But when, at evening hour, disjointed planks, Borne on the surging-tide, and broken oars, To sight, with fatal certainty, revea!'d The wreck before surmis'd; one general groan, To Heaven ascending, spoke the general breast With sharpest anguish pierc'd. Their ceaseless plaint, [shore, Through these hoarse rocks, on this resounding At morn was heard: at midnight too were seen, Disconsolate on each chill mountain's height, The mourners spread, exploring land and sea With eager gaze-till from yon lesser isle, Yon round of moss-clad hills, Borera nam'd- Full north, behold! above the soaring lark, Its dizzy cliffs aspire, hung round and white With curling mists-at last from yon hoar hills, Inflaming the brown air with sudden blaze, And ruddy undulation, thrice three fires, Like meteors waving in a moonless sky, Our eyes, yet unbelieving, saw distinct, Successive kindled, and from night to night Renew'd continuous. Joy, with wild excess, Took her gay turn to reign; and Nature now From rapture wept: yet ever and anon By sad conjecture damp'd, and anxious thought How from yon rocky prison to release Whom the deep sea iminures (their only boat Destroy'd) and whom th' inevitable siege Of hunger must assault. But hope sustains The human heart: and now their faithful wives, With love-taught skill and vigour not their own, On yonder field th' autumnal year prepare '." Amyntor, who the tale distressful heard With sympathizing sorrow, on himself, On his severer fate, now pondering deep, Wrapt by sad thought the hill unheeding left, And reach'd, with swerving step, the distant strand. Above, around, in cloudy circles wheel'd, Or sailing level on the polar gale
That cool with evening rose, a thousand wings, The summer-nations of these pregnant cliffs, Play'd sportive round, and to the Sun outspread Their various plumage; or in wild notes hail'd His parent-beam, that animates and cheers All living kinds. He, glorious from amidst A pomp of golden clouds, th' Atlantic flood Beheld oblique, and o'er its azure breast Wav'd one unbounded blush: a scene to strike Both ear and eye with wonder and delight! But, lost to outward sense, Amyntor pass'd Regardless on, through other walks convey'd Of baleful prospect; which pale Fancy rais'd Incessant to herself, and sabled o'er
With darkest night, meet region for despair! Till northward, where the rock its sea-wash'd base Projects athwart and shuts the bounded scene, Rounding its point, he rais'd his eyes and saw, At distance saw, descending on the shore, Forth from their anchor'd boat, of men unknown A double band, who by their gestures strange There fix'd with wondering: for at once they knelt With hands upheld; at once, to Heaven, as seem'd, One general hymn pour'd forth of vocal praise. Then, slowly rising, forward mov'd their steps: Slow as they mov'd, behold! amid the train, On either side supported, onward came
The author who relates this story adds, that the produce of grain that season was the most plentiful they had seen for many years before.
Pale and of piteous look, a pensive maid;
As one by wasting sickness sore assail'd, Or plung'd in grief profound-"Oh, all ye powers!" Amyntor starting, cry'd, and shot his soul In rapid glance before him on her face. "Illusion! no-it cannot be. My blood Runs chill: my feet are rooted here-and see! To mock my hopes, it wears her gracious form. The spirits who this ocean waste and wild Still hover round, or walk these isles unseen, Presenting oft in pictur'd vision strange The dead or absent, have on yon shape adorn'd, So like my love, of unsubstantial air, Embody'd featur'd it with all her charms- And lo! behold! its eyes are fix'd on mine With gazet ransported-Ha! sh efaints, she falls!" He ran, he flew his clasping arms receiv'd Her sinking weight-" O earth, and air, and sea! 'Tis she! 'tis Theodora! Power divine, Whose goodness knows no bounds, thy hand is bere, Omnipotent in mercy!" As he spoke, Adown his cheek, through shivering joy and doubt, The tear fast-falling stream'd. "My love! my life! Soul of my wishes! sav'd beyond all faith! Return to life and me. O fly, my friends, Fly, and from yon translucent fountain bring The living stream. Thou dearer to my soul Than all the sumless wealth this sea entombs, My Theodora, yet awake: 'tis I,
'Tis poor Amyntor calls thee!" At that name, That potent name, her spirit from the verge Of death recall'd, she trembling rais'd her eyes; Trembling, his neck with eager grasp entwin'd, And murmur'd out his name: then sunk again; Then swoon'd upon his bosom, through excess Of bliss unhop'd, too mighty for her frame. The rose-bud thus, that to the beam serene Of morning glad unfolds her tender charms, Shrinks and expires beneath the noon-day blaze.
