qui de sa nature est bon. — 
 Lafitau. 
 
 P. 235, 1. 10. 
 Where Plata and Mabagnon meet the Main. 
 
 Rivers of South America. Their collision with the 
 tide has the effect of a tempest. 
 
 P. 235, 1. 15. 
 0/ Huron or Ontario, inland seas, 
 
 Lakes of North America. Huron is above a 
 thousand miles in circumference. Ontario receives 
 the waters of the Niagara, so famous for its falls; 
 and discharges itself into the Atlantic by the river 
 St. Lawrence. 
 
 P. 235, 1. 28. 
 
 By Ocean severed from a world of shade. 
 
 La plupart de ces isles ne sont en eifet que des 
 pointes de montagnes : et la mer, qui est au-delii, est 
 une vraie mer Mediterrance. Buffbn. 
 
277 
 
 P. 236, 1. 8. 
 
 Hung in the tempest o'er tlte troubled viain ; 
 
 The dominion of a bad angel over an unknown 
 
 sea, tnfestandole con sus torheUinos y tcmpcstadea, and 
 
 his flight before a Christian hero, are described in 
 
 glowing language by Ovalle. Hist, de Chile. IV. 8. 
 
 P. 236, 1. 13. 
 
 No voice, as erst, shall in the desert rise; 
 
 Alluding to the oracles of the Islanders, so soon 
 to become silent : and particularly to a prophecy, 
 delivered down from their ancestors, and sung with 
 loud lamentations (Petr. ]\Tartyr. dec. 3. lib. 7) at 
 their solemn festivals (Herrera. I. iii. 4) that the 
 country would be laid waste on the arrival of 
 strangers, completely clad, from a region near the 
 rising of the sun. Ibid. II. 5. 2. It is said that 
 Cazziva, a great Cacique, after long fasting and many 
 ablutions, had an interview with one of the Zemi, 
 who announced to him this terrible event (Hist, c 62), 
 as the oracles of Latona, according to Herodotus 
 (II. 152) predicted the overthrow of eleven kings in 
 Egypt, on the appearance of men of brass, risen out of 
 the sea. 
 
 Nor did this prophecy exist among the Islanders 
 alone. It influenced the councils of IMontezuma, and 
 extended almost universally over the forests of Ame- 
 rica. Cortes. Herrera. Gomara. " The demons, 
 whom they worshipped," says Acosta, " in this instance 
 told them the truth." 
 
278 
 
 P. 236, 1. 11). 
 lie spukc; and all was silence, all was night ! 
 
 These scattered fragments may be compared to 
 shreds of old arras, or reflections from a river broken 
 and confused by the oar ; and now and then perhajjs 
 the imagination of the reader may supply more than 
 is lost. Si qua latent, meliora putat. " It is remark- 
 able," says the elder Pliny;, " that the Iris of Aristides, 
 the Tyndarides of Nicomachus, and the Venus of 
 Apelles, are held in higher admiration than their 
 finished works." And is it not so in almost every 
 thing ? 
 
 Call u]) him that left luilf-told 
 The story of Cumbuscan bold — 
 
 P. 238, 1. 5. 
 
 The soldier, c^'c. 
 
 In the Lusiad, to beguile the heavy hours at sea, 
 Veloso relates to his companions of the second watch 
 the story of the Twelve Knights, L. vi. 
 
 P. 238, 1. 8. 
 So Fortune smiled, careless of sea or land ! 
 
 Among those, who went with Columbus, were many 
 adventurers, and gentlemen of the court. Primero 
 was the game then in fashion. See Vega, p. 2, 
 lib. iii. c 9. 
 
 P. 238, 1. 22. 
 Lekwa ' the generous,' Avila ' the proud ;' 
 Many such appellations occur in Bernal Diaz. c. 204. 
 
J2T9 
 
 P. 230, 1. 1. 
 
 Yet )p//<) /)iil He inuJainitcd could explore 
 JMaiiy sighed and \vcpt ; and every hour seemed a 
 year, says Herrcra. I. i. 9 and 10. 
 
