Or view the shifting and delusive scene
Of this vain life,-and all its transient state:
Think, that yon begging dotard once has been,
Think, that yon starving orphan may be, great!
Or, pity throned on the melting eye,
Weep o'er each sad reverse the good have known ;
Or musc exultant o'er their days of joy,
And in their happiest feelings find his own!
Yet 'twas but specious trifling of the mind,
This unsubstantial dream of solitude,
To social man, a social part's assign'd,
For others wise, and profitably good.
Doth justice prompt and reason guide thy will?
Doth strong persuasion kindle on thy tongue?
No selfish thought,-no dastard passion chill
Thy soul?-as arm in resolution strong.
Go, stem the torrent of oppression's stream,
In public virtue and in freedom great;
Rouse a brave people with the glorious theme,
Then, give it action,-and preserve the state!
Or to the milder virtues dost thou tend,
Of gentler passions, and of humbler bent,
The pattern husband, brother, father, friend,
In life's sequester'd region of content?
Go, raise oppressed goodness from the earth,
In misery comfort, and in danger save;
Go, give the hidden lights of genius birth,
And rescue merit from oblivion's grave.
Then hither take thy solitary way,
And as thou shad'st thy head in yonder wood,
Thro' every cordial scene bid memory stray,
And know the heart-felt pleasure, to be good.
Can there a thought from tow'ring greatness spring,
The hero's force, the politican's art,
Potent the charm'd felicity to bring,
As from the infelt merit of the heart?
Can the loose revel of distemper'd sense
Cope with exulting virtue's hour of joy?
VOL. XLVII.
3 R
One moment conscious of benevolence,
More worth than luxuries eternity!
Say, St. John say,-for sure thy spirit still
Mast haunt these solitudes, these blest retreats,
Those spotted lawns,-this grove,-that murm'ring rill,
For 'twas thou gave to nature all these sweets.
Thy hand did plant the many a twig, which now`
Spreads to the sky, nor fears the tempest force;
For thee yon mound did rise, yon stream did flow,
And wanton in its self-enliven'd course!
For thy lone hours of deep musing-thought
Yon solitary ally stretch'd a way;
There, hast thou oft a peaceful hour sought,
There, calm reflection clos'd thy busyday.
Say, in that hour did e'er thy fancy glean
One grain of mental bliss from greatness past?
When fortune frowning veil'd the splendid scene,
Say, did it precious to thy memory last?
Or, if recoil'd some deed of private worth,
Happy intruder on thy musing vein;
Say, wouldst thou barter that, for what this earth,
Its thrones of power, its mines of wealth contain ?
No, then away ye scenes of splendid toil;
Away ye slaves to factions not your own;
I'll fear nor fortune's frown, nor court her smile,-
Passion my subject, and content my throne.
But now the shadow, length'ning on the plain,
Bids the lone wand'rer to his home retire,
And evening's gloom speaks out in solemn strain,
And many a holy thought its shades inspire.
To watch the parting of the brilliant day,
To bid the jocund scene of life adieu;
Tho' but a night, seems awfully to say,
"Think of the night of death, which shall ensue."
Think well upon that long and fearful night,
And for the eternal dream thy soul prepare;
Reason the darksome way shall poorly light,
A Locke shall wander, and a St. John err.
How then shall man, so frail, his way pursue,
How, not bewilder'd in the gloom, despair?
How light the holy lamp, to light him through?
Cease,-Reasoner cease, and mark the wanderer's prayer.
The moral path, O God, by thee design'd,
-nor tread with fatal pride:
I tread,-
may
Whate'er my worth,-to thee be praise assign'd:
To thee, who art its maker and its guide.
"If to the sapient page I turn mine eye,
Deep be my search of wisdom, not of fame;
Its end, thy glorious system to descry,
To laud thy bounties, and thy power proclaim!
"Not for its splendour, or its ardent force,
We bless the sun,--but for its genial heat;
And thou shalt bless the good man's pious course,
Nor heed the boasted glories of the great.
May then no series' of heroic deeds,
Dazzle the nations with my rising fame!
But let me sooth the wretched heart that bleeds,
And
man's prayer repeat my
may the poor
So shall I wisely pass, my day on earth,'
The morn,-in infant innocence and glee;
The noon,-in pious thoughts, and deeds of worth,
The ev'n,-in giving up the account to thee!
