Czcionka:Mniejsze АаWiększe Aa
POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS
RETIREMENT.
1758
When, in the crimson cloud of Even,
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper, on the front of heaven,
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive Youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme.
Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled,
High o’er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild,
Murmurs the solemn gale;
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,
What time the wan moon’s yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep.
To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Ne’er drew Ambition’s eye,
’Scaped a tumultuous world’s alarms,
To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequestered bower,
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest power,
Leans on her ivy’d shrine.
How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!
Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile, that smooths the brow of care,
And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move,
Serene, on silent wing.
Oft let remembrance sooth his mind
With dreams of former days,
When, in the lap of peace reclined,
He framed his infant lays;
When Fancy roved at large, nor Care,
Nor cold Distrust alarmed,
Nor Envy, with malignant glare,
His simple youth had harmed.
’Twas then, O Solitude, to thee
His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade.
Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy? —
O take the Wanderer home!
Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o’er the gloomy stream,
Whence the scared owl, on pinions grey,
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.
O! while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy from the bank of flowers
The zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sound invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur’s gilded car,
Flash on the startled eye.
But if some pilgrim through the glade,
Thy hallowed bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;
For he of joys divine shall tell,
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o’er the mighty spell,
That chains this heart below.
For me, no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread;
No more I climb those toilsome heights
By guileful Hope misled;
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth’s enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o’er,
And all the past is vain.
ELEGY
Still shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms, that fleet through life’s deceitful dream?
On clouds, where Fancy’s beam amusive plays,
Shall heedless Hope the towering fabric raise?
Till at Death’s touch the fairy visions fly,
And real scenes rush dismal on the eye;
And, from Elysium’s balmy slumber torn,
The startled soul awakes, to think, and mourn.
O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance,
Who flowery vales in endless view survey,
Glittering in beams of visionary day;
O, yet while Fate delays the impending woe,
Be roused to thought, anticipate the blow;
Lest, like the lightning’s glance, the sudden ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill;
Lest, thus encompassed with funereal gloom,
Like me, ye bend o’er some untimely tomb,
Pour your wild ravings in Night’s frighted ear,
And half pronounce Heaven’s sacred doom severe.
Wise, beauteous, good! O every grace combined,
That charms the eye, or captivates the mind!
Fair, as the floweret opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinioned gale, that roves
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild, as the strains, that, at the close of day,
Warbling remote, along the vales decay!
Yet, why with these compared? What tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness, can be matched with thine?
Why roam abroad? Since still, to Fancy’s eyes,
I see, I see thy lovely form arise.
Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile;
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,
Where meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where Wisdom sits enthroned serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mein:
Still let me listen, while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameless heart,
Till all my soul, each tumult charmed away,
Yields, gently led, to Virtue’s easy sway.
By thee inspired, O Virtue! Age is young,
And music warbles from the faltering tongue:
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes:
But when Youth’s living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistless on the view the glory streams;
Love, Wonder, Joy, alternately alarm,
And Beauty dazzles with angelic charm.
Ah! whither fled! ye dear illusions, stay!
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay!
How are the roses on that cheek decay’d,
Which late the purple light of youth display’d!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow’d;
With life and thought each speaking feature glow’d.
Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope, we deemed no tempest nigh;
When lo! a whirlwind’s instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust!
All cold the hand, that soothed Woe’s weary head!
And quenched the eye, the pitying tear that shed!
And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole,
Infusing balm into the rankled soul!
O Death! why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower?
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven?
Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven?
But peace, bold thought! be still my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart.
Scaped the dark dungeon, does the slave complain,
Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemned to roam forlorn?
Where Reason’s meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O’er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw?
Disclosing dubious to the affrighted eye
O’erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy seas in storm perpetual toss’d,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy stroke, that bursts the bonds of clay,
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar,
Where dangers threat, and fear alarms no more!
Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o’erflows anew,
Nor check the sacred drops to pity due;
Lo! where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O’er her loved dust, the Parent, Brother, Friend!
How vain the hope of man! – But cease the strain,
Nor Sorrow’s dread solemnity profane;
Mixed with yon drooping mourners, on her bier
In silence shed the sympathetic tear.
ODE TO HOPE
I. 1
O thou, who glad’st the pensive soul,
More than Aurora’s smile the swain forlorn,
Left all night long to mourn
Where desolation frowns, and tempests howl;
And shrieks of woe, as intermits the storm,
Far o’er the monstrous wilderness resound,
And cross the gloom darts many a shapeless form,
And many a fire-eyed visage glares around,
O come, and be once more my guest!
Come, for thou oft thy suppliant’s vow hast heard,
And oft with smiles indulgent cheer’d,
And soothed him into rest.