 P. 240, 1. 13. 
 
 While his dear hoys — ah, on his neck they hung, 
 " But I was most afflicted, when I thought of my 
 two sons, whom I had left behind me in a strange 
 country .... before I had done, or at least could be 
 known to have done, any thing which might incline 
 your highnesses to remember them. And though I 
 comforted myself with the reflection that our Lord 
 would not suffer so earnest an endeavour for the ex- 
 altation of his church to come to nothing, yet I con- 
 sidered that, on account of my unworthiness," &c. 
 
 Hist c, 37. 
 P. 240, 1.21. 
 
 The great Gonzalo 
 Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, already known by 
 the name of The Great Captain. Granada surren- 
 dered on the 2d of January, 1492. Columbus set sail 
 on the 3d of August following. 
 
 P. 241, 1. 25. 
 
 Tho' ROLDAN, SfC. 
 
 Probably a soldier of fortune. Tliere were more 
 than one of the name on board. 
 
 P. 242, 1. 1. 
 
 War and. the Great in War let others sing. 
 Not but that in the profession of Arms there are 
 at all times many noble natures. Let a soldier of 
 
280 
 
 the Age of Elizabeth speak for those who had com- 
 niaiuled under him^ those whom he calls "the chief 
 men of action." 
 
 " Now that I have tried them, I would choose 
 them for friends, if I had them not : before I had 
 tried them, God and his providence chose them for 
 me. I love them for mine own sake ; for I find sweet- 
 ness in their conversation, strong assistance in their 
 employments with me, and happiness in their friend- 
 ship. I love them for their virtue's sake, and for their 
 greatness of mind (for little minds, though never 
 so full of virtue, can be but a little virtuous), and for 
 their great understanding: for to understand little 
 things, or things not of use, is little better than to 
 understand nothing at all. I love them for their 
 aflTections : for self-loving men love ease, pleasure, 
 and profit ; but they that love pains, danger, and 
 fame, sheAV that they love public profit more than 
 themselves. I love them for my country's sake : 
 for they are England's best armour of defence, and 
 weapons of ofl'ence. If we may have peace, they 
 have purchased it : if we must have war, they must 
 manage it," &:c. 
 
 P. 243, 1. 19. 
 
 The Cross shune forth in everlasting light ! 
 
 The Cross of the South ; " una Croce maravig- 
 liosa, e di tanta bellezza," says Andrea Corsali, a Flo- 
 rentine, writing to Giuliano of Medicis in 1515, " che 
 non mi pare ad alcuno segno celeste doverla com- 
 parare. E s'io non mi inganno, credo che sia questo 
 
2HI 
 
 il crusero tli che Dante parlu nel principio dol Pur- 
 gatorio con apirilo profetico, dicendo, 
 
 I'mi volsi a man destra, e posi nientc 
 All' altro polo, o vidi quattro stelle," &c. 
 
 It is still sacred in the eyes of the Spaniards. ' Un 
 sentiment religieux les attache a une constellation dont 
 la forme leur rappelle ce signe de la foi plantc par leurs 
 ancetres dans les dt'serts dii noiiveau monde.' 
 
 P. 244, 1. 3. 
 
 Roc of the West ! to him all empire given ! 
 Le Condor est le meine oiseau que le Roc des 
 Orientaux. Butfon. " By the Peruvians," says Vega, 
 " he was anciently worshipped ; and there were those 
 who claimed their descent from him." In these dege- 
 nerate days he still ranks above the Eagle. 
 
 P. 244, 1. 4. 
 
 Who bears Axalhua's rlragon-fuhls to heaven ; 
 
 As the Roc of the East is said to have carried off 
 the Elephant. See Marco Polo. — Axalhua, or the 
 Emperor, is the name in the IMexican language for 
 the great serpent of America. 
 
