Billeder på siden

The morn, the noon in play he pass'd,
But when the shades of evening came,
No parent brought the due repast,

And faintness seiz'd his little frame.
By nature urg'd, by instinct led,

The bosom of a flower he sought,
Where streams mourn'd round a mossy bed,
And violets all the bank enwrought.
Of kindred race, but brighter dies,
On that fair bank a Pansy grew,
That borrow'd from indulgent skies
A velvet shade and purple hue.

The tints that stream'd with glossy gold,
The velvet shade, the purple hue,
The stranger wonder'd to behold,
And to its bounteous bosom flew.
Not fonder haste the lover speeds,

At evening's fall, his fair to meet;
When o'er the hardly-bending meads
He springs on more than mortal feet.
Nor glows his eyes with brighter glee,

When stealing near her orient breast, Than felt the fond enamour'd bee,

When first the golden bloom he prest. Ah! pity much his youth untry'd,

His heart in beauty's magic spell! So never passion thee betide,

But where the genial virtues dwell. In vain he seeks those virtues there; No soul-sustaining charms abound:

No honey'd sweetness to repair

The languid waste of life is found.

An aged bee, whose labours led

Thro' those fair springs, and meads of gold, His feeble wing, his drooping head

Beheld, and pitied to behold,
"Fly, fond adventurer, fly the art

That courts thine eye with fair attire;
Who smiles to win the heedless heart,
Will smile to see that heart expire.
"This modest flower of humbler hue,
That boasts no depth of glowing dyes,
Array'd in unbespangled blue,

The simple clothing of the skies-
"This flower, with balmy sweetness blest,
May yet thy languid life renew:"
He said, and to the Violet's breast
The little vagrant faintly flew.


FROM Bactria's vales, where beauty blows
Luxuriant in the genial ray;
Where flowers a bolder gem disclose,
And deeper drink the golden day.
From Bactria's vales to Britain's shore
What time the Crown Imperial came,
Full high the stately stranger bore

The honours of his birth and name.

In all the pomp of eastern state,
In all the eastern glory gay,
He bade, with native pride elate,

Each flower of humbler birth obey.
O, that the child unborn might hear,
Nor hold it strange in distant time,
That freedom e'en to flowers was dear,

To flowers that bloom'd in Britain's clime! Through purple meads, and spicy gales, Where Strymon's' silver waters play, While far from hence their goddess dwells, She rules with delegated sway.

That sway the Crown Imperial sought,
With high demand and haughty mien:
But equal claim a rival brought,

A rival call'd the Meadow's Queen. "In climes of orient glory born,

Where beauty first and empire grew; Where first unfolds the golden morn, Where richer falls the fragrant dew: "In light's ethereal beauty drest, Behold," he cried, "the favour'd flower, Which Flora's high commands invest With ensigns of imperial power! "Where prostrate vales, and blushing meads, And bending mountains own his sway, While Persia's lord his empire leads, And bids the trembling world obey; "While blood bedews the straining bow, And conquest rends the scatter'd air, 'Tis mine to bind the victor's brow, And reign in envy'd glory there. "Then lowly bow, ye British flowers! Confess your monarch's mighty sway, And own the only glory yours,

When fear flies trembling to obey."
He said, and sudden o'er the plain,
From flower to flower a murmur ran,
With modest air, and milder strain,
When thus the Meadow's Queen began:
"If vain of birth, of glory vain,

Or fond to bear a regal name,
The pride of folly brings disdain,
And bids me urge a tyrant's claim :
"If war my peaceful realms assail,
And then, unmov'd by pity's call,
I smile to see the bleeding vale,

Or feel one joy in Nature's fall,
"Then may each justly vengeful flower
Pursue her queen with gen'rous strife,
Nor leave the hand of lawless power
Such compass on the scale of life.
"One simple virtue all my pride!

The wish that flies to inis'ry's aid; The balm that stops the crimson tide",

And heals the wounds that war has made."