Moments of dread suspense-but soon to cease! For now, while on her face these men unknown The stream, with cool aspersion; busy cast, His eyes beheld, with wonder and amaze, Beheld in them-his friends! th' adventurous few, Who bore her to the skiff! whose daring skill Had sav'd her from the deep! As, o'er her cheek, Rekindling life, like morn, its light diffus'd In dawning purple; from their lips he tearn'd, How to yon isle, yon round of moss-clad hills, Borea nam'd, before the tempest borne, These islanders, thrice three, then prison'd there, (So Heaven ordain'd) with utmost peril run, With toil invincible, from shelve and rock Their boat preserv'd, and to this happy coast Its prow directed safe-He heard no more: The rest already known, his every sense, His full collected soul, on her alone Was fix'd, was hung enraptur'd, while these sounds, This voice, as of an angel, pierc'd his ear.
"Amyntor! O my life's recover'd hope! My soul's despair and rapture!-can this be? Am I on earth? and do these arms indeed Thy real form enfold? Thou dreadful deep! Ye shores unknown! ye wild impending hills! Dare I yet trust my sense?-O yes, 'tis he! 'Tis he himself! My eyes, my bounding heart,
Vide Martin's Description of the Western Isles of Scotland, p. 286.
With tempest delug'd, or with flame devour'd Her drooping plains: while, dawning rosy round, purer morning lights up all her skies! He comes, behold! the great deliver comes ! Immortal William, borne triumphant on, From yonder orient, o'er propitious seas, White with the sails of his unnumber'd fleet, A floating forest, stretch'd from shore to shore! See! with spread wings Britannia's genius flies Before his prow; commands the speeding gales To waft him on; and, o'er the hero's head, Inwreath'd with olive bears the laurel-crown, Blest emblem, peace with liberty restor❜d! And hark! from either strand, which nations hide, To welcome-in true freedom's day renew'd What thunders of acclaim! Aurelius, man By Heaven belov'd, thou too that sacred sun Shalt live to hail; shalt warm thee in his shine! I see thee on the flowery lap diffus'd Of thy lov'd vale, amid a smiling race From this blest pair to spring: whom equal faith, And equal fondness, in soft league shall hold From youth to reverend age; the calmer hours Of thy last day to sweeten and adorn; Through life thy comfort, and in death thy crown."