 P. 244, 1. 10. 
 To where Alaska's wintrij wilds retire ; 
 
 Northern extremity of the New World. See Cook's 
 last Voyage. 
 
 P. 244, 1.11. 
 
 From mines of gold . . . 
 
 Mines of Chili ; which extend, says Ovalle, to the 
 Strait of Magellan. I. 4. 
 
 o o 
 
282 
 
 P. 244, 1. 14. 
 
 High-hung in forests to the casing snows. 
 
 A custom not peculiar to the Western Hemisphere. 
 The Tunguses of Siberia hang their dead on trees ; 
 " parceque la terre ne se laisse point ouvrir." 
 
 M. Pauvv. 
 
 P. 245, 1. 2. 
 
 . . . and, thro' that dismal night, 
 
 " Aquella noche triste." The night, on which Cortes 
 
 made his famous retreat from IMexico through the 
 
 street of Tlacopan, still goes by the name of la noche 
 
 TRISTE. Humboldt. 
 
 P. 245, 1. 3. 
 By his white plume revealed and buskins white, 
 
 Pizarro used to dress in this fashion ; after Gonzalo, 
 whom he had served under in Italy. 
 
 P. 245, 1. 10. 
 
 O'er him a Vaynpire his dark wings displayed. 
 
 A species of Bat in South America ; which refreshes 
 by the gentle agitation of its wings, while it sucks the 
 blood of the sleeper, turning his sleep into death. 
 
 P. 245, 1. 11. 
 
 'Twas Merion's self, covering with dreadful shade. 
 
 Now one, 
 
 Now other, as tlieir shape served best his end. 
 
 Undoubtedly, says Herrera, the Infernal Spirit assumed 
 various shapes in tluit region of the world. 
 
288 
 
 P. 245, 1. 15. 
 
 Then, inlif gliding, Sj-c. 
 
 Many a modern reader will exclaim in the language 
 of Pococurante, " Quelle triste extravagance !" Let a 
 great theologian of that day, a monk of the Augustine 
 order, be consulted on the subject. " Corpus ille peri- 
 mere vel jugulare potest ; nee id modo, vervim ot 
 animam ita urgere, et in ana-ustum coarctare novit, ut 
 in momcnto quoque illi excedendum sit." 
 
 Lutherus, De Missa Privata. 
 
 The Roman ritual requires three signs of possession. 
 
 P. 247- 1. 5. 
 
 yLiul can you shrink ? S,'c. 
 The same language had been addressed to Isabella. 
 Hist. c. 15. 
 
 P. 247, 1- 7- 
 Oh had I perished, when viy failing frame 
 His miraculous escape, in early life, during a sea- 
 light off the coast of Portugal. Ibid c. 5. 
 
 P. 247, 1. 10. 
 
 The scorn of Folly, and of Fraud the prey ; 
 
 Nudo noccbier, promettitor di regiii ! 
 
 By the Genoese and the Spaniards he was regarded 
 
 as a man resolved on " a wild dedication of himself to 
 
 unpathed waters, undreamed shores ;" and the court 
 
 of Portugal endeavoured to rob him of the glory of 
 
 his enterprise, by secretly dispatching a vessel in the 
 
 course which he had pointed out. " Lcnsqu'il avait 
 
 promis \\\\ Uduvel h(''iiiisj)here," says Voltaire, " on lui 
 
281- 
 
 iivait soutonu que cet liemispherc ne jjouvait exister ; 
 et quand il Tent dccouvert, on preteiulit qu'il avait 
 etc coiinu depuis long-temps." 
 
 P. 247, 1- 15. 
 He spoke not uninspired ; 
 
 He used to affirm, that he stood in need of God's 
 particular assistance ; like Moses, when he led forth 
 the people of Israel, who forbore to lay violent hands 
 upon him, because of the miracles which God wrought 
 by his means. " So," said the Admiral, " did it 
 
 happen to me on that voyage." Hist. c. 19. 
 
