Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home. His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast, And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past, His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound, And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground, Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow, He shook, from locks as white, December's snow; Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease, But lock'd within him meditated peace. Father, I said-for silver hairs inspire, And oft I call the bending peasant SireTell me, as here beneath this ivy bower, That works fantastic round its trembling tower, Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng, Had pleased as little as a new-year's song, Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet, Or birthday ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet. As a coy mistress is the humour'd town, We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost.' roar, Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor; For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu, And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you. There was a time when, by Delusion led, A scene of sacred bliss around me spread, On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood, And saw my Canaan there, my promised good; A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd, And wine and oil through vision's valley flow'd; As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd, And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd: On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand, Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land. 'Son,' said the Sage-' be this thy care suppress'd; Thus said the God; for now a God he grew, His white locks changing to a golden hue, And from his shoulders hung a mantle azureblue. His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed Of dove-like Delia when her doubts reposed; Then sought on airy wing his blest abode. Ah! truth, distasteful in poetic theme, Why is the Muse compell'd to own her dream? Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line, I only wish to make its moral mine. Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed, The state the Gods shall choose thee is the May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed? best: Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more, And would thy patience when they make thee poor; But other thoughts within thy bosom reign, And other subjects vex thy busy brain, Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite, And thy sad stars have destined thee to write : Then since that task the ruthless fates decree, Take a few precepts from the Gods and me! 'Be not too eager in the arduous chace; Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race: Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth, And let thy labours one by one go forth: Some happier scrap capricious wits may find On a fair day, and be profusely kind; Say, shall my nam, to future song prefix'd, Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd? Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage, My graver numbers move the silver'd sage, My tender themes delight the lover's heart, And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart ? For Oh! thou Hope's, thou Thought's eternal King, Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar, And in my happier transports I adore; Mercy! thy softest attribute proclaim, Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name; That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray, As the full moon-beam gilds the watery way. Then let me, (pleasing task!) however hard, Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard; The youth, resisted by the maiden's art, Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream; And French politeness dulcifies-defeat. Or search his soul, whom each too-favouring Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood? Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel, And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal. Such were the themes I knew in school-day ease, When first the moral magic learn'd to please, Ere Judgment told how transports warm'd the breast, Transported Fancy there her stores imprest; The soul in varied raptures learn'd to fly, Felt all their force, and never question'd why; No idle doubts could then her peace molest, And why then seek that luckless doom to She found delight, and left to heaven the rest; Soft joys in Evening's placid shades were share?' Who, I ?-To shun it is my only care. I grant it true, that others better tell Of mighty WOLFE, who conquer'd as he fell ; 1 Of heroes born, their threaten'd realms to save, 1 Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave; Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array, Gives to the breathless the short-breathing clay; Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream, 1 'Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium Quam rem cumque ferox navibus, aut equis born; And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn, When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er, And caught the raptures, caught, alas! no more: No care did then a dull attention ask, Heaven-guarded too, no Envy entrance found; But prayer unsoil'd of doubt besieged the skies; Ambition, avarice, care to man retired, Nor came desires more quick, than joys desired. A summer morn there was, and passing fair, Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air; The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone, What time the eye just marks the pallid moon, Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower, And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower; A distant huntsman fill'd his cheerful horn, Huge giant shadows spread along the plain, A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride, Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung, What wills the poet of the favouring gods, Led to their shrine, and blest