I. 2
Smit by thy rapture-beaming eye,
Deep flashing through the midnight of their mind,
The sable bands combined,
Where Fear’s black banner bloats the troubled sky,
Appalled retire. Suspicion hides her head,
Nor dares th’ obliquely gleaming eye-ball raise;
Despair, with gorgon-figured veil o’erspread,
Speeds to dark Phlegethon’s detested maze.
Lo, startled at the heavenly ray,
With speed unwonted Indolence upsprings,
And, heaving, lifts her leaden wings,
And sullen glides away.
I. 3
Ten thousand forms, by pining Fancy view’d,
Dissolve. Above the sparkling flood
When Phœbus rears his awful brow,
From lengthening lawn and valley low
The troops of fen-born mists retire.
Along the plain
The joyous swain
Eyes the gay villages again,
And gold-illumined spire;
While, on the billowy ether borne,
Floats the loose lay’s jovial measure;
And light along the fairy Pleasure,
Her green robes glittering to the morn,
Wantons on silken wing. And goblins all
To the damp dungeon shrink, or hoary hall,
Or westward, with impetuous flight,
Shoot to the desart realms of their congenial Night.
II. 1
When first on Childhood’s eager gaze
Life’s varied landscape, stretch’d immense around,
Starts out of night profound,
Thy voice incites to tempt th’ untrodden maze.
Fond he surveys thy mild maternal face,
His bashful eye still kindling as he views,
And, while thy lenient arm supports his pace,
With beating heart the upland path pursues:
The path that leads, where, hung sublime,
And seen afar, youth’s gallant trophies, bright
In Fancy’s rainbow ray, invite
His wingy nerves to climb.
II. 2
Pursue thy pleasurable way,
Safe in the guidance of thy heavenly guard,
While melting airs are heard,
And soft-eyed cherub forms around thee play:
Simplicity, in careless flowers array’d,
Prattling amusive in his accent meek;
And Modesty, half turning as afraid,
The smile just dimpling on his glowing cheek;
Content and Leisure, hand in hand
With Innocence and Peace, advance, and sing;
And Mirth, in many a mazy ring,
Frisks o’er the flowery land.
II. 3
Frail man, how various is thy lot below!
To-day though gales propitious blow,
And Peace, soft gliding down the sky,
Lead Love along and Harmony,
To-morrow the gay scene deforms;
Then all around
The thunder’s sound
Rolls rattling on through heaven’s profound,
And down rush all the storms.
Ye days, that balmy influence shed,
When sweet Childhood, ever sprightly,
In paths of pleasure sported lightly,
Whither, ah, whither are ye fled!
Ye cherub train, that brought him on his way,
O leave him not midst tumult and dismay;
For now youth’s eminence he gains:
But what a weary length of lingering toil remains!
III. 1
They shrink, they vanish into air.
Now Slander taints with pestilence the gale;
And mingling cries assail,
The wail of Woe, and groans of grim Despair.
Lo, wizard Envy from his serpent eye
Darts quick destruction in each baleful glance;
Pride, smiling stern, and yellow Jealousy,
Frowning Disdain, and hagard Hate advance;
Behold, amidst the dire array,
Pale wither’d Care his giant-stature rears,
And lo, his iron hand prepares
To grasp its feeble prey.
III. 2
Who now will guard bewildered youth
Safe from the fierce assaults of hostile rage?
Such war can Virtue wage,
Virtue, that bears the sacred shield of Truth!
Alas! full oft on Guilt’s victorious car
The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne;
While the fair captive, marked with many a scar,
In lone obscurity, oppressed, forlorn,
Resigns to tears her angel form.
Ill-fated youth, then, whither wilt thou fly?
No friend, no shelter now is nigh,
And onward rolls the storm.
III. 3
But whence the sudden beam that shoots along?
Why shrink aghast the hostile throng?
Lo, from amidst Affliction’s night,
Hope bursts, all radiant, on the sight:
Her words the troubled bosom sooth.
“Why thus dismayed?
“Though foes invade,
“Hope ne’er is wanting to their aid,
“Who tread the path of truth.
“’Tis I, who smooth the rugged way,
“I, who close the eyes of Sorrow,
“And with glad visions of to-morrow
“Repair the weary soul’s decay.
“When Death’s cold touch thrills to the freezing heart,
“Dreams of heaven’s opening glories I impart,
“Till the freed spirit springs on high,
“In rapture too severe for weak Mortality.”
PYGMÆO-GERANO-MACHIA,
THE BATTLE OF THE PIGMIES AND CRANES.
