"Here shall Corruption's laureate wreath,
By ancient Dulness twined
With flowers that courtly influence breathe,
Thy votive temples bind.
"Amid the thick Lethean fen
The dull dwarf-laurel springs,*
To bind the brows of venal men,
The tuneful slaves of kings.
"Come, then, and join the apostate train
Of thy poetic stamp,
That vent for gain the loyal strain,
'Mid Stygian vapours damp,
While far below, where Lethe creeps,
The ghost of Freedom sits, and weeps
O'er Truth's extinguished lamp."
GOOD reader who have lost your time
In listening to a noisy ihyme!
If catgut's din, and tramping rad,
Have not yet made completely mad
The little brains you ever had,-
Hear me, in friendly lay expressing
A better than the "Bellman's" blessing:
That Nature may to you dispense
Just so much share of common sense,
As may distinguish smoke from fire,
A shrieking fiddle from a lyre,
And Phoebus, with his steed of air,'
From poor old Poulter and his Mare.
* The dwarf-laure is a little stunted plant, growing in ditches and bogs, and very dissimilar to that Farnassian shrub which Dryden and diviner Spenser wore," as in the "Carmen Triumphale" for the year 1814, mellifluously singeth the Protean bard, Robert Southey, Esquire, Poet-Laureate!!!
Χαίρε μοι, ω ΠΡΩΤΕΥ· σῃ δ' ουκετι τερψεαι οιος
Τεχνη • ΜΙΣΘΟΦΟΡΕΙ ΓΑΡ Ο ΠΟΙΚΙΛΟΜΟΡΦΟΣ ΑΠΟΛΛΩΝ
SPEECH OF THE MESSENGER TO THE CHORUS IN THE EDIPUS AT COLONUS OF SOPHOCLES.
E men of Athens, wondrous is the tale
I bear: the fate of ŒE lipus: no more
In the lone darkness of his days he roams,
Snatched in strange manner from the paths of men.
You witnessed his departure: no kind hand
Guiding his blindness, but with steadfast tread,
Alone and unsupported, through the woods
And winding rocks he led our wond'ring course.
Till by that broken way, which brazen steps
Uphold, beside the hollow ground he stood,
Where Theseus and Pirithous held erewhile
The compact of inviolable love :
There, in the midst, from the Thorician rock
And the Acherdian cave alike remote,
He sate himself upon the marble tomb,
And loosed his melancholy garb, and called
His daughters, from the living spring to bear
His last ablution. They, to the near hill
Of Ceres hastening, brought the fountain-flood,
And wrapped him in the garments that beseem
Funereal rites. Then subterranean Jove
Thundered the maidens trembled as they heard,
And beat their breasts, and uttered loud laments.
Touched at the bitter sound, he wrapped his arms
Around them: "Oh, my children!" he exclaimed,
"The hour and place of my appointed rest
Are found your father from this breathing world
Departs a weary lot was yours, my children,
Wide o'er the inhospitable earth to lead
A blind, forlorn, old, persecuted man.
These toils are yours no more: yet well I deem
Affection overweighed them, and the love,
The soul-felt love, which he who caused them bore you,
Where shall you find again?" Then on their necks
He wept, and they on his, in speechless woe,
And all was silence round. A thrilling voice
Called " Edipus!" the blood of all who heard
Congealed with fear, and every hair grew stiff.
"Oh, Edipus !" it cried, "oh, Œdipus !
Why tarry we? for thee alone we wait !"
He recognized the summons of the god,
And calling Theseus to him, said: "Oh, friend!
Now take my children by the hand, and pledge
Thy faith inviolate, to afford them ever
Protection and support." The generous king
Fulfilled his wish, and bade high Jove record
The irrevocable vow. Then Edipus
Folded his daughters in his last embrace,
And said: "Farewell, my children! from this spot
Depart with fortitude: the will of fate
From all but Theseus veils the coming scene."
These words we heard: with the receding maids
We turned away awhile: reverting then
Our looks, the spot where Edipus had been
Was vacant, and King Theseus stood alone,
His hand before his eyes, his head bowed down,
As one oppressed with supernatural light,
Or sight of some intolerable thing.
Then falling prostrate, on the goddess Earth
He called, and Jove, and the Olympian gods.
How perished Edipus, to none beside
Is known for not the thunder-bolts of Jove
Consumed him. nor the whirlwinds of the deep
Rushed o'er his head and swept him from the world,
But with some silent messenger of fate
He passed away in peace, or that dark chasm
By which he stood, disclosed beneath his feet
A tranquil passage to the Stygian flood.
FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES.
OU fold your hand, Ulysses, in your robe,
And turn your head aside as if to shun
My abject suppliance. Fear not, Ithacan! With willing steps I follow thee, where thou And strong Necessity, thy queen and mine, Conduct me to my death. Base were my soul To beg a milder fate. Why should I live? My father was a king: my youthful hopes
Were bright contending monarchs sought my hand: I moved illustrious 'mid the Idæan nymphs,
More like a goddess than an earthly maid,
Save in the sure necessity of death..
But now I am a slave: that single word
Makes death my sanctuary: never be it said,
A tyrant's gold could purchase Hector's sister,
To be the vilest handmaid of his house,
To drag long days of ignominious toil,
And waste her nights in solitary tears.
Or should I live to call some slave my lord,
Whom fortune reared to be the bride of kings?
No! let me rather close my eyes at once
On the pure light of heaven, to me no more
The light of liberty. Hope has no voice
For Priam's fallen race. I yield myself
A willing victim to the Stygian gods.
Nor thou, my mother, or with deed or word
Impede my course, but smile upon thy child,
Who finds in death a refuge from disgrace.
Hard is the task to bear the unwonted yoke,
And taste the cup of unaccustomed tears.
More blest are they, whom sudden fate absolves
From the long labour of inglorious life.
TO MR. TOBIN'S COMEDY OF THE." GUARDIANS," PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE, NOVEMBER, 1816.
[Published in 1816.]
Spoken by MR.
EYOND the hopes and fears of earlier days,
The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
Is he, the bard, on whose untimely tomb,
Your favour bade the Thespian laurel bloom;
Though late the meed that crowned his minstrel strain,
It has not died, and was not given in vain.
If now our hopes one more memorial rear,
To blend with those that live unwithering here ;
If on that tomb where genius sleeps in night,
One flower expands to bloom in lingering light,
Flower of a stem which no returning spring
Shall clothe anew with buds and blossoming;
Oh! yet again the votive wreath allow
To grace his name which cannot bind his brow;
And, while our tale the scenic maze pursues,
Still prove kind Guardians to his orphan muse.
TO THE COMEDY OF THE "GUARDIANS."
Spoken by MR. HARLEY in the character of HINT.
T home, abroad, in gossip, or in print,
Who has not felt the magic power of Hint?
Say, lovely maid, what earthly power can move
That gentle bosom like a hint of love?
Say, thou spruce beau, oppressed with loads of raiment,
What half so shocking as a hint for payment?
A hint of need, drawn forth with sad concessions,
Stops the full flow of friendship's loud professions:
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