 " And so easily," says a Commentator, " are the 
 workings of the Evil one overcome by the power of 
 God !" 
 
 P. 247, 1- 20. 
 
 " III his unui shape shall Death receive you there." 
 
 This denunciation, fulfilled as it appears to be in 
 the eleventh canto, may remind the reader of the 
 Harpy's in Virgil. Mn. 111. v. 247- 
 
 P. 249, 1. 19. 
 Rose to the Virgin 
 
 Salve, regina. Herrera, I. i. 12. — It Avas the usual 
 service, and always sung with great solemnity. " I 
 remember one evening," says Oviedo, " when the ship 
 was in full sail, and all the men were on their knees, 
 singing Salve, regina, &:c." Relacion Sommaria. — The 
 hymn, O Sanctissima, is still to be heard after sunset 
 along the shores of Sicily, and its effect may be better 
 conceived than described. 
 
^8.5 
 
 P. 249, 1. 25. 
 
 Chosen of Men ! 
 
 I believe that he was chosen for tliis great service ; 
 and that, because he was to be so truly an apostle, as 
 in effect he proved to be, therefore was his origin 
 obscure ; that therein he might resemble those who 
 were called to make known the name of the Lord 
 from seas and rivers, and not from courts and palaces. 
 And I believe also, that, as in mo.st of his doings he 
 was guarded by some special providence, his very 
 name was not without some mystery : for in it is ex- 
 pressed the wonder he performed ; inasmuch as he 
 conveyed to a new world the grace of the Holy 
 Ghost, &c. Hist. c. 1. 
 
 P. 249, 1. 26. 
 
 First from the pi'ow to hail the glimnicring light; 
 
 A light in the midst of darkness, signifying the 
 spiritual light that he came to spread there. F. Col. 
 c. 22. Herrera, I. i. 12. 
 
 P. 250, 1. 3 
 
 PeDKO ! RODRIGO ! . . . . 
 Pedro Gutierrez, a Page of the King's Chamber. 
 Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, Comptroller of the Fleet. 
 
 P. 252, 1. 9. 
 
 Slowlij, bare-headed, thro' the surf ive bore 
 The sacred cross. 
 Signifying to the Infernal Powers (all' infierno 
 
286 
 
 todo) the will of the Most High, that they should 
 renounce a world over which they had tyrannised for 
 so many ages. Ovalle, iv. 5. 
 
 P. 252,1. 11. 
 But what a scene was there ? 
 
 " This country excels all others, as far as the day 
 surpasses the night in splendour. — Nor is there a better 
 people in the world. They love their neighbour as 
 tliernselvcs ; their conversation is the sweetest ima- 
 ginable, their faces always smiling ; and so gentle, 
 so affectionate are they, that I swear to your High- 
 nesses," &c. Hist. c. 30, 33. 
 
 P. 252, 1. 11. 
 Nj/mphs ofromaiice, c^-c. 
 
 Dryades formosissimas, aut nativas fontium nym- 
 phas de quibus fabulatur antiquitas, se vidisse arbitrati 
 sunt. P. Martyr, dec. i. lib. v. 
 
 And an eminent Painter of the present day, when 
 he first saw the Apollo of the Belvidere, was struck 
 with its resemblance to an American warrior. West's 
 discourse in the Royal Academy, 1794. 
 
 P. 252, 1. 16. 
 
 Come and behold, cVc. 
 So, when Cortes and his companions ap[)eared at 
 the gates of Mexico, the young exclaimed, ' They are 
 Gods !' while the old shook their heads, saying, ' They 
 are those who were to come and reign over us ! ' 
 
 Herrera. 
 
287 
 
 P. 252, 1. 27. 
 
 Atid see, the regal plumes, the eoneh of state ! 
 
 " The Cacique came down to tlie shore in a sort of 
 
 palanquin — attended by his ancient men. — The gifts, 
 
 which he received from me, were afterwards carried 
 
 before him." Hist. c. 32. 
 
