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Full in the midst, and o'er thy num'rous train
As now o'er this lone beach I stray,
Thy fav'rite swain. oft stole along,
And artless wove his Dorian lay,
Far from the busy throng.
Or, if bleak Winter, frowning round, Soon these responsive shores forgot to ring,
Disrobe the trees, and chill the ground, With beauty's praise, or plaint of slighted love;
See, visionary suns arise
Pointed with satire's keenest steel,
The shafts of wit he darts around; Through shadowy brakes light glance the sparkling
Ev'n + mitred dulness learns to feel,
And shrinks beneath the wound.
In aweful poverty his honest Muse
Walks forth vindictive through a venal land:
In vain corruption sheds her golden dews, Mimics the feather'd chorus o'er her head.
In vain oppression lifts her iron haud ;
He scorns them both, and, arm’d with truth alone, Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say,
Bids lust and folly tremble on the throne.
Behold, like him, immortal maid,
The Muses' vestal fires I bring : When darkness, brooding on thy sight,
Here, at thy feet, the sparks I spread: Exild the sov'reign lamp of light ;
Propitious wave thy wing,
And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song,
hark, methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue !
Which glares tremendous on the sons of pride. Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth
In distant trills it echoes o'er the tide ;
Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,
As swells the lark's meridian ecstasy.
“ Fond youth! to Marvell's patriot famo, that play'd on Arno's side ;
Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire. The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly: Yet nourish still the lambent flame; The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky;
Still strike thy blameless lyre Were still thine own; thy ample mind Led by the moral Muse, securely rove;
Each charm receiv’d, retain'd, combin'd. And all the vernal sweets thy vacant youth And thence “ the nightly visitant,” that came Can cull from busy Fancy's fairy grove, To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame,
Oh hang their foliage round the fane of Truth:
And meet its fair reward in D'Arcy's smile.
Thy sick’ning soul; at that sad hour,
Thy duteous sorrows shower :
At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline ; ODE TO INDEPENDENCY. When pining Care leads on her pallid train, HERE, on my native shore reclin'd,
And sees thee, like the weak, and widow'd vine, While silence rules this midnight hour,
Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain. I woo thee, Goddess! On my musing mind
At that sad hour shall D'Arcy lend his aid, Descend, propitious power!
And raise with friendship's arm thy drooping head. And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside : Bid my calm'd soul with all thy influence shine;
“ This fragrant wreath, the Muses' meed,
That bloom'd those vocal shades among,
Where never fatt'ry dar'd to tread,
Or interest's servile throng ; And lulls old Humber to his deep repose.
Receive, thou favour'd son, at my command,
And keep with sacred care, for D'Arcy's brow : Come to thy vot'ry's ardent prayer,
Tell him, 't was wove by my immortal hand, In all thy graceful plainness drest :
I breath'd on every flower a purer glow ; No knot confines thy waving hair,
Say, for thy sake, I send the gift divine No zone, thy floating vest ;
To him, who calls thee his, yet makes thee mine." Unsullied honour decks thine open brow, And candour brightens in thy modest eye :
* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston-upon-Hull Thy blush is warm content's ethereal glow; in the year 1620. Thy smile is peace; thy step is liberty :
+ See The Rehearsal transprosed, and an account Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand, of the effect of that satire, in the Biographiu Dritan
Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field,
In yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave: ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. Force then, secure in Faith's protecting shield,
The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave. The midnight clock has toll?d; and hark, the bell Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain,
Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound ? Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep: It pauses now; and now, with rising knell, Go soothe your souls in sickness, grief, or pain,
Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound. With the sad solace of eternal sleep. Yes * is dead. Attend the strain,
Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air, More than those preachers of your fas’rite creed, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,
Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war, With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair : Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed; For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom ; Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die.
(This envy owns, since now her bloom is fled ;) Hear, Folly, hear, and triumph in the tale : Fair as the forms, that, wove in fancy's loom, Like you, they reason; not, like you, enjoy
Float in light vision round the poet's head. The breeze of bliss, that fills your silken sail : Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd,
On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily steer Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise, Your little course to cold oblivioa's shore : How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
They dare the storm, and, through th’inclement year, The liquid lustre darted from her eyes!
Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's rea. Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace, Is it for glory? that just Fate denies. That o'er her form its transient glory cast :
Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place, Ere from her trump the hear'n-breath'd accents ris,
Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last. That lift the hero from the fighting crowd.
Is it his grasp of empire to extend ?