FROM THE LATIN OF ADDISON
The pygmy-people, and the feathered train,
Mingling in mortal combat on the plain,
I sing. Ye Muses, favour my designs,
Lead on my squadrons, and arrange the lines;
The flashing swords and fluttering wings display,
And long bills nibbling in the bloody fray;
Cranes darting with disdain on tiny foes,
Conflicting birds and men, and war’s unnumbered woes!
The wars and woes of heroes six feet long
Have oft resounded in Pierian song.
Who has not heard of Colchos’ golden fleece,
And Argo, manned with all the flower of Greece?
Of Thebes’ fell brethren, Theseus, stern of face,
And Peleus’ son, unrivalled in the race,
Æneas, founder of the Roman line,
And William, glorious on the banks of Boyne?
Who has not learned to weep at Pompey’s woes,
And over Blackmore’s epic page to doze?
’Tis I, who dare attempt unusual strains,
Of hosts unsung, and unfrequented plains;
The small shrill trump, and chiefs of little size,
And armies rushing down the darkened skies.
Where India reddens to the early dawn,
Winds a deep vale from vulgar eyes withdrawn:
Bosomed in groves the lowly region lies,
And rocky mountains round the border rise.
Here, till the doom of Fate its fall decreed,
The empire flourished of the pygmy-breed;
Here Industry performed, and Genius planned,
And busy multitudes o’erspread the land.
But now to these lone bounds if pilgrim stray,
Tempting through craggy cliffs the desperate way,
He finds the puny mansion fallen to earth,
Its godlings mouldering on th’ abandoned hearth;
And starts, where small white bones are spread around,
“Or little footsteps lightly print the ground;”
While the proud crane her nest securely builds,
Chattering amid the desolated fields.
But different fates befel her hostile rage,
While reigned, invincible through many an age,
The dreaded Pygmy: roused by war’s alarms,
Forth rushed the madding Mannikin to arms.
Fierce to the field of death the hero flies;
The faint crane, fluttering, flaps the ground, and dies;
And by the victor borne (o’erwhelming load!)
With bloody bill loose-dangling marks the road.
And oft the wily dwarf in ambush lay,
And often made the callow young his prey;
With slaughtered victims heaped his board, and smiled,
To visit the sire’s trespass on the child.
Oft, where his feathered foe had reared her nest,
And laid her eggs and household gods to rest,
Burning for blood, in terrible array,
The eighteen-inch militia burst their way:
All went to wreck; the infant foeman fell,
When scarce his chirping bill had broke the shell.
Loud uproar hence, and rage of arms arose,
And the fell rancour of encountering foes;
Hence dwarfs and cranes one general havoc whelms,
And Death’s grim visage scares the pygmy realms.
Not half so furious blazed the warlike fire
Of Mice, high theme of the Meonian lyre;
When bold to battle marched the accoutered Frogs,
And the deep tumult thundered through the bogs.
Pierced by the javelin-bulrush on the shore,
Here, agonizing, rolled the mouse in gore;
And there the frog (a scene full sad to see!)
Shorn of one leg, slow sprawled along on three:
He vaults no more with vigorous hops on high,
But mourns in hoarsest croaks his destiny.
And now the day of woe drew on apace,
A day of woe to all the pygmy-race,
When dwarfs were doomed (but penitence was vain)
To rue each broken egg, and chicken slain.
For roused to vengeance by repeated wrong,
From distant climes the long-billed legions throng:
From Strymon’s lake, Cayster’s plashy meads,
And fens of Scythia green with rustling reeds;
From where the Danube winds through many a land,
And Mareotis laves the Egyptian strand,
To rendezvous they waft on eager wing,
And wait assembled the returning spring.
Meanwhile they trim their plumes for length of flight,
Whet their keen beaks, and twisting claws, for fight;
Each crane the pygmy power in thought o’erturns,
And every bosom for the battle burns.
When genial gales the frozen air unbind,
The screaming legions wheel, and mount the wind.
Far in the sky they form their long array,
And land and ocean stretch’d immense survey,
Deep, deep beneath; and triumphing in pride,
With clouds and winds commixed, innumerous ride;
’Tis wild obstreperous clangour all, and heaven
Whirls, in tempestuous undulation driven.
Nor less the alarm that shook the world below,
Where marched in pomp of war the embattled foe;
Where mannikins with haughty step advance,
And grasp the shield, and couch the quivering lance;
To right and left the lengthening lines they form,
And ranked in deep array await the storm.
High in the midst the chieftain-dwarf was seen,
Of giant stature, and imperial mien.
Full twenty inches tall, he strode along,
And viewed with lofty eye the wondering throng;
And, while with many a scar his visage frowned,
Bared his broad bosom, rough with many a wound
Of beaks and claws, disclosing to their sight
The glorious meed of high heroic might.