Confess their living lord! What shall I say? How vent the boundless transport that expands My labouring thought? th' unutterable bliss, Joy, wonder, gratitude, that pain to death The breast they charm?-Amyntor, O support This swimming brain: I would not now be torn Again from life and thee; nor cause thy heart A second pang." At this, dilated high The swell of joy, most fatal where its force Is felt most exquisite, a timely vent Now found, and broke in tender dews away Of heart-relieving tears. As o'er its charge, With sheltering wing, solicitously good, The guardian-genius hovers, so the youth, On her lov'd face, assiduous and alarm'd, In silent fondness dwelt: while all his soul, With trembling tenderness of hope and fear Pleasingly pain'd, was all employ'd for her; The rouz'd emotions warring in her breast, Attempering, to compose, and gradual fit For further joy her soft impressive frame. "O happy! though as yet thou know'st not half The bliss that waits thee! but, thou gentle mind, Whose sigh is pity, and whose smile is love, For all who joy or sorrow, arm thy breast With that best temperance, which from fond excess, When rapture lifts to dangerous height its powers, Reflective guards. Know then-and let calm thought On wonder wait-safe refug'd in this isle, Thy godlike father lives! and lo-but curb, Repress the transport that o'erheaves thy heart; 'Tis be-look yonder-he, whose reverend steps The mountain's side descend!--Abrupt from his Her band she drew; and, as on wings upborne, Shot o'er the space between. He saw, he knew, Astonish'd knew, before him, on her knee, His Theodora! To his arms he rais'd The lost lov'd fair, and in his bosom press'd. "My father!"—"O my child!" at once they cry'd: Nor more. The rest ecstatic silence spoke, And Nature from her inmost seat of sense Beyond all utterance mov'd. On this blest scene, the native glowing of a fine complexion from that
Where emulous in either bosom strove Adoring gratitude, earth, ocean, air, Around with softening aspect seem'd to smile; And Heaven, approving, look'd delighted down.
Nor theirs alone this blissful hour: the joy, With instant flow, from shore to shore along Diffusive ran; and all th' exulting isle About the new-arriv'd was pour'd abroad, To hope long lost, by miracle regain'd! In each plain bosom Love and Nature wept: While each a sire, a husband, or a friend, Embracing held and kiss'd.
Now, while the song, The choral hymn, in wildly-warbled notes, What Nature dictates when the full heart prompts, Best harmony, they, grateful souls, effus'd Aload to Heaven; Montano, reverend seer, (Whose eye prophetic far through Time's abyss Could shoot its beam, and there the births of Fate, Yet immature and in their causes hid, Illumin'd see) a space abstracted stood: His frame with shivery horrour stirr'd, his eyes From outward vision held, and all the man Entranc'd in wonder at th' unfolding scene, On fluid air, as in a mirror seen, And glowing radiant, to his mental sight.
They fly!" he cry'd, "they melt in air away, The clouds that long fair Albion's Heaven o'ercast!
DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'.
YOUR grace has given leave, that these few poems should appear in the world under the patronage of your name. But this leave would have been refused, I know, had you expected to find your own praises, however just, in any part of the present address. I do not say it, my lord, in the style of compliment. Genuine modesty, the companion and the grace of true merit, may be surely distinguished from the affectation of it: as surely as
artificial colouring, which is used, in vain, to supply what Nature had denied, or has resumed.
Yet, permit me just to hint, my lord, while I restrain my pen from all enlargement, that if the fairest public character must be raised upon private virtue, as surely it must, your grace has laid already the securest foundation of the former, in the latter. The eyes of mankind are therefore turned upon you: and, from what you are known to have done, in one way, they reasonably look for whatever can be expected from a great and good man, in the other.
The author of these lighter amusements hopes soon to present your grace with something more solid, more deserving your attention, in the life of the first duke of Marlborough 2.
You will then see, that superior talents for war have been, though they rarely are, accompanied with equal abilities for negotiation: and that the same extensive capacity, which could guide all the tumultuous scenes of the camp, knew how to direct, with equal skill, the calmer but more perplexing operations of the cabinet.
This dedication was prefixed by the author to a small collection of his poems, published in 1672. N.
2 A work which has not yet appeared. N
In the mean while, that you may live to adorn the celebrated and difficult title you wear; that you may be, like him, the defender of your country in days of public danger; and in times of peace, what is perhaps less frequently found, the friend and patron of those useful and ornamental arts, by which human nature is exalted, and human society rendered more happy: this, my lord, is respect-On Earth to dwell, and govern there: fully the wish of
ADDRESSED TO A CERTAIN NOBLE LORD.
THE AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POEM.
It has no faults, or I no faults can spy: It is all beauty, or in blindness I.