'T is but a kingdom thou canst win or lose. Maria claims it from that sable bier,
And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head; (If life be all,) why desolation lour, In still small whispers to reflection's ear,
With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball, She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead. That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour? Oh catch the aweful notes, and lift them loud; Go wiser ye, that flutter life away,
Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool rever'd: Crown with the mantling juice the goblet higt; Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud! Weave the light dance, with festive freedom gay,
'T is Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard. And live your moment, since the next ye die. Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear,
Yet know, vain sceptics, know, th' Almighty mind, While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap; Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire, Ev'n in the midst of Pleasure's mad career, Bade his free soul, by earth nor time confin'd The mental monitor shall wake and weep.
To Heav'n, to immortality aspire.
Nor shall the pile of hope, his mercy rear'd,
Shall be by all or suffer'd or enjoy'd.
Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom : Nor fear, while basking in the beams of spring,
The wintry storm that sweeps you to the tomb. Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand
EPITAPH ON MRS MASON. That led her hence, though soon, by steps so slow:
IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,
And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow : Taxe, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear : To give reflection time, with lenient art,
Take that best gift which Hear'n so lately gare: Each fond delusion from her soul to steal ; To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care Teach her from folly peaceably to part,
Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wzre, And wean her from a world she lov'd so well. And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the lise Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend
Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? To you so long a span? Alas, ye sigh :
Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine: Make then, while yet ye may, your God, your friend, Ev'n from the grave thou shalt bave power to And learn with equal ease to sleep or die !
charm. Nor think the Muse, whose sober voice ye hear, Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear, (glow. And if so fair, from vanity as free;
Or shades with horrours, what with smiles should As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. No; she would warm you with seraphic fire, Tell them, though 't is an aweful thing to die, Heirs as ye are of Heav'n's eternal day;
('T was ev'n to thee) yet the dread path once trad Would bid you boldly to that Heav'n aspire, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high,
Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. And bids “ the pure in heart behold their Gode"
WILLIAM Cowris, a poet of distinguished and to Olney in Buckinghamshire, which was thence
original genius, was born in 1731, at Great Berk- forth the principal place of Cowper's residence. At hampstead in Hertfordshire. His father, the rector Olney he contracted a close friendship with the of the parish, was John Cowper, D.D., nephew of Rev. Mr. Newton, then minister there, and since Lord-Chancellor Cowper. The subject of this rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, London, whose rememorial was educated at Westminster school, ligious opinions were in unison with his own. To where he acquired the classical knowledge and cor a collection of hymns published by him, Cowper rectness of taste for which it is celebrated, but with contributed a considerable number of his own comout any portion of the confident and undaunted position. He first became known to the public as spirit which is supposed to be one of the most a poet by a volume printed in 1782, the contents of valuable acquisitions derived from the great schools, which, if they did not at once place him high in the o those who are to push their way in the world. scale of poetic excellence, sufficiently established his On the contrary, it appears from his poem entitled claim to originality. Its topics are “ Table Talk,” • Tirocinium,” that the impressions made upon his Errour,” * Truth," “ Expostulation,” “ Hope,” nind from what he witnessed in this place, were “Charity," “ Conversation,” and “ Retirement," uch as gave him a permanent dislike to the system all treated upon religious principles, and not withof public education. Soon after his leaving West-out a considerable tinge of that rigour and austerity ninster, he was articled to a solicitor in London which belonged to his system. These pieces are or three years; but so far from studying the law, written in rhymed heroics, which he commonly le spent the greatest part of his time with a relation, manages with little grace, or attention to melody. vhere he and the future Lord Chancellor (Lord The style, though often prosaic, is never flat or inChurlow) spent their time, according to his own sipid; and sometimes the true poet breaks through, xpression, " in giggling, and making giggle." in a vein of lively description or bold figure. It the expiration of his time with the solicitor, he If this volume excited but little of the public ook chambers in the Temple, but his time was still attention, his next volume, published in 1785, inittle employed on the law, and was rather engaged troduced his name to all the lovers of poetry, and n classical pursuits, in which Coleman, Bonnel gave him at least an equality of reputation with any [hornton, and Lloyd, seem to have been his prin- of his contemporaries. It consists of a poem in six ipal associates.