For with insatiate vengeance, he pursued,
And never-ending hate, the feathery brood.
Unhappy they, confiding in the length
Of horny beak, or talon’s crooked strength,
Who durst abide his rage; the blade descends,
And from the panting trunk the pinion rends.
Laid low in dust the pinion waves no more,
The trunk, disfigured, stiffens in its gore.
What hosts of heroes fell beneath his force!
What heaps of chicken-carnage marked his course!
How oft, O Strymon, thy lone banks along,
Did wailing Echo waft the funeral song!
And now from far the mingling clamours rise,
Loud and more loud rebounding through the skies.
From skirt to skirt of heaven, with stormy sway,
A cloud rolls on, and darkens all the day.
Near and more near descends the dreadful shade,
And now in battleous array displayed,
On sounding wings, and screaming in their ire,
The cranes rush onward, and the fight require.
The pygmy warriors eye, with fearless glare,
The host thick swarming o’er the burthened air:
Thick swarming now, but to their native land
Doomed to return a scanty, straggling band. —
When sudden, darting down the depth of heaven,
Fierce on the expecting foe the cranes are driven.
The kindling phrensy every bosom warms,
The region echoes to the crash of arms:
Loose feathers from the encountering armies fly,
And in careering whirlwinds mount the sky.
To breathe from toil upsprings the panting crane,
Then with fresh vigour downward darts again.
Success in equal balance hovering hangs.
Here, on the sharp spear, mad with mortal pangs,
The bird transfixed in bloody vortex whirls,
Yet fierce in death the threatening talon curls;
There, while the life-blood bubbles from his wound,
With little feet the pygmy beats the ground;
Deep from his breast the short, short sob he draws,
And, dying, curses the keen-pointed claws.
Trembles the thundering field, thick covered o’er
With falchions, mangled wings, and streaming gore,
And pygmy arms, and beaks of ample size;
And here a claw, and there a finger lies.
Encompassed round with heaps of slaughtered foes,
All grim in blood the pygmy champion glows;
And on the assailing host impetuous springs,
Careless of nibbling bills, and flapping wings;
And midst the tumult wheresoe’er he turns,
The battle with redoubled fury burns.
From every side the avenging cranes, amain,
Throng, to o’erwhelm this terror of the plain.
When suddenly (for such the will of Jove)
A fowl enormous, sousing from above,
The gallant chieftain clutched, and, soaring high,
(Sad chance of battle!) bore him up the sky.
The cranes pursue, and, clustering in a ring,
Chatter triumphant round the captive king.
But, ah! what pangs each pygmy bosom wrung,
When, now to cranes a prey, on talons hung,
High in the clouds they saw their helpless lord,
His wriggling form still lessening as he soared!
Lo! yet again, with unabated rage,
In mortal strife the mingling hosts engage.
The crane with darted bill assaults the foe,
Hovering; then wheels aloft to scape the blow:
The dwarf in anguish aims the vengeful wound;
But whirls in empty air the falchion round.
Such was the scene, when midst the loud alarms
Sublime the eternal Thunderer rose in arms;
When Briareus, by mad ambition driven,
Heaved Pelion huge, and hurled it high at heaven.
Jove rolled redoubling thunders from on high,
Mountains and bolts encountered in the sky;
Till one stupendous ruin whelmed the crew,
Their vast limbs weltering wide in brimstone blue.
But now at length the pygmy legions yield,
And, winged with terror, fly the fatal field.
They raise a weak and melancholy wail,
All in distraction scattering o’er the vale.
Prone on their routed rear the cranes descend;
Their bills bite furious, and their talons rend:
With unrelenting ire they urge the chace,
Sworn to exterminate the hated race.
’Twas thus the Pygmy Name, once great in war,
For spoils of conquered cranes renown’d afar,
Perished. For, by the dread decree of Heaven,
Short is the date to earthly grandeur given,
And vain are all attempts to roam beyond
Where Fate has fixed the everlasting bound.
Fallen are the trophies of Assyrian power,
And Persia’s proud dominion is no more;
Yea, though to both superior far in fame,
Thine empire, Latium! is an empty name.
And now, with lofty chiefs of antient time,
The pygmy heroes roam the Elysian clime.
Or, if belief to matron-tales be due,
Full oft, in the belated shepherd’s view,
Their frisking forms, in gentle green arrayed,
Gambol secure along the moonlight glade.
Secure, for no alarming cranes molest,
And all their woes in long oblivion rest;
Down the deep dale, and narrow winding way,
They foot it featly, ranged in ringlets gay:
’Tis joy and frolic all, where’er they rove,
And Fairy-people is the name they love.