Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Alike the bondage and the licence suit,

The brute made ruler and the man made brute!
But, oh my FORBES! while thus, in flowerless song,
I feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong,
The ills, the vices of the land, where first

Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst!
Where treason's arm by royalty was nerv'd,
And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they
serv'd-

Thou, gently lull'd in dreams of classic thought,
By bards illumin'd and by sages taught,
Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene,
That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been!
Why should I wake thee? why severely chace
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace,
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed,
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art
Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart!
Forgive me, FORBES-and should the song destroy
One generous hope, one throb of social joy,
One high pulsation of the zeal for man,

Which few can feel, and bless'd that few who can!
Oh! turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes
Thy talents open and thy virtues rise,
Forget where nature has been dark or dim,
And proudly study all her lights in him!
Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget,
And feel that man may reach perfection yet!

SONG.

THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove Is fair-but oh! how fair,

If Pity's hand had stolen from Love

One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
Dim gems for dew-drops fall,

One faded leaf where love had sigh'd
Were sweetly worth them all!

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Our emblem well may be;

Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love
Must keep its tears for me!

Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes!
Oh no!-believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn!

And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!

ANACREONTIC.

I FILL'D to thee, to thee I drank,
I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and blank,
'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still!
At length I bid an artist paint

Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint

To whom I quaff'd my nectar up. Behold how bright that purple lip

Is blushing through the wave at me! Every roseat drop I sip

Is just like kissing wine from thee! But, oh! I drink the more for this; For, ever when the draught I drain,

Thy lip invites another kiss,

And in the nectar flows again!

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear!

And may that eye for ever shine
Beneath as soft and sweet a tear
As oathes it in this bowl of mine!

LYING.

Che con le lor bujie pajon divini.
Mauro d'Arcane.

I DO confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay-look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,

TO'S PICTURE.

Go then, if she whose shade thou art
No more will let thee soothe my pain-
Yet tell her, it has cost this heart

Some pangs, to give thee back again!
Tell her the smile was not so dear,

With which she made thy semblance mine, As bitter is the burning tear,

With which I now the gift resign!
Yet go and could she still restore,

As some exchange for taking thee,
The tranquil look which first I wore,
When her eyes found me wild and free:
Could she give back the careless flow,
The spirit which my fancy knew-
Yet, ah! 'tis vain-go, picture, go-
Smile at me once, and then-adieu!

FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN

TO LOVE.'

BLEST infant of eternity!

Before the day-star learn'd to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,

Thou wert alone, oh Love!

Nestling beneath the wings of ancient night Whose horrors seem'd to smile in shadowing thee! No form of beauty sooth'd thine eye,

As through the dim expanse it wander'd wide; No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,

As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,

That latent in his heart was sleeping;

Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour

Saw Love himself thy absence weeping!

But look what glory through the darkness beams! Celestial airs along the water glide:

What spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide

So lovely? Art thou but the child

Of the young godhead's dreams,

That mock his hope with fancies strange and wild?
Or were his tears, as quick they fell,
Collected in so bright a form,
Till, kindled by the ardent spell

Of his desiring eyes,

And all impregnate with his sighs,

They spring to life in shape so fair and warm!

"Tis she!

Psyche, the first born spirit of the air!

To thee, oh Love! she turns,
On thee her eye-beam burns:
Blest hour of nuptial ecstacy!
They meet-

The blooming god-the spirit fair-
Oh! sweet, oh heavenly sweet!
Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine;
All nature feels the thrill divine,
The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,

And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!

TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS

THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER,

ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE F-RB-S.

Donington Park, 1802.

To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
Howe'er remote, howe'er refin'd,

And o'er the magic tablet tell

The silent story of the mind;

1 Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timæus held Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the world; Elion and Berouth, I think, are Sanchoniatho's first spiritual lovers, and Manco capac and his wife introduced creation amongst the Peruvians. In short, Harlequin seems to have studied cosmogonies, when he said "tutto il mondo è fatto rome la nostra famiglia."

O'er Nature's form to glance the eye,
And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges, ere they fly,

Her evening blushes, ere they fade!
These are the pencil's grandest theme,
Divinest of the powers divine
That light the Muse's flowery dream,

And these, oh Prince! are richly thine!
Yet, yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
In emanating soul express'd,
The sweet memorial of a face

On which her eye delights to rest; While o'er the lovely look serene, The smile of Peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek, that blushes to be seen, The that tells the bosom's truth; eye, While o'er each line, so brightly true, Her soul with fond attention roves, Blessing the hand, whose various hue Could imitate the form it loves; She feels the value of thy art, And owns it with a purer zeal, A rapture, nearer to her heart, Than critic taste can ever feel!

THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS'

TO A LAMP WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.

Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.

Martial, Lib. xiv. Epig. 39.

"OH! love the Lamp (my mistress said) The faithful Lamp that, many a night,

Beside thy Lais' lonely bed

Has kept its little watch of light

"Full often has it seen her weep,
And fix her eyes upon its flame,
Till, weary,
she has sunk to sleep,
Repeating her beloved's name!
"Oft has it known her cheek to burn
With recollections, fondly free,
And seen her turn, impassion'd turn,
To kiss the pillow, love! for thee,

1 It was not very difficult to become a philosophe amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, were all the necessary qualifications for the purpose. The principles of moral science were so very imperfectly understood, that the founder of a new sect, in forming his ethical code, might consult either fancy or temperament, and adapt it to his own passions and propensities; so that Mahomet, with a little more learning might have flourished as a philosopher in those days, and would have required but the polish of the schools to become the rival of Aristippus in morality. In the science of nature too, though they discovered some valuable truths, yet they seemed not to know they were truths, or at least were as well satisfied with errors; and Xenophanes, who asserted that the stars were igneous clouds, lighted up every night and extinguished again in the morning, was thought and styled a philosopher, as generally as he who anticipated Newton in developing the arrangement of the universe.

For this opinion of Xenophanes, see Plutarch de Placit. Philosoph. lib. ii. cap. 13. It is impossible to read this treatise of Plutarch, without alternately admiring and smiling at the genius, the absurdities of the philosophers

And, in a murmur, wish thee there, That kiss to feel, that thought to share!

"Then love the Lamp-'twill often lead
Thy step through learning's sacred way;
And, lighted by its happy ray,
Whene'er those darling eyes shall read
Of things sublime, of Nature's birth
Of all that 's bright in heaven or earth,
Oh! think that she, by whom 'twas given,
Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"

Yes-dearest Lamp! by every charm

On which thy midnight beam has hung;' The neck reclin'd, the graceful arm Across the brow of ivory flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid,

The sever'd lip's delicious sighs,
The fringe, that from the snowy lid
Along the cheek