Their free consent by zephyrs borne,
The flowers their Meadow's Queen obey;
And fairer blushes crown'd the morn,
And sweeter fragrance fill'd the day.

'The Ionian Strymon. ́

2 The property of that flower.


"WHY loves my flower, the sweetest flower
That swells the golden breast of May,
Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower,
To waste her solitary day?

" Why, when the mead, the spicy vale,
The grove and genial garden call,
Will she her fragrant soul exhale,
Unheeded on the lonely wall?
"For never sure was beauty born

To live in death's deserted shade!
Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn,

My banks for life and beauty made."
Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought,
And by her sweet persuasion led,
To seize the hermit-flower I sought,
And bear her from her stony bed.
I sought-but sudden on mine ear

A voice in hollow murmurs broke,
And smote my heart with holy fear-
The Genius of the Ruin spoke.
"From thee be far th' ungentle deed,
The honours of the dead to spoil,
Or take the sole remaining meed,

The flower that crowns their former toil!

"Nor deem that flower the garden's foe,
Or fond to grace this barren shade;

'Tis Nature tells her to bestow

Her honours on the lonely dead.

"For this, obedient zephyrs bear

Her light seeds round yon turret's mould,
And undispers'd by tempests there,
They rise in vegetable gold.

"Nor shall thy wonder wake to see

Such desert scenes distinction crave;
Oft have they been, and oft shall be

Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave.
"Where longs to fall that rifted spire,
As weary of th' insulting air;
The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,
The lover's sighs are sleeping there.
"When that too shakes the trembling ground,
Borne down by some tempestuous sky,
And many a slumbering cottage round

Startles how still their hearts will lie! "Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,

No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told;
For many a ter.der thought is due.
"Hast thou not seen some lover pale,
When evening brought the pensive hour,
Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale,

And stop to pluck the frequent flower?
"Those flowers he surely meant to strew
On lost affection's lowly cell;
Tho' there, as fond remembrance grew,
Forgotten, from his hand they fell.
"Has not for thee the fragrant thorn
Been taught her first rose to resign?
With vain but pious fondness borne

To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine !

""Tis Nature pleading in the breast,

Fair memory of her works to find; And when to fate she yields the rest,

She claims the monumental mind. "Why, else, the o'ergrown paths of time Would thus the letter'd sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore? "Why seeks he with unwearied toil Through death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,

And lead oblivion into day?

"Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear

Unmov'd, to range through death's domain: The tender parent loves to hear

Her children's story told again.

"Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours,
If haply near these haunts he stray;
Nor take the fair enlivening flowers
That bloom to cheer his lonely way."



'Twas on the border of a stream

A gaily-painted Tulip stood,
And, gilded by the morning beam,
Survey'd her beauties in the flood.

And sure, more lovely to behold,
Might nothing meet the wistful eye,
Than crimson fading into gold,

In streaks of fairest symmetry.
The beauteous flower, with pride elate,
Ah me! that pride with beauty dwells!
Vainly affects superior state,

And thus in empty fancy swells: "O lustre of unrivall'd bloom!

Fair painting of a hand divine! Superior far to mortal doom,

The hues of Heav'n alone are mine!

"Away, ye worthless, formless race!

Ye weeds, that boast the name of flowers? No more my native bed disgrace,

Unmeet for tribes so mean as yours! "Shall the bright daughter of the Sun Associate with the shrubs of Earth? Ye slaves, your sovereign's presence shun! Respect her beauties and her birth. "And thou, dull, sullen ever-green! Shalt thou my shining sphere invade ? My noon-day beauties beam unseen, Obscur'd beneath thy dusky shade !" "Deluded flower!" the Myrtle cries,

Shall we thy moment's bloom adore? The mean'st shrub that you despise,

The meanest flower has merit more. "That daisy, in its simple bloom,

Shall last along the changing year; Blush on the snow of Winter's gloom,

And bid the smiling Spring appear.