Imprimatur,
meo periculo,
THE following extract from his majesty's speech to both houses of parliament, which, by every man in his dominions, would be thought the noblest introduction to a poem of the first merit, is peculiarly suitable to introduce this. However unequal these verses may be to the subject they attempt to adorn, this singular advantage will be readily allowed them. It will, at the same time, be the fullest and best explanation of the author's meaning, on a theme so interesting and uncommon. The words are these:
In consequence of the act passed in the reign of my late glorious predecessor, king William the Third, for settling the succession to the crown in my family, the commissions of the judges have been made during their good behaviour. But notwithstanding that wise provision, their offices have determined upon the demise of the crown, or at the expiration of six months afterwards, in every instance of that nature which has happened.
I look upon the independency and uprightness of the judges of the land as essential to the impartial administration of justice; as one of the best securities of the rights and liberties of my loving subjects; and as most conducive to the honour of the crown. And I come now to recommend this interesting object to the consideration of parliament; in order that such further provision, as shall be most expedient, may be made, for securing the judges in the enjoyment of their offices, during their good behaviour, notwithstanding any such demise."
ASTREA, eldest born of Jove, Whom all the gods revere and love, Was sent, while man deserv'd their care,
Till finding Earth by Heaven unaw'd, Till sick of violence and fraud, Abandoning the guilty crew, Back to her native sky she flew, There, station'd in the Virgin-sign, She long has ceas'd on Earth to shine; Or if, at times, she deigns a smile, 'Tis chief o'er Brtitain's favour'd isle.
For there-her eye with wonder fix'd' That wonder too with pleasure mix'd ! She now beheld, in blooming youth, The patron of all worth and truth; Not where the virtues most resort, On peaceful plains, but in a court! Not in a cottage, all-unknown; She found him seated on a throne! What fables paint, what poets sing, She found in fact-a patriot-king! But as a sight, so nobly new, Deserv'd, she thought, a nearer view; To where, by silver-streaming Thames, Ascends the palace of St. James, Swift through surrounding shades of night, The goddess shot her beamy flight. She stopp'd; and the revealing ray Blaz'd round her favourite, where he lay, In sweet repose: o'er all his face, Repose shed softer bloom and grace! But fearful lest her sun-bright glare Too soon might wake him into care, (For splendid toils and weary state Are every monarch's envy'd fate) The stream of circling rays to shroud, She drew an interposing cloud.
In all the silence of surprise, She gazed him o'er! She saw arise, For gods can read the human breast, Her own ideas there imprest! And that his plan to bless mankind, The plan now brightening in his mind, May story's whitest page adorn, May shine through nations yet unborn, She calls Urbania to her aid.
At once the fair ethereal maid, Daughter of Memory and Jove, Descending quits her laurel❜d grove : Loose to the gale her azure robe; Borne, in her left, a starry globe, Where each superior son of Fame Will find inserib'd his deathless name, Her right sustains th' immortal lyre, To praise due merit, or inspire.
"Behold"-Astrea thus began- "The friend of virtue and of man! Calm reason see, in early youth! See, in a prince, the soul of truth! With love of justice, tender sense For suffering worth and innocence! Who means to build his happy reign On this blest maxim, wise and plain- Though plain, how seldom understood! That, to be great, he must be good.
His breast is open to your eye; Approach, Urania, mark, and try. This bosom needs no thought to hide: This virtue dares our search abide.
"The sacred fountains to secure Of Justice, undisturb'd and pure
From hopes or fears, from fraud or force, To ruffle or to stain their course; That these may flow serene and free, The Law must independent be: Her ministers, as in my sight, And mine alone, dispensing right; Of piercing eye, of judgment clear, As honour, just, as truth, sincere, With temper, firm, with spirit, sage, The Mansfields of each future age.
"And this prime blessing is to spring From youth in purple! from a king! Who, true to his imperial trust, His greatness founds in being just; Prepares, like yon ascending Sun, His glorious race with joy to run, And, where his gracious eye appears, To bless the world he lights and cheers! "Such worth with equal voice to sing, Urania, strike thy boldest string; And Truth, whose voice alone is praise, That here inspires, shall guide the lays. Begin! awake his gentle ear
With sounds that monarchs rarely hear. He merits, let him know our love, And you record, what I approve."