books, entitled “ The Task," alluding to the inCowper's spirits were naturally weak; and when junction of a lady, to write a piece in blank verse, is friends had procured him a nomination to the for the subject of which she gave him The Sofa. ffices of reading-clerk and clerk of the Private It sets out, indeed, with some sportive discussion of Committees in the House of Lords, he shrunk with this topic; but soon falls into a serious strain of uch terrour from the idea of making his appearance rural description, intermixed with moral sentiments efore the most august assembly in the nation, that and portraitures, which is preserved through the six fter a violent struggle with himself, he resigned his books, freely ranging from thought to thought with ntended employment, and with it all his prospects no perceptible method. But as the whole poem o life. In fact, he became completely deranged; will here be found, it is unnecessary to enter into nd in this situation was placed, in December, 1763, particulars. Another piece, entitled “ Tirocinium, bout the 320 year of his age, with Dr. Cotton, an or a Review of Schools," a work replete with miable and worthy physician at St. Alban's. This striking observation, is added to the preceding; and gitation of his mind is placed by some who have several other pieces gleaned from his various writings nentioned it to the account of a deep consideration will be found in the collection. of his state in a religious view, in which the terrours For the purpose of losing in employment the of eternal judgment so much overpowered his distressing ideas which were ever apt to recur, he aculties, that he remained seven months in moment next undertook the real task of translating into ry expectation of being plunged into final misery. blank verse the whole of Homer's Iliad and OdysVir. Johnson, however, a near relation, has taken sey. This work has much merit of execution, and mains to prove to demonstration, that these views of is certainly a far more exact representation of the uis condition were so far from producing such an ancient poet than Pope's ornamental version; but ffect, that they ought to be regarded as his sole where simplicity of matter in the original is not onsolation. It appears, however, that his mind relieved by the force of sonorous diction, the poverty nad acquired such an indelible tinge of melancholy, of English blank-verse has scarcely been able to prehat his whole successive life was passed with little vent it from sinking into mere prose. Various nore than intervals of comfort between long pa- other translations denoted his necessity of seeking "oxysms of settled despondency.
employment; but nothing was capable of durably in After a residence of a year and a half with relieving his mind from the horrible impressions it Dr. Cotton, he spent part of his time at the house had undergone. He passed some of his latter of his relation, Earl Cowper, and part at Hunting- years under the affectionate care of a relation at lon, with his intimate friend, the Rey. Mr. Unwin. East Dereham in Norfolk. where he died
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines,
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines,
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assurd,
When on a day, like that of the last doon,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, Counsel of her country's gods,
And hang their horrours in the neighb'ring skies
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, Sage beneath the spreading oak
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
But oh! what muse, and in what pow'rs of song, Ev'ry burning word he spoke
Can trace the torrent as it burns along? Full of rage, and full of grief.
Havoc and devastation in the ran,. « Princess ! if our aged eyes
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass
Without a soil t' invite the tiller's care,
Or blade, that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length (what will not time achieve Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, “ Rome, for empire far renown'd,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,
O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets!
The self-same gale, that wafts the fragrance as
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : “ Other Romans shall arise,
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe, Heedless of a soldier's name ;
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
That only future ages can restore. Harmony the path to fame.
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour drass, “ Then the progeny that springs
Who write in blood the merits of your cause, From the forests of our land,
Who strike the blow, then plead your own ddeace, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires Shall a wider world command.
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! « Regions Cæsar never knew
Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domes, Thy posterity shall sway;
And tells you where ye have a right to reign, Where his eagles never bew,
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, None invincible as they."
Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own
Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you !
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarın abroad, Bending as he swept the chords
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd red; Of his sweet but aweful lyre.
At every step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth seems a garden in it's loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun;
And echoing praises, such as fiends might ears, « Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
And Folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train Empire is on us bestow'd,
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again,
And years of pining indigence must show
Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil,
Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain, Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ; And the Sun gilds the shining spires again. When, conscious of no danger from below,
Increasing commerce and reviving art She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
Renew the quarrel on the conqu’rors part; No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, The blooming groves, that girdled her around. That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd But Ætnas of the sufføring world ye sway ?
In scarlet-mantle warm, and velvet cap, Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, 'T is now become a hist'ry little known, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ;
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. And stands a witness at Truth's aweful bar, Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair, To prove you there destroyers as ye are.
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Where no volcano pours his fiery food,
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; That thou mightst know ine safe and warmly laid ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, Where to succeed is not to be undone ;
The biscuit, or confectionary plum; A land, that distant tyrants hate vain,
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd in Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd!
All this, and more endearing still than all,
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay O that those lips had language ! Life has passid Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Could Time, his flight reversod, restore the hours, Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, “ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" The violet, the pink, and jessamine, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) To quench it,) here shines on me still the same, Could those few pleasant days again appear, (here? Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them O welcome guest, though unexpected here ! I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I inight. Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
But no- what here we call our life is such, I will obey, not willingly alone,
So little to be lov’d, and thou so much, But gladly, as the precept were her own:
That I should ill requite thee to constrain And, while that face renews my filial grief, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) A momentary dream that thou art she.
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorr’wing son,
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Wretch cven then, life's journey just begun? While airs impregnated with incense play Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, Ah that maternal smile! it answers — Yes.
“ Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
And thy lov'd consort on the dang 'rous tide
Always from port withheld, always distress'd.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth; By expectation ev'ry day beguild,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, And now, farewell — Time unrevok'd has run Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Children not thine have trod my nurs’ry floor; Without the sin of violating thine; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Draw me to school along the public wav.