"The violet, that, those banks beneath, Hides from thy scorn its modest head, Shall fill the air with fragrant breath,

When thou art in thy dusty bed.

"E'en I, who boast no golden shade,
Am of no shining tints possess'd,
When low thy lucid form is laid,

Shall bloom on many a lovely breast.
"And he, whose kind and fostering care
To thee, to me, our beings gave,
Shall near his breast my flowrets wear,

And walk regardless o'er thy grave. "Deluded flower, the friendly screen

That hides thee from the noon-tide ray, And mocks thy passion to be seen,

Prolongs thy transitory day.
"But kindly deeds with scorn repaid,
No more by virtue need be done:
I now withdraw my dusky shade.

And yield thee to thy darling Sun."
Fierce on the flower the scorching beam
With all its weight of glory feil;
The flower exulting caught the gleam,
And lent its leaves a bolder swell.
Expanded by the searching fire,

The curling leaves the breast disclos'd;
The mantling bloom was painted higher,
And every latent charm expos'd.
But when the Sun was sliding low

And ev❜ning came, with dews so cold; The wanton beauty ceas'd to blow,

And sought her bending leaves to fold. Those leaves, alas! no more would close; Relax'd, exhausted, sick'ning, pale,

They left her to a parent's woes,
And fled before the rising gale.



COME, let us leave this painted plain;
This waste of flowers that palls the eye;
The walks of Nature's wilder reign

Shall please in plainer majesty.

Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes
Superior charms to Brockman's art,
Where, crown'd with elegant repose,
He cherishes the social heart--

This is a species of the orchis, which is found in the barren and mountainous parts of Lincolnshire, Worcestershire, Kent, and Herefordshire. Nature has formed a bee apparently feeding on the breast of a flower with so much exactness, that it is impossible at a very small distance to distinguish the imposition. For this purpose she has observed an economy different from what is found in most other flowers, and has laid the petals horizontally. The genius of the orchis, or satyrion,she seems professedly to have made use of for her paintings, and on the different species has drawn the perfect forms of different insects, such as bees, flies, butterflies, &c.

Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild,
And on yon pastur'd mountains rest;
Come, brother dear! come, Nature's child!
With all her simple virtues blest.

The Sun far-seen on distant towers,

And clouding groves and peopled seas, And ruins pale of princely bowers

On Beachb'rough's airy heights shall please. Nor lifeless there the lonely scene;

The little labourer of the hive,
From flower to flower, from green to green,
Murmurs and makes the wild alive.

See, on that flowret's velvet breast
How close the busy vagrant lies!
His thin-wrought plume, his downy breast,
Th' ambrosial gold that swells his thighs!
Regardless, while we wander near,
Thrifty of time, his task he plies;
Or sees he no intruder near?
And rest in sleep his weary eyes?
Perhaps his fragrant load may bind
His limbs ;-we'll set the captive free--
I sought the living Bee to bind,
And found the picture of a Bee.
Attentive to our trifling selves,

From thence we plan the rule of all;
Thus Nature with the fabled elves

We rank, and these her sports we call.
Be far, my friend, from you, from me,

Th' unhallow'd term, the thought profane,
That life's majestic source may be
In idle fancy's trifling vein.
Remember still, 'tis Nature's plan
Religion in your love to find;
And know, for this, she first in man
Inspir'd the imitative mind.

As conscious that affection grows,
Pleas'd with the pencil's mimic power*,
That power with leading hand she shows,
And paints a Bee upon a flower.

Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears
His human feet, his human hands!
Oft, as his shapely form he rears,
Aghast the frighted ploughman stands.
See where, in yonder orient stone,

She seems e'en with herself at strife,
While fairer from her hand is shown
The pictur'd, than the native life.
Helvetia's rocks, Sabrina's waves,

Still many a shining pebble bear, Where oft her studious hand engraves

The perfect form, and leaves it there. O long, my Paxton3, boast her art;

And long her laws of love fulfil: To thee she gave her hand and heart,

To thee, her kindness and her skill!