EPISODE OF CARADOC AND SENENA,
AID of the golden locks, far other lot
May gentle heaven assign thy happier love,
Blue-eyed Senena!.. She, though not as yet
Had she put off her boy habiliments,
Had told Goervyl all the history
Of her sad flight, and easy pardon gained
From that sweet heart, for guile which meant no ill,
And secresy, in shame too long maintained.
With her dear lady now, at this still hour
Of evening, is the seeming page gone forth,
Beside Caermadoc mere. They loitered on,
Along the windings of its grassy shore,
In such free interchange of inward thought,
As the calm hour invited; or at times,
Willingly silent, listening to the bird
Whose one repeated melancholy note,
By oft repeating melancholy made,
Solicited the ear; or gladlier now
Harkening that cheerful one, who knoweth ali
The songs of all the winged choristers,
And, in one sequence of melodious sounds,
Pours all their music. But one wilder strain
At fits came o'er the water; rising now,
Now with a dying fall, in sink and swell
More exquisitely sweet than ever art
Of man evoked from instrument of touch,
Or beat, or breath. It was the evening gale,
Which, passing o'er the harp of Caradoc,
Swept all its chords at once, and blended all
Their music into one continuous flow.
The solitary bard, beside his harp
Leant underneath a tree, whose spreading boughs,
With broken shade that shifted to the breeze,
Played on the waving waters. Overhead
There was the leafy murmur, at his foot
The lake's perpetual ripple, and from far,
Borne on the modulating gale, was heard
The roaring of the mountain cataract. . .
A blind man would have loved the lovely spot.
Here was Senena by her lady led,
Trembling, yet not reluctant. They drew nigh,
Their steps unheard upon the elastic moss,
Till playfully Goervyl, with quick touch,
Ran o'er the harp-strings. At the sudden sound
He rose... Hath then thy hand, quoth she, O bard,
Forgot its cunning, that the wind should be
Thine harper?.. Come! one strain for Britain's sake;
And let the theme be woman! . . He replied,
But if the strain offend, O lady fair,
Blame thou the theme not me!.. Then to the harp
He sung,.. Three things a wise man will not trust,
The wind, the sunshine of an April day,
And woman's plighted faith. I have beheld
The weathercock upon the steeple point
Steady from morn till eve, and I have seen
The bees go forth upon an April morn,
Secure the sunshine will not end in showers;
But when was woman true?
With smile of playful anger, she exclaim'd,
False bard! and slanderous song! Were such thy thoughts
Of woman, when thy youthful lays were heard
In Heilyn's hall? . . But at that name his heart
Leaped, and his cheek with sudden flush was fired.
In Heilyn's hall, quoth he, I learned the song.
There was a maid, who dwelt among the hills
Of Arvon, and to one of humbler birth
Had pledged her troth; not rashly, nor beguiled,..
They had been playmates in their infancy,
And she in all his thoughts had borne a part,
And all his joys. The moon and all the stars
Witnessed their mutual vows; and for her sake
The song was framed; for in the face of day
She broke them. . . But her name? Goervyl cried.
Qnoth he, The poet loved her still too well,
To couple it with shame.
Of woman-kind! she cried, our virtues bloom,
Like violets, in shade and solitude,
While evil eyes hunt all our failings out,
For evil tongues to bruit abroad in jest,
And song of obloquy!.. I knew a maid,
And she too dwelt in Arvon, and she too
Loved one of lowly birth, who ill repaid
Her spotless faith; for he to ill reports,
And tales of falsehood cunningly devised,
Lent a light ear, and to his rival left
The loathing maid. The wedding-day arrived,
The harpers and the gleemen, far and near,
Came to the wedding-feast; the wedding guests
Were come, the altar dressed, the bridemaids met;
The father, and the bridegroom, and the priest
Wait for the bride. But she the while did off
Her bridal robes, and clipt her golden locks,
And put on boy's attire, through wood and wild
To seek her own true love; and over-sea,
Forsaking all for him, she followed him,
Nor hoping nor deserving fate so fair;
And at his side she stood, and heard him wrong
Her faith with slanderous tales; and his dull eye,
As it had learnt his heart's forgetfulness,
Knew not the trembling one, who even now
Yearns to forgive him all!
He turned, he knew
The blue-eyed maid, who fell upon his breast.
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