 P. 253, 1. 4. 
 
 Tlie wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass. 
 
 The ring of Gyges, the lamp of Aladdin, and the 
 horse of the Tartar king. 
 
 P. 253, 1. 5. 
 
 What long-drawn tube, c^-c. 
 
 For the effects of the telescope, and the mirror, on 
 an uncidtivated mind, see Wallis's Voyage round the 
 World, c. 2 and 6. 
 
 P. 255, 1. 17. 
 Thro' citron-groves, and fields of yellow maize, 
 
 ^tas est illis aurea. Apertis vivunt hortis. P. 
 Martyr, dec. i. 3. 
 
 P. 255, 1. 21. 
 
 Ceiba, 
 
 The wild cotton tree, often mentioned in History. 
 ' Cortes,' says Bernal Diaz, ' took possession of the 
 Country in the following manner. Drawing his 
 sword, he gave three cuts with it into a great Ceiba, 
 and said — . ' 
 
i>88 
 
 P. 255, 1. 23. 
 
 There, si/s I he hird tliat .speaks ! 
 
 The Parrot, as described by Aristotle. Hist. Ani- 
 mal, viii. 12. 
 
 P. 255, 1.25. 
 
 Half hird, half fly, 
 
 Here are birds so small, says Herrera, that though 
 they are birds, they are taken for bees or butterflies. 
 
 P. 255, 1. 25. 
 
 the fairy king of flowers 
 
 The Humming-bird. Kakopit (florum regulus) is 
 the name of an Indian bird, referred to this class by 
 Seba. 
 
 P. 255, 1. 26. 
 
 Reigns there, and revels, t^-c, 
 
 There also was heard the wild cry of the Flamingo. 
 
 What clarion winds along the yellow sands ? 
 Far in the deep the giant-fisher stands, 
 Folding his wings of flame. 
 
 P. 255, 1. 28. 
 Soon in the virgin's graceful ear to shine. 
 
 II sert apres sa mort a parer les jeunes Indiennes, 
 qui portent en pendans d'oreilles deux de ces char- 
 mans oiseaux. Bufljon. 
 
 P. 250, 1. 8. 
 'Mid branching palms a7id amaranths of gold! 
 
 According to an ancient tradition. See Oviedo, 
 Vega, Herrera, &c. Not many years afterwards a 
 
2H9 
 
 Spaniard of distinction wandered every where in search 
 of it; and no wonder, as Robertson observes, when 
 Columbus himself could imagine that he had found 
 the seat of Paradise. 
 
 P. 258, 1. 4. 
 
 And guavas blushed as in the vales of light. 
 
 They believed that the souls of good men were con- 
 veyed to a pleasant valley, abounding in guavas and 
 other delicious fruits. Herrera, I. iii. 3. Hist, del 
 Almirante, c. 62. 
 
 P. 258, 1. 5. 
 
 Thej-e silent sate many an unhidden Guest, 
 
 " The dead walk abroad in the night, and feast with 
 the living;" (F.Columbus, c. 62) and "eat of the 
 fruit called Guannaba." P. Martyr, dec. i. 9. 
 
 P. 258, 1. 14. 
 And sires, alas, their sons in battle slain ! 
 
 War reverses the order of Nature. In time of 
 peace, says Herodotus, the sons bury their fathers ; 
 in time of war the fathers bury their sons ! But the 
 Gods have willed it so. I. 87- 
 
 P. 258, 1. 23. 
 Cazziva, . . . 
 
 An ancient Cacique, in his life-time and after his 
 death, employed by the Zemi to alarm his people. See 
 Hist. c. 62. 
 
 p 1' 
 
290 
 
 P. 259, 1. 4. 
 Unseeti, unheard! — Hence, Minister of III! 
 The Author is speaking in his inspired character. 
 Hidden things are revealed to him, and placed before 
 his mind as if they were present. 
 