2 The well-known fables of the Painter and the Statuary that fell in love with objects of they own creation, plainly arose from the idea of that attachment, which follows the imitation d agreeable objects, to the objects imitated.

3 Au ingenious portrait-painter in Rathbone Place.


Ix yonder green wood blows the broom;

Shepherds we'll trust our flocks to stray.
Court Nature in her sweetest bloom,

And steal from care one summer-day.
From him' whose gay and graceful brow
Fair-handed Hume with roses binds,
We'll learn to breathe the tender vow,
Where slow the fairy Fortha winds.
And oh! that he whose gentle breast
In Nature's softest mould was made,
Who left her smiling works imprest

In characters that cannot fade;
That he might leave his lowly shrine,
Tho' softer there the seasons fall-
They come, the sons of verse divine,
They come to Fancy's magic call.

"What airy sounds invite
My steps not unreluctant, from the depth
Of Shene's delightful groves? Reposing there
No more I hear the busy voice of men
Far-toiling o'er the globe-save to the call
Of soul-exalting poetry, the ear

Of death denies attention. Rous'd by her,
The genius of sepulchral silence opes
His drowsy cells, and yields us to the day.
For thee, whose hand, whatever paints the

Or swells on Summer's breast, or loads the lap
Of Autumn, gathers heedful-Thee whose rites
At Nature's shrine with holy care are paid
Daily and nightly, boughs of brightest green,
And every fairest rose, the god of groves,

The queen of flowers, shall sweeter save for thee.
Yet not if beauty only claim thy lay,
Tunefully trifling. Fair philosophy,

And Nature's love, and every mortal charm
That leads in sweet captivity the mind
To virtue-ever in thy nearest cares
Be these, and animate thy living page
With truth resistless, beaming from the source
Of perfect light immortal-Vainly boasts
That golden Broom its sunny robe of flowers:
Fair are the sunny flowers; but, fading soon
And fruitless, yield the forester's regard
To the well-loaded wilding-Shepherd, there
Behold the fate of song, and lightly deem
Of all but moral beauty."

[blocks in formation]

Whatever charms the ear or eye,
If sweet sensations these produce,
All beauty and all harmony;
I know they have their moral use;
I know that Nature's charms can move
The springs that strike to virtue's love."



In this dim eave a druid sleeps,

Where stops the passing gale to moan;
The rock he hollow'd o'er him weeps,
And cold drops wear the fretted stone.
In this dim cave, of diff'rent creed,
An hermit's holy ashes rest:
The school-boy finds the frequent bead,
Which many a formal matin blest,
That truant-time full well I know,
When here I brought, in stolen hour,
The druid's magic misletoe,

The holy hermit's passion-flower.
The off'rings on the mystic stone

Pensive I laid, in thought profound.
When from the cave a deep'ning groan
Issued, and froze me to the ground.

I hear it still-dost thou not hear?

Does not thy haunted fancy start?
The sound still vibrates through mine ear,
The horrour rushes on my heart.

Unlike to living sounds it came,

Unmix'd, unmelodis'd with breath;
But, grinding through some scrannel frame,
Creak'd from the bony lungs of death.

I hear it still" Depart," it cries;
"No tribute bear to shades unblest:
Know, here a bloody druid lies,

Who was not nurs'd at Nature's breast,
"Associate he with demons dire,

O'er human victims held the knife,
And pleas'd to see the babe expire,
Smil'd grimly o'er its quiv'ring life.
"Behold his crimson-streaming hand
Erect!-his dark, fix'd, murd'rous eye!"
In the dim cave I saw him stand;
And my heart died-I felt it die.

I see him still-Dost thou not see
The haggard eye-ball's hallow glare?
And gleams of wild ferocity

Dart through the sable shade of hair?
What meagre form behind him moves,

With eye that rues th' invading day;
And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves

The mind to pale remorse a prey?
What wretched-Hark-the voice replies,
"Boy, bear these idle honours heuce!
For, here a guilty hermit lies,

[ocr errors]

Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense.

