Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Nor was perfection made for man below. Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd, Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire; Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd, Ambition's groveling crew for ever left behind. Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, The stern resolve unmoved by pity's smart, The troublous day, and long distressful dream. Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed theme. There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady; But he, I ween, was of the north countrie; A nation famed for song, and beauty's charins; Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms. The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd; An honest heart was almost all his stock: His drink the living water from the rock; The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went. From labour health, from health contentment springs: Contentment opes the source of every joy. He envied not, he never thought of kings; Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy : Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled, And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, worth; And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy, Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, To work the woe of any living thing, By trap or net; by arrow, or by sling; "Where now the rill, melodious, pure and cool, And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd! Ah! see the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might | Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks yield. Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; And sees, on high, amid the encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine: While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah! no he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, But lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound! In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene. In darkness, and in storm, he found delight: Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene. Even sad vicissitude amused his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. "Oh ye wild groves, oh where is now your bloom!" (The Muse interprets thus his tender thought) "Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, Of late so grateful in the hour of drought! And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake. away. "Yet such the destiny of all on earth: So flourishes and fades majestic man. Borne on the swift, though silent, wings of Time, Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. return? Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed? Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn, And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. "Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive! arrive, And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant reign." This truth sublime his simple sire had taught: In sooth 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. No subtile nor superfluous lore he sought, Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue. [view, "Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right. By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might. "And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Oh never, never turn away thine ear! [Woe, Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear! To others do (the law is not severe) What to thyself thou wishest to be done. Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear, And friends, and native land; nor those alone; All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own." See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower The visionary boy from shelter fly; For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. And lo! in the dark east, expanded high, The rainbow brightens to the setting sun! Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh, How vain the chase thine ardour has begun! 'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run. Yet couldst thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm, This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And disappointment of her sting disarm. But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young desire; Pursue, poor imp, the imaginary charm, Indulge gay hope and fancy's pleasing fire: Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire. When the long-sounding curfew from afar Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. There would he dream of graves, and corses pale; And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose: the trumpet bids the valves unfold; And forth an host of little warriors march, Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, And green their helms, and green their silk attire; And here and there, right venerably old, The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance; The little warriors doff the targe and spear, And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along with many-colour'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, Who scaredst the vision with thy clarion shrill, Fell chanticleer! who oft hath reft away My fancied good, and brought substantial ill? Oh to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear: Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear. Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line, Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow! Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side, The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide, The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour. O Nature, how in every charm supreme! eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign (Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme), With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legend when the beldame 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art. Various and strange was the long-winded tale; 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Nor be thy generous indignation check'd, To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, One part, one little part, we dimly scan dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be flood. But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. Oh cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts undone. Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, The babes now famish'd lay them down to die: Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: 66 For from the town the man returns no more.' But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance darest defy, This deed with fruitless tears shall soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store. A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, "But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, And innocence thus die by doom severe ?" O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, The assaults of discontent and doubt repel : Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel; Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. wise. Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years, For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark, cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for truth, but never hit. For why? Their powers, inadequate before, This idle art makes more and more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth: Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on the autumnal day, Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all Ah, then all jollity seem'd noise and folly: Is there a heart that music cannot melt? He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. mourn, And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers, are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while; I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind. CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. [Born, 1724. Died, 1805.] THIS light and amusing poet was the son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, who had been a fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge. When very young, he was sent to school at Bury St. Edmunds. From thence he was removed to Eton, and placed at the fourth form, as an oppidan, and afterward on the foundation. He finished his studies at Eton with a creditable character, and in 1741 went as captain to the Mount. From thence he went to Cambridge, where he obtained some reputation by his Tripos verses. In 1745, he was admitted fellow of King's college, and in the following year took his bachelor's degree in the university. When he had nearly completed the terms of his qualification for that of master of arts, he was prevented from obtaining it in consequence of what his own son, his biographer, calls a spirited and popular opposition, which he showed to the leading men of the university. The phrase of "popular and spirited opposition," sounds promising to the curiosity; but the reader must not expect too much, lest he should be disappointed by learning that this popular opposition was only his refusing to deliver certain declamations, which the heads of the university (unfairly it was thought) required from the bachelors of King's College. Anstey, as senior of the order of bachelors, had to deliver the first oration. He contrived to begin his speech with a rhapsody of adverbs, which, with no direct meaning, hinted a ridicule on the arbitrary injunction of the university rulers. They soon ordered him to dismount from the rostrum, and called upon him for a new declamation, which, as might be expected, only gave him an opportunity of pointing [* Mrs. Montague.] |