She ended: and the heaven-born maid, With soft surprise, his form survey'd. She saw what chastity of thought Within his stainless bosom wrought; Then fix'd on earth her sober eye, And, pausing, offer'd this reply.
"Nor pomp of song, nor paint of art, Such truths should to the world impart. My task is but, in simple verse,
These promis'd wonders to rehearse : And when on these our verse we raise, The plainest is the noblest praise.
"Yet more; a virtuous doubt remains: Would such a prince permit my strains? Deserving, but still shunning fame, The homage due he might disclaim. A prince, who rules, to save, mankind, His praise would, in their virtue, find; Would deem their strict regard to laws, Their faith and worth, his best applause. Then, Britons, your just tribute bring, In deeds, to emulate your king; In virtues, to redeem your age From venal views and party-rage. On his example safely rest; He calls, he courts you to be blest; As friends, as brethren, to unite In one firm league of just and right. "My part is last; if Britain yet A lover boasts of truth and wit, To him these grateful lays to send, The monarch's and the Muse's friend; And whose fair name, in sacred rhymes, My voice may give to latest times."
She said; and, after thinking o'er The men in place near half a score, To strike at once all scandal mute, The goddess found, and fix'd on Bute.
AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING POEM.
"WELL-now, I think, we shall be wiser," Cries Grub, who reads the Advertiser, "Here's Truth in Rhyme-a glorious treat! It surely must abuse the great; Perhaps the king;-without dispute "Twill fall most devilish hard on Bute." Thrice he reviews his parting shilling, At last resolves, though much unwilling, To break all rules imbib'd in youth, And give it up for Rhyme and Truth:
He reads-he frowns-" Why, what's the matter? Damn it-here's neither sense, nor satyr-
Here, take it, boy, there's nothing in't: Such fellows!-to pretend to print!"
Blame not, good eit, the poet's rhymes, The fault's not his, but in the times: The times, in which a monarch reigns, Form'd to make happy Britain's plains; To stop in their destructive course, Domestic frenzy, foreign force,
To bid war, faction, party cease, And bless the weary'd world with peace.、 The times in which is seen, strange sight! A court both virtuous and polite, Where merit best can recommend And science finds a constant friend.
How then should Satyr dare to sport With such a king, and such a court, While Truth looks on with rigid eye, And tells her, every line 's a lie?
UPON READING SOME VERSES, WRITTEN BY A YOUNG LADY AT A BOARDING school, september, 1760.
APOLLO lately sent to know,
If he had any sons below:
For, by the trash he long had seen In male and female magazine,
A hundred quires not worth a groat, The race must be extinct, he thought. His messenger to court repairs; Walks softly with the crowd up stairs: But when he had his errand told, The courtiers sneer'd, both young and old. Augustus knit his royal brow,
And bade him let Apollo know it, That from his infancy till now,
He lov'd nor poetry nor poet.
His next adventure was the Park, When it grew fashionably dark: There beauties, boobies, strumpets, rakes, Talk much of commerce, whist, and stakes; Who tips the wink, who drops the card: But not one word of verse or bard.
The stage, Apollo's old domain, Where his true sons were wont to reign, His courier now past frowning by: Ye modern Durfeys, tell us why.
Slow, to the city last he went: There, all was prose, of cent per cent.
There, alley-omnium, script, and bonus, (Latin, for which a Muse would stone us, Yet honest Gideon's classic style) Made our poor Nuncio stare and smile.
