Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB

46

"I've heard ftrange things from one of you,
Pray tell me if you think 'tis true;
"Explain it if you can.

"Such incenfe has perfum'd my throne!
Such eloquence my heart has won !
"I think I guefs the hand:
"I know her wit and beauty too,
But why the fends a pray'r fo new
"I cannot understand.

"To light fome flames, and fome revive,
"To keep fome others juft alive,

"Full oft I am implor'd; "But, with peculiar pow'r to please, "To fupplicate for nought but cafe! "'Tis odd, upon my word!

"Tell her, with fruitlefs care I've fought; And tho' my realms, with wonders fraught,

"In remedies abound, "No grain of cold Indifference "Was ever yet allied to fenfe "In all my fairy round. "The regions of the fky I'd trace, "I'd ranfack every earthly place,

"Each leaf, each herb, each flow'r, "To mitigate the pangs of fear, "Difpel the clouds of black despair, "Or lull the reftiefs hour. "I would be generous as I'm juft; "But I obey, as others muft,

"Thofe laws which fate has made. "My tiny kingdom how defend, "And what might be the horrid end,

"Should man my state invade? "'Twould put your mind into a rage, "And fuch unequal war to wage

"Suits not my regal duty!
"I dare not change a firft decree:
She's doom'd to pleafe, nor can be free;
"Such is the lot of Beauty!”

This faid, he darted o'er the plain,
And after follow'd all his train;
No glimpse of him I find :
But fure I am, the little fprite
These words, before he took his flight,
Imprinted on my mind.

§ 85. The Beggar's Petition. ANON.

PITY the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to
your door,

Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh give relief, and Heaven will blefs your ftore!
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespak,
Thefe hoary locks proclain my lengthcn'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting afpect drew me from my
For Plenty there a refidence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode,

road;

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door To feek a fhelter in an humbler fhed. Oh take me to your hofpitable dome! Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miferably old. Should I reveal the fources of my grief, If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be reprefs'd. Heaven fends misfortunes; why fhould we repine?

'Tis Heaven has brought me to the ftate you fee; And your condition may be foon like mine, The Child of Sorrow and of Milery.

A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then like the lark I fprightly hail'd the morn:
But, ah! oppreflion forc'd me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is caft abandon'd on the world's wide ftage,
And doom'd in fcanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, fweet foother of my care!
Struck with fad anguifh at the ftern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to defpair,
And left the world to wretchednefs and me.
Pity the forrows of a poor old man, [door,
Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your
Whofe days are dwindled to the thorteft fpan;
Oh give relief, and Heaven will blefs your store !

[blocks in formation]

ftore,

The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green: Where fpreading poplars fhade the cottage-door, The villagers in ruftic joy convene.

Amid the fecret windings of the wood,

With folemn Meditation let me ftray; This is the hour when to the wife and good

The heavenly maid repays the toils of day. The river murmurs, and the breathing gale

Whispers the gently-waving boughs among: The ftar of evening glimmers o'er the dale,

And leads the filent hoft of heaven along. How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height,

The filver emprefs of the night appears! Yon limpid pool reflects a ftream of light, And faintly in its breaft the woodland bears. The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed, Solemn and conftant, from yon dell refound; I i The

The lonely hearths blaze o'er the diftant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, fkims the dusky ground.

Auguft and hoary, o'er the floping dale,

The Gothic abbey rears its fculptur'd tow'rs; Dull through the roofs refounds the whiftling gale, Dark folitude among the pillars low'rs. Where von old trees bend o'er a place of graves,

And folemn fhade a chapel's fad remains, Where yon fcath'd poplar through the window

waves,

And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains; There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,

Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where,
Some hoary fhepherd, o'er his ftaff reclin'd,

Pores on the graves, and fighs a broken pray'r.
High o'er the pines, that with their dark 'ning fhade
Surround you craggy bank, the caftle rears
Its crumbling turrets; ftill its tow'ry head

A warlike mien, a fullen grandeur wears.
So, 'midst the fnow of age, a boastful air

Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare,

Tho' trembling o'er the feeble crutch he bends.
Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flow'rs creep,
Where oft the knights the beauteous dames
have led,

Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,
Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments fpread.
'Twas here our fires, exulting from the fight,
Great in their bloody arms, inarch'do'er the lea,
Eyeing their refcued fields with proud delight!
Now loft to them! and, ah! how chang'd

to me!