 P. 259, 1. 6. 
 . loo soon shall they fulfil; 
 
 Nor could they (the Powers of Darkness) have 
 more effectually prevented the progress of the Faith, 
 than by desolating the New World ; by burying na- 
 tions alive in mines, or consigning them in all their 
 errors to the sword. Relacion de B. de las Casas, 
 
 P. 259, 1. 7. 
 When forth they rush as with the torre^it's sweep. 
 Not man alone, but many other animals became 
 extinct there. 
 
 P. 261, 1. 2. 
 Who among us a life of sorrow spent. 
 
 For a summary of his life and character see " An 
 Account of the European Settlements." P. I. c. 8. 
 
 P. 261, 1. 13. 
 
 Signs like the ethereal boiv — that shall endure ! 
 
 It is remarkable that these phenomena still remain 
 among the mysteries of nature. 
 
 P. 261, 1. 17. 
 He stood, and thus his secret soul addressed. 
 
 Te tiia fata docebo. Virg. 
 
 Sapiai di tua vita il viaggio. Dante. 
 
291 
 
 P. 2t)2, 1. 10. 
 
 And datsh I he floods of ocean lo the stars ; 
 
 When he entered the Tagus, all the seamen ran 
 from all parts to behold, as it were some wonder, a 
 ship that had escaped so terrible a storm. Hist, 
 c. 40. 
 
 P. 202, 1. 12. 
 A?id Thee restore thy Secret to the Deep ! 
 
 I wrote on a parchment that I had discovered what 
 I had promised ; — and, having put it into a cask, I 
 threw it into the sea. Ibid, c 37- 
 
 P. 2G2, 1. 17. 
 To other eyes, from distant clifl' descried, 
 
 Balboa immediately concluded it to be the ocean 
 for which Columbus had searched in vain ; and when, 
 at length, after a toilsome march among the moun- 
 tains, his guides pointed out to him the summit from 
 which it might be seen, he commanded his men to 
 halt, and went tip alone. Herrera, I. x. 1. 
 
 P. 262, 1. 21. 
 Hung in tluj chamber, hnried in thy grave! 
 
 I always saw them in his room, and he ordered them 
 to be buried with his body. Hist. c. 86. 
 
 P. 262, 1. 22. 
 
 Thy reverend form 
 
 Ills person; says Herrera, had an air of grandeur. 
 His hair, from nianv hardshii)s, had long been grey. 
 
292 
 
 111 liiin you saw u iiuui of an unconquerable courage, 
 and liigli thoughts ; patient of wrongs, calm in adver- 
 sity, ever trusting in God : — and, had he lived in 
 ancient times, statues and temples would have been 
 erected to him without number, and his name would 
 have been placed among the stars. 
 
 P. 2(53, 1. 6. 
 Bj/ dugs of carnage 
 
 One of these, on account of his extraordinary sa- 
 gacity and fierceness, received the full allowance of 
 a soldier. His name was Berezillo. 
 
 P. 263, 1. 7- 
 
 Swept — till lite voyage)', in Ike desert air, 
 
 With my own eyes I saw kingdoms as full of 
 people, as hives are full of bees ; and now Avhere are 
 they ? Las Casas. 
 
 P. 263, 1. 8. 
 
 Starts hack to hear his altered accents there ! 
 No unusual effect of an exuberant vegetation. 
 " The air was so vitiated," says an African traveller, 
 " that our torches burnt dim, and seemed ready to be 
 extinguished; and even the human voice lost its 
 natural tone." 
 
 P. 263, 1. 13. 
 
 Here, in His train, shall arts and arms attend, 
 
 " There are those alive," said an illustrious orator, 
 
 " whose memory might touch the two extremities. 
 