And now the clock had struck eleven: The messenger must back to Heaven; But, just as he his wings had ty'd, Look'd up Queen-Square, the north-east side. A blooming creature there he found, With pen and ink, and books around, Alone, and writing by a taper:
He read unseen, then stole her paper. It much amus'd him on his way; And reaching Heaven by break of day, He show'd Apollo/what he stole. The god perus'd, and lik'd the whole : Then, calling for his pocket-book, Some right celestial vellum took; And what he with a sun-beam there Writ down, the Muse thus copies fair: "If I no men my sons must call, Here's one fair daughter worth them all: Mark then the sacred words that follow, Sophia's mine"-so sign'd
WRITTEN FOR, AND GIVEN IN PRINT to, a beggar.
O MERCY, Heaven's first attribute, Whose care embraces man and brute! Behold me, where I shivering stand; Bid gentle Pity stretch her hand To want and age, disease and pain, That all in one sad object reign. Still feeling bad, still fearing worse, Existence is to me a curse: Yet, how to close this weary eye? By my own hand I dare not die: And Death, the friend of human woes, Who brings the last and sound repose; Death does at dreadful distance keep, And leaves one wretch to wake and weep!
APOLLO'S ACKNOWLEGMENTS TO CHARLES
WRITTEN IN M.DCC. LVII.
APOLLO, from the southern sky, O'er London lately glanc'd his eye. Just such a glance our courtiers throw At suitors whom they shun to know:
Or have you mark'd the averted mien, The chest erect, the freezing look,
Of Bumbo, when a bard is seen Charg'd with his dedication-book? But gods are never in the wrong : What then displeas'd the power of song? The case was this: where noble arts Ouce flourish'd, as our fathers tell us,
He now can find, for men of parts, None but rich blockheads and mere fellows; Since drums, and dice, and dissipation Have chas'd all taste from all the nation.
For is there, now, one table spread, Where Sense and Science may be fed? Where, with a smile on every face, Invited Merit takes his place?
These thoughts put Phœbus in the spleen, (For gods, like men, can feel chagrin) And left him on the point to shroud His head in one eternal cloud; When, lo! his all-discerning eye Chanc'd one remaining friend to spy, Just crept abroad, as is his way, To bask him in the noon-tide ray. This Phoebus noting, call'd aloud To every interposing cloud; And bade their gather'd mists ascend, That he might warm his good old friend: Then, as his chariot roll'd along, Tun'd to his lyre this grateful song.
"With talents, such as God has given To common mortals, six in seven; Who yet have titles, ribbons, pay, And govern whom they should obey; With no more frailties than are found In thousand others, count them round; With much good will, instead of parts, Express'd for artists and for arts; Who smiles if you have smartly spoke; Or nods applause to his own joke; This bearded child, this grey-hair'd boy, Still plays with life, as with a toy; Still keeps amusement full in view: Wise? Now and then-but oftener new; His coach, this hour, at Watson's door; The next, in waiting on a whore.
Whene'er the welcome tidings ran Of monster strange, or stranger man, A Selkirke from his desert-isle, Or Alligator from the Nile;
He saw the monster in its shrine, And had the man, next day, to dine. Or was it an hermaphrodite ? You found him in a two-fold hurry;
Neglecting, for this he-she-sight, The single charms of Fanny Murray. Gathering, from suburb and from city, Who were, who would be, wise or witty; The full-wigg'd sons of pills and potions; The bags, of maggot and new notions; The sage, of microscopic eye, Who reads him lectures on a fly; Grave antiquaries, with their flams; And poets, squirting epigrams:
With some few lords-of those that think, And dip, at times, their pen in ink : Nay, ladies too, of diverse fame, Who are, and are not, of the game. For he has look'd the world around, And pleasure, in each quarter, found. Now young, now old, now grave, now gay, He sinks from life by soft decay; And sees at hand, without affright, Th' inevitable hour of night."
But here, some pillar of the state, Whose life is one long dull debate, Some pedant of the sable gown, Who spares no failings, but his own, Set up at once their deep-mouth'd hollow: "Is this a subject for Apollo! What! can the god of wit and verse Such trifles in our ears rehearse ?”
« ForrigeFortsett » |