Though Nature lent him powers to aid
The moral cause, the mutual weal;
Those powers he sunk in this dim shade,
The desp'rate suicide of zeal.

G g


Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts, Whose cell's the sepulchre of time; Though many a holy hymn he chants,

His life is one continu'd crime.

"And bear them hence, the plant, the flower

No symbols those of systems vain!

They have the duties of their hour;
Some bird, some insect to sustain."







A POEM written professedly at your request, naturally addresses itself to you. The distinction you have acquired on the subject, and your taste for the arts, give that address every kind of propriety. If I have any particular satisfaction in this publication, beside what arises from my compliance with your commands, it must be in the idea of that testimony it bears to our friendship. If you believe that I am more concerned for the duration of that than of the Poem itself, you will not be mistaken; for I am,


[blocks in formation]

IN Richard's days, when lost his pastur'd plain,
The wand'ring Briton sought the wild wood's
With great disdain beheld the feudal hord,[reign,
Poor life-let vassals of a Norman lord;
And, what no brave man ever lost, possess'd
Himself-for Freedom bound him to her breast.
Lov'st thou that Freedom? By her holy shrine,
If yet one drop of British blood be thine,
See, I conjure thee, in the desert shade,
His bow unstrung, his little household laid,
Some brave forefather; while his fields they


By Saxon, Dane, or Norman, banish'd there!
And think he tells thee, as his soul withdraws,
As his heart swel's against a tyrant's laws,
The war with fate, though fruitless to maintain,
To guard that liberty he lov'd in vain.

Were thoughts like these the dreams of ancient
Peculiar only to some age, or clime? [time?
And does not Nature thoughts like these impart,
Breathe in the soul, and write upon the heart?
Ask on their mountain yon descrted band,
That point to Paoli with no plausive hand;

Despising still, their freeborn souls unbroke,
Alike the Gallic and Ligurian yoke.

Yet while the patriot's gen'rous rage we share,
Still civil safety calls us back to care ;-
To Britain lost in either Henry's day,

Her woods her mountains one wild scene of prey! Fair Peace from all her bounteous vallies fled, And Law beneath the barbed arrow bled.

In happier days, with more auspicious fate, The far-fam'd Edward heal'd his wounded state; Dread of his foes, but to his subjects dear, These learn'd to love, as those are taught to fear, Their laurell'd prince with British pride obey, His glory shone their discontent away.

With care the tender flower of love to save, And plant the olive on Disorder's grave, For civil storms fresh barriers to provide, He caught the fav'ring calm and falling tide.

THE APPOINTMENT, AND ITS PURPOSES. The social laws from insult to protect; To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, To smooth the bed of penury and pain; The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; The thoughtless maiden, when subdu'd by art, To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; Wild riot's voice with dignity to queil, Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, For this fair Justice rais'd her sacred arm; For this the rural magistrate, of yore, Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.


Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, On silver waves that flow thro' smiling vales, In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid,

Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade, With many a groupe of antique columns crown'd, In Gothic guise such mansion bave I found.

Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, Ye cits that sore bedizen Nature's face, Of the more manly structures here ye view ; They rose for greatness that ye never knew! With Venus, and the Graces on your green! Ye reptile cits, that oft have mov'd my spleen, Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, But, spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, Ye cits, that sore bedizen Nature's face.

Would lay the realms of Sense and Nature

Ye royal architects, whose antic taste,


Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray,
That folly only points each other way;
Here, tho' your eye no courtly creature sees;
Snakes on the ground, or monkies in the trees;
Yet let not too severe a censure fall,
On the plain precincts of the ancient hall.

Of Thibet's dogs, or China's perroquets;
For tho' no sight your childish fancy meets,
Tho' apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail,
And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail;

« ForrigeFortsæt »