This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,

The dear idea of my Pollio bring;
So fhone the moon thro' thefe foft-nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of ipuing
When April's fmiles the flow'ry lawn adorn,
And modeft cow flips deck the ftreamict's fide;
When fragrant orchards to the rofcate morn
Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours
dyed:

So fair a bleffom gentle Pollio wore,

These werethe emblems of his healthful mind; To him the letter'd page di'play'd its lore,

To him bright Fancy all her wealth refign'd; Him with her purest flames the Mufe endow'd, Flames ne er to th' illiberal thought allied: The facred fifters led where Virtue glow'd

In all her charms; he faw, he felt, and died. O partner of my infant griefs and joys!

Big with the fcenes now paft, my heart o'erflows; Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rile,

And dwells luxurious on her melting woes. Oft with the rifing fun, when life was new,

Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; Off by the moon have bruth'd the evening dew, When all was fearless innocence and glee.

[ocr errors]

The fainted well, where yon bleak hill declines,
Has oft been conscious of those happy hours;
But now the hill, the river crown'd with pines,
And fainted well have loft their cheering
pow'rs;

For thou art gene. My guide, my friend! oh
where,

Where haft thou fled, and left me here behind!

My tend 'reft with, my heart to thee was bare;

Oh now cut off cach paffage to my mind!
How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how void,
The tracklefs fhores that never were repafs'di
Dread feparation! on the depth untried,

Hope falters, and the foul recoils aghaft!
Wide round the fpacious heavens I caft my eyes:
And fhall thefe ftars glow with immortal fire '
Still fhine the lifeless glories of the skies

And could thy bright, thy living foul expire?
Far be the thought! The pleafures moft fublime,
The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear,
The tow'ring with that fcorns the bounds of
time,

Chill'd in this vale of death, but languish here. So plant the vine on Norway's wint'ry land,

The languid franger feebly buds, and dies: Yet there's a clime where Virtue thall expand With godlike ftrength beneath her native fkies!

The lonely fhepherd on the mountain's side

With patience waits the roly-opening day;
The mariner at midnight's dark fome tide
With cheerful hope expects the morning ray:
Thus I, on life's ftorm-beaten ocean tofs'd,

In mental vifion view the happy fhore,
Where Pellio beckons to the peaceful coaft,
Where fate and death divide the friends no
more!

Oh that fome kind, fome pitying kindred shade,

Who now perhaps frequents this folemn grove, Would tell the awful fecrets of the dead,

And from my eyes the mortal film remove! Vain is the wifh-yet furcly not in vain

Man's bofom glows with that celestial fire Which fcorns earth's luxuries, which fmiles at pain,

And wings his fpirit with fublime defire !
To fan this fpark of heaven, this ray divine,

Stiil, O my foul! ftill be thy dear employ;
Still thus to wander thro' the fhades be thine,
And fwell thy breaft with vifionary joy!
So to the dark-brow'd wood, or facred mount,
In ancient days, the holy feers retir'd;
And, led in vifion, drank at Siloe's fount,

While rifing ecftafics their bofoms fir'd.
Reftor'd creation bright before them rofe,

The burning deferts fmil'd as Eden's plains
One friendly fhade the wolf and lambkin code;
The flow'ry mountain fung, Meilah reigns!"

