"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass
In strange disorder'd crowd,
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.
"And one that's high above the rest,
Terrific towering o'er,
Will make thee know him at a glance,
So I need say no more.
"To him from me these tablets give,
They'll soon be understood;
Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,
I've scrawl'd them with my blood!"
The night-fall came, and Rupert all
In pale amazement went
To where the cross-roads met, and he
Was by the Father sent.
And lo! a group of figures came
In strange disorder'd crowd,
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.
And, as the gloomy train advanc'd,
Rupert beheld from far
A female form of wanton mien
Seated upon a car.
And Rupert, as he gaz'd upon
The loosely-vested dame,
Thought of the marble statue's look,
For hers was just the same.
Behind her walk'd a hideous form,
With eyeballs flashing death;
Whene'er he breath'd, a sulphur'd smoke
Came burning in his breath!
He seem'd the first of all the crowd,
Terrific towering o'er;
"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he.
And I need ask no more."
Then slow he went, and to this fiend
The tablets trembling gave,
Who look'd and read them with a yell
That would disturb the grave.
And when he saw the blood-scrawl'd name,
His eyes with fury shine;
"I thought," cries he, "his time was out, But he must soon be mine!"
Then darting at the youth a look,
Which rent his soul with fear,
He went unto the female fiend,
And whisper'd in her ear.
The female fiend no sooner heard,
Than, with reluctant look,
The very ring that Rupert lost,
She from her finger took.
And, giving it unto the youth,
With eyes that breath'd of hell,
She said, in that tremendous voice,
Which he remember'd well:
"In Austin's name take back the ring,
The ring thou gav'st to me;
And thou'rt to me no longer, wed,
Nor longer I to thee."
He took the ring, the rabble pass'd,
He home return'd again;
His wife was then the happiest fair,
The happiest he of men.
WHY does azure deck the sky?
"Tis to be like thy looks of blue;
Why is red the rose's dye?
Because it is thy blushes' hue.
All that's fair, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!
Why is falling snow so white,
But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright?
That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!
Why are nature's beauties felt?
Oh! 'tis thine in her we see! Why has music pow'r to melt?
Oh! because it speaks like thee. All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ., M.R.I.A.
THOUGH long at school and college dozing,
On books of rhyme and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages,
Fine recipes for forming sages;
Though long with those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule;
Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,
Tell us, for Heav'n or money's sake,
What steps we are through life to take:
Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd,
And so much midnight oil destroy'd,
I must confess, my searches past,
I only learn'd to doubt at last.
I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality!
"Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.
The doctors of the Porch advise,
As modes of being great and wise,
That we should cease to own or know
The luxuries that from feeling flow.
"Reason alone must claim direction,
And Apathy's the soul's perfection.
Like a dull lake the heart must lie;
Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh,
Though heav'n the breeze, the breath supplied,
Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"
Such was the rigid Zeno's plan
To form his philosophic man;
Such were the modes he taught mankind
To weed the garden of the mind;
They tore away some weeds, 'tis true,
But all the flow'rs were ravish'd too!
Now listen to the wily strains,
Which on Cyrené's sandy plains,
When Pleasure, nymph with loosen'd zone,
Usurp'd the philosophic throne;
Hear what the courtly sage's* tongue
To his surrounding pupils sung :—
"Pleasure's the only noble end
To which all human pow'rs should tend,
And Virtue gives her heav'nly lore,
But to make Pleasure please us more!
Wisdom and she were both design'd
To make the senses more refin'd,
That man might revel, free from cloying,
Then most a sage, when most enjoying!"
Is this morality?—Oh, no!
E'en I a wiser path could show.
The flow'r within this vase confin'd,
The pure, the unfading flow'r of mind,
Must not throw all its sweets away
Upon a mortal mould of clay;
No, no! its richest breath should rise
In virtue's incense to the skies!
But thus it is, all sects we see
Have watch-words of morality:
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here 'tis religion, there 'tis love!
But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream, and doctors ponder;
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term;
While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science;
The plain good man, whose actions teach
More virtue than a sect can preach,
Pursues his course, unsagely blest,
His tutor whisp'ring in his breast:
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart;
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blam'd that tear,
By Heav'n approv'd, to virtue dear!
Oh! when I've seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream;
While Nature, wak'ning from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician's gaze,
Explor'd the doctrine of those rays?
No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to sep'rate hue from hue:
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heav'n and nature claim the heart;
And, dull to all their best attraction,
Go-measure angles of refraction!
While I, in feeling's sweet romance,
Look on each day-beam as a glance
From the great eye of Him above,
Wak'ning his world with looks of love!
THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAY.
IN witching slumbers of the night,
I dream'd I was the airy sprite
That on thy natal moment smil'd;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flow'rs which in Elysium spring,
To crown my lovely mortal child.
With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Heart's-ease along thy path I shed,
Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind
Love's roses, with his myrtle twin'd,
And dew'd by sympathetic tears.
Such was the wild but precious boon,
Which Fancy, at her magic noon,
Bade me to Nona's image pay-
Oh! were I, love, thus doom'd to be
Thy little guardian deity,
How blest around thy steps I'd play!
Thy life should softly steal along,
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song
That's heard at distance in the grove;
No cloud should ever shade thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,
But all be sunshine, peace, and love!
The wing of time should never brush
Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush,
To bid its roses with'ring die;
Nor age itself, though dim and dark,
Should ever quench a single spark
That flashes from my Nona's eye!
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