in their abodes ?1 What when he fills the glass, and to each youth Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth? Not India's spoils, the splendid nabob's pride, Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside, Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves, Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves; Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array, Which the more noble Thames bears far away; Let those whose nod makes sooty subjects flee, Hack with blunt steel the savory callipee; Let those whose ill-used wealth their country Aly, Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy; Favour'd by fate, let such in joy appear, Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year; Disdaining these, for simpler food I'll look, And crop my beverage at the mantled brook. O Virtue! brighter than the noon-tide ray, My humble prayers with sacred joys repay! Health to my limbs may the kind Gods impart, And thy fair form delight my yielding heart! Grant me to shun each vile inglorious road, To see thy way, and trace each moral good: If more-let Wisdom's sons my page peruse, And decent credit deck my modest Muse. Nor deem it pride that prophesies, my song Shall please the sons of taste, and please them long. Say ye! to whom my Muse submissive brings And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung-Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings, Save that as morning songsters swell'd their lays, Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise: May she not hope in future days to soar, Where fancy's sons have led the way before? Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower To snatch with agile hand the opening flower? To cull what sweets adorn the mountain's brow, What humbler blossoms crown the vales below? To blend with these the stores by art refined, And give the moral Flora to the mind? Far other scenes my timid hour admits, Relentless critics, and avenging wits; E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen, And to each let-him-perish' cry Amen! And thus, with wits or fools my heart shall cry, For if they please not, let the trifles die : 1 Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem Vates? quid orat, de patera novum Fundens liquorem? &c., &c. HOR. Carm. Lib. i. xxxi. Die, and be lost in dark oblivion's shore, I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line, Amid a thousand blunders form'd to shine; Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be, From every fault, and every beauty free, Curst with tame thoughts and mediocrity. Some have I found so thick beset with spots, 'Twas hard to trace their beauties through their blots; And these, as tapers round a sick-man's room, Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the tomb! O! if you blast, at once consume my bays, And damn me not with mutilated praise. With candour judge; and, a young bard in view, Allow for that, and judge with kindness too; Faults he must own, though hard for him to find, Not to some happier merits quite so blind; DEDICATION AND PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1807 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY-RICHARD FOX, LORD HOLLAND, OF HOLLAND, IN LINCOLNSHIRE; LORD HOLLAND, OF FOXLEY; AND FELLOW OF THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES. his friends found cause to distrust, and whose acknowledged candour no enemy had the temerity to deny. With such encouragement, I present my book to your Lordship: the Account of the Life and Writings of Lopez de Vega has taught me what I am to expect; I there per MY LORD, That the longest poem in this collection was honoured by the notice of your Lordship's right honourable and ever-valued relation, Mr. Fox; that it should be the last which engaged his attention; and that some parts of it were marked with his approbation; are circumstances productive of better hopes of ultimate success than I had dared to enter-ceive how your Lordship can write, and am tain before I was gratified with a knowledge of them and the hope thus raised leads me to ask permission that I may dedicate this book to your Lordship, to whom that truly great and greatly lamented personage was so nearly allied in family, so closely bound in affection, and in whose mind presides the same critical taste which he exerted to the delight of all who heard him. He doubtless united with his unequalled abilities a fund of good-nature; and this possibly led him to speak favourably of, and give satisfaction to writers, with whose productions he might not be entirely satisfied: nor must I allow myself to suppose his desire of obliging was withholden, when he honoured any effort of mine with his approbation: but, my Lord, as there was discrimination in the opinion he gave; as he did not veil indifference for insipid mediocrity of composition under any general expression of cool approval; I allow myself to draw a favourable conclusion from the verdict of one who had the superiority of intellect few would dispute, which he made manifest by a force of eloquence peculiar to himself; whose excellent judgment no one of there taught how you can judge of writers: my faults, however numerous, I know will none of them escape through inattention, nor will any merit be lost for want of discernment: my verses are before him who has written elegantly, who has judged with accuracy, and who has given unequivocal proof of abilities in a work of difficulty ;—a translation of poetry, which few persons in this kingdom are able to read, and in the estimation of talents not hitherto justly appreciated. In this view, I cannot but feel some apprehension: but I know also, that your Lordship is apprised of the great difficulty of writing well; that you will make much allowance for failures, if not too frequently repeated; and, as you can accurately discern, so you will readily approve, all the better and more happy efforts of one, who places the highest value upon your Lordship's approbation, and who has the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship's most faithful |