'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; With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue Of varied scents, that charmed her as she flew ? Hail, MEMORY, hail! thy universal reign Guards the least link of being's glorious chain. PART II. 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 language breathed the eloquence of Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct and the pure in thought; Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. 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 conventcell, Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whisper'd 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, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, 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. wave, Go, view the captive bartered as a slave! Crush'd 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: And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows; 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 sunshine 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, sky, When soberJudgment has his throne resigned, | But the fond fool, when evening shades the She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend! With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, sees His children sport beneath their native trees, Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell? There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! The spectre Poverty unnerved his frame. 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 wreath, 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 fervor fraught, Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. He,who,thro' Nature's varions walk, surveys The good and fair her faultless line portrays; Whose mind, profaned 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, 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! who 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,cach 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 shatter'd 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. Long have ye heard 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; Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, The silent sorrows of a parting-hour ; Thus with the manly glow of honest pride. O'er his dead son the gallant ORMOND sighed. Thus, through the gloom of SHENSTONE'S fairy-grove, MARIA's urn still breathes the voice of love. The stranger greets cach native of his isle: With every claim of close affinity! In gentler climes their silver currents flow. When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car, A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise, 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 dye; 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 ou 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 ceas'd-yet still in FLORIO's fancy sung, Far from the busy world she flies, Those finer features of the feeling heart, Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye, And in the world's contagious climate die? She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; Her richest fragrance and her brightest hue, 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 Lodoar; And through the rifted cliffs, that scaled she sky, Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. Each osier-isle, inverted on the wave, Thro' morn's gray mist its melting colours gave; And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. sky, Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, Inform congenial spirits when they meet? Sweet is their office, as their nature sweet! FLORIO, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, Till through a vista's moonlight-ehequered shade, Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, (Their wars suspended and their councils closed) An antique mansion burst in awful state, 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, That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round. Long by the paddock's humble pale confin'd, His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind: And each, with glowing energy portrayed, The far-fam'd triumphs of the field displayed; Usurped the canvas 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 hearth 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 frowned, 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, 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; Amused the fisher's solitary night; The wild deer,starting thro' the silent glade, The few, fine flushes of departing day; 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 possess'd, The father cherished, and the maid caressed! For ever would the fond enthusiast rove, With JULIA's spirit thro' the shadowy grove; Gaze with delight on every scene she planned, Kiss every flowret planted by her hand. Ah! still he traced her steps along the glade, When hazy hues and glimmering lights betrayed Half-viewless forms; still listened as the breeze Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees; She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. A charm that soothes 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; No more to part, to mingle tears no more! As at a dream that charmed her vacant hours! To hover round his evening-walk unseen, And bless the scene they loved in life so well! From Reason's dawn, each pleasure and each care; With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed; The inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth! Pour round her path a stream of living light; The following stanzas are said to have been written Pleasures of Memory!—oh supremely blest, Memory makes her influence known By sighs, and tears, and grief alone: 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, [p. 393. These still exist, &c. an Existence in the hearts and minds of those who membrance 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 evermore. Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood-vales pursued [p. 394. 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 her last parting, in this place, with her good and Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 41. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stonetable placed hard by. Laus Deo! The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, and rises in the wildest part of Westmoreland. O'er his dead son the gallant ORMOND sighed. [p. 395. Ormond bore the loss with patience and dignity: though he ever retained a pleasing, however melancholy, sense of the signal merit of Ossory. I would not exchange my dead son, said he, for any living son in Christendom. HUME, VI. 340. |