 Lord Bathurst, in 1 704, was of an age to compre- 
 
29,'J 
 
 hend sucli things — and, if his angel had then drawn 
 up the curtain, and, while he was gazing with admi- 
 ration, had pointed out to him a speck, and had toUl 
 him, ' Young man, there is America — which, at this 
 day, serves for little more than to amuse you with 
 stories of savage men and uncouth manners ; yet shall, 
 before you taste of death,'" &c. Burke in 1775. 
 
 P. 263, 1. 15. 
 Assembling here, &c. 
 
 How simple were the manners of the early co- 
 lonists ! The first ripening of any European fruit ^vas 
 distinguished by a family-festival. Garcilasso de la 
 Vega relates how his dear father, the valorous Andres, 
 collected together in his chamber seven or eight gen- 
 tlemen to share with him three asparaguses, the first 
 that ever grew on the table-land of Cusco. When 
 the operation of dressing them was over (and it is 
 minutely described) he distributed the two largest 
 among his friends ; begging that the company would 
 not take it ill, if he reserved the third for himself, as 
 it ivas a thing from Spain. 
 
 North America became instantly an asylum for the 
 oppressed ; huguenots, and catholics, and sects of 
 every name and country. Such were the first settlers 
 in Carolina and IMaryland, Pennsylvania and New 
 England. Nor is South America altogether without 
 a claim to the title. Even now, while I am writing, 
 the ancient house of Braganza is on its passage across 
 the Atlantic, 
 
 Cum sociis, iiatoiiiic, Pciiatiitus, cl iiuignis di^. 
 
291 
 
 P. 263, 1. 17. 
 
 Untouched shall drop the fellers from the slave ; 
 
 Je me transporte quelquefois au dela d'un siecle. 
 J'y vois le bonheur a cote de I'industrie, la douce 
 toU'rance remplagant la farouche inquisitiou ; j'y vois 
 un jour de fete ; Peruviens, Mexicains^ Americains 
 libres, Francois, s'emLrassant comme des freres, et 
 benissant le regne de la liberte, qui doit amener par- 
 tout une harmonie universelle. — Mais les mines, les 
 esclaves, que deviendront-ils ? Les mines se fermeront ; 
 les esclaves seront les freres de leurs maitres. Brissot. 
 There is a prophetic stanza, written a century ago 
 by Bp. Berkeley, which I must quote, though I shall 
 suffer by the comparison. 
 
 Westward tbe course of empire takes its way. 
 
 The four first acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day. 
 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last. 
 
 P. 263, 1. 24. 
 The spoiler spoiled of all; 
 Cortes. A peine put-il obtenir audience de Charles- 
 Quint : un jour il fendit la presse qui entourait le 
 coche de I'empereur, et monta sur lY'trier de la por- 
 tiere. Charles demanda quel ttait cet homme : " C'est," 
 repondit Cortez, " celui qui vous a donne plus d'etats 
 que vos peres ne vous out laisse de villes." Voltaire. 
 
 P. 263, 1. 24. 
 
 the slayer slain ; 
 " Almost all," says Las Casas, " have perished. TJie 
 
295 
 
 innocent blood, which they had shed, cried aloud for 
 vengeance; the sighs, the tears of so many victims 
 went up before God." 
 
 P. 263, 1. 26. 
 
 Mid gems and gold unenvied and unhle.st : 
 L'Espagne a fait comme ce roi insense qui demanda 
 que tout ce qu'il toucheroit se convertit en or, et qui 
 fut oblige de revenir aux dieux pour les prier de finir 
 sa mis^re. Montesquieu. 
 
 P. 267, 1. 21. 
 Where on his altar-tomb, ^-c. 
 An Interpolation. 
 
 P. 268, 1. 3. 
 
 The' in the western world His grave. 
 
 An Anachronism. The body of Columbus was not 
 yet removed from Seville. 
 
 It is almost unnecessary to point out another, in the 
 Ninth Canto. The telescope was not then in use ; 
 though described long before with great accuracy by 
 Roger Bacon. 
 
 THE ENU. 
 
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