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

$87. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET. MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy fons, for valour long renown'd, Lie laughter'd on their native ground; Thy hofpitable roofs no more Invite the ftranger to the door; In fmoky ruins funk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner fees, afar, His all become the prey of war: Bethinks him of his babes and wife; Then mites his breaft, and curfes life. The fwains are famith'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins fhrick in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime, Thro' the wide-fpreading wafte of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praife, Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke: What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe, and merry lay, No more fhall cheer the happy day: No focial fcenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No ftrains but thofe of forrow flow, And nought be heard but founds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the flain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain. Oh baneful caufe, on fatal morn, Accurs'd to ages yet unborn! The fons against their fathers stood; The parent fhed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's foul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murd'ring fteel! The pious mother doom'd to death, Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of thelter, food, and friend, She views the fhades of night defcend;

[blocks in formation]

Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale fhiv'ring ghofts, that dread th' all-cheering [night.

light,

Quick as the lightning's flash glide to fepulchral

But whence the gladd'ning beam

That pours his purple ftr.am

O'er the long prospect wide?
'Tis Mirth. I fee her fit
In majefty of light,

With Laughter at her fide.
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless ftrikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,
Fear not now wild Paffion's rage;
Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.

Now Mirth hath heard the fuppliant Poet's pray'ı :
No cloud that rides the blast shall yex the troubled

[blocks in formation]

$59. Ole to Leven Water. SMOLLET.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happieft fwain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure ftream! in whofe tranfparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents fain thy limpid fource,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That fweetly warbles o'er its bed,

With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the fcaly brood
In myriads cleave thy cryftal flood:
The fpringing trout, in fpeckled pride;
The falmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthlefs pike, intent on war;
The filver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglautine.

Stili on thy banks, fo gaily green,
May num'ious herds and flocks be feen;
And laffes, chanting o'er the pail;
And thepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts refolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The bleflings they enjoy to guard.

$90. Songe to Alla, Lorde of the Caftel of Bryflowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY.

OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,

Alla, the darlynge of futurity,..

Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be,
As everlaftynge to pofteritye.

And neighe to be amenged the poyntedd fpeers
Orr ynne blacke armoure ftaulke arounde
Embattel'd Bryftowe, once thie grounde,
And glowe ardurous onn the Caftle steeres;
Or fierye round the mynfterr glare;
Let Brystowe ftylle be made thie care;
Guarde ytt fromme foemenne & confumyrge fir
Lyche Avones ftreme enfyrke ytte rounde,
Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde,
Tylle ynne one flame all the whole worlde expr

§ 91. Briftowe Tragedie, or, The Detbe of i Charles Bawdin.

CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLET. THE featherd fongfter chaunticleer Had wounde hys bugle horne,

And told the carlie villager

The commynge of the morne;

Kynge Edwarde fave the rudie ftreakes
Of lyghte eclypfe the greie;

And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daic.

"Thou 'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the God,
"That fyttes enthron'd on hyghe,
"Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine,
"To-daie fhall furelie die."

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; "Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie "Hee leaves thys mortall state." Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the caftle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, his children twaine,
And cke hys lovynge wyfe,

Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude-Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

redde hue

[ing due,

Lyche kynge-cuppes braftynge wythe the morn-
Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,
Upponne the lethale daie,

Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets fhore;
Than dyddft thou furiouse stande,
And bie thie valyante hande

Beefprengedd all the mees wythe gore.

Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thoufandes of Dacyanns went;
Bryftowannes, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte)
Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth beste,
Whetherr upponne the bloude-embrewedd pleyne,
Or whare thou kennft from farre

The dyimall crye of warre,

Or fecft fomme mountayne made of corfe of fleyne;}
Orr feeft the hatchedd ftede,
Ypraunceynge o'er the mcde,

3

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles !" fayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."

66

Speke boldlie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles,
Whatte fays thie traytour kynge?'

"I greeve to telle: Before yonne fonne
"Does fromme the welkinne five,
"Hee hath uponne hys honour fworne
"Thatt thou thalt furelie dic."

Wee all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'm not affearde:

"What bootes to lyve a little space? "Thanke Jefu, I'm prepar'd.

"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee 's not,
"I'de fooner die to-daie

"Thanne lyve hys flave, as manic are,
"Tho' fhould lyve for aie."
Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior ftraite
To gett all thynges ynne reddynefs

For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Thenne

Thenne Maifterr Canynge faugthe the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee;

I'm come,' quod hee, "unto your grace "To move your clemencye."

"We all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne?

"Dethe ys the fure, the certaine fate

"Of all wee mortall menne.

Thenne quod the kynge, "Your tale fpeke out, "Saye why, my friend, thie honest foul

"You have been much oure friende;

"Whatever youre request may bee, "We wylle to ytte attende."

My nobile liege! all my request

Ys for a nobile knygute,

Who, tho' may hap he has donne wronge, "He thoghte ytte ftylle was ryghte: Hee has a fpoufe and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie; "Yff thatt you are refolv'd to lett

"Charles Bawdin die to daie." Speke nott of fuch a traytour vile," The kynge ynne fury fayde; Before the ev'ning ftarre doth fheene, "Bawdia thall loofe hys hedde: "Juftice does loudlie for hym calle,.

"And hee fhall have hys meede: "Speke, Maifter Cauynge! whatte thynge elfe "Att prefent doc you neede ?"

My nobile licge !" goode Canynge fayde,
"Leave juftice to our Godde,
And laye the yronne rule alyde;
"Be thyne the olyve rodde.

"Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines,

"The best were fynners grete;

"Chrift's vycarr only knowes ne fynne,

[ocr errors]

Ynne alle thys mortall ftate.

"Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne,
'Twylle fafte thye crowne fulle fure;
"From race to race thy familie

"Alle fov'reigns fhall endure:

But yff wythe bloode ann flaughter thou
"Beginne thy infante reigne,

"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
"Wylle never lonng reinayne."
"Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile

"Has fcorn'd my power and mee; "Howe canft thou thenne for fuch a manne "Intreate my clemencye?"

"My nobile liege! the truly brave "Wylle val rous actions prize,

"Refpect a brave and nobile mynde, "Altho' ynne enemies."

"Canynge, awaic! By Godde ynne heav'n "That dydd mee beinge gyve, "I wylle nott tafte a bitt of breade

"Whilft thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. "By Marie, and all Seinetes ynn heav'n "Thys funne fhall be hys lafte." Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie tcare, And from the prefence pafte.

With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,
And fatt hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.

Runns overr att thyne eye; "Is ytte for my moft welcome doome "Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?"

66

Quod godlie Canynge, “I do weepe, "Thatt thou fee toone mult dye, "And leave thy fonnes and helpiefs wyfe; 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye." "Thenne drie the teares thatt out thyne eye "From godlie fountaines fprynge; "Dethe I defpife, and alle the pow'r "Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

"Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means "I fhall refigne my lyfe,

"The Godde I ferve wylle foon pravyde
"For bothe mye fonnes and wyfe.
"Before I fawe the lyghtfome funne,
"Thys was appointed mee;
"Shall inortall manne repyne or grudge
"Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
"Whan thoufands dy'd arounde;
Whan fmokynge ftreems of crimson bloode
"Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde!

"How dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte,

[ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors]

Why thenne hys wylle be donne.

My honefte friende, my faulte has beene "To ferve Godde and mye prynce; "And thatt I no tyme-ferver am,

[ocr errors]

My dethe wylle foone convynce.
"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note;
My fadre dydd a nobile arms
"Emblazon onne hys cote:
"I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
"Where foone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever thall bee bleft,
"From oute the reech of woe:

"Hee taught mee juftice and the laws
"Wyth pitie to unite;

"And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
"The wronge caufe from the ryghte:
"Hee taughte mce wythe a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,

"Ne lette mye fervants drive awaie
"The hungrie fromme my doore:
Ii3

"And

« AnteriorContinua »