And self-abasement paved the way No theme on which the muse might soar, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Stain'd with each evil that pollutes BYRON. MADNESS. SWELL the clarion, sweep the string, All thy answers, Echo, bring, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring: "Tis Madness' self inspires. Hail, awful Madness, hail! Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail, Far as the voyager spreads his venturous sail. Nor best nor wisest are exempt from thee; Folly-folly's only free. Hark! to the astonish'd ear The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound. Pride-Ambition idly vain, Revenge and Malice swell her train,- And injured Merit with a downcast eye Loud the shouts of Madness rise, In Rough as the wintry wave that roars Wild raving to th' unfeeling air, (Rage the burden of his jarring song), rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair. No pleasing memory left-forgotten quite Connubial love-parental joy No sympathies like these his soul employ,- Not so the lovelorn Maid, By too much tenderness betray'd; Her gentle breast no angry passion fires, She yet retains her wonted flame, Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care, Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings, "Tis he-the Momus of the flighty train- The mimic monarch skips around; Laughter was there-but mark that groan, Give the knife, demons, or the poison'd bowl, Who's this wretch, with horror wild?— "Tis Devotion's ruin'd child: Sunk in the emphasis of grief, Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief. Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd, To warm and cheer the human mind, To point where sits, in love array'd, The God, the Father of us all! First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene, Till Superstition, fiend of woe, Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow, And spread deep shades our view and Heaven between. Drawn by her pencil the Creator stands Hope, at the frown aghast, yet lingering, flies, And, dash'd on Terror's rocks, Fate's best dependence lies. But ah!-too thick they crowd,-too close they throng, Spare farther the descriptive song- Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, veil. PENROSE. TRANQUILLITY. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and bless'd the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its roar Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, power divine, Thy spirit rests, Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, And dire Remembrance interlope To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through th' accustom'd mead; And in the sultry summer's heat And when the gust of Autumn crowds The feeling heart, the searching soul, The present works of present man A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, COLERIDGE. BETH GELERT. The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewelyn the Great had a house. The greyhound, named Gelert, was given to him by his father-inlaw, King John, in the year 1205, and the place to this day is called Beth Gelert, or the Grave of Gelert. THE spearman heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, 'Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last, 'Oh! where does faithful Gêlert roam, So true, so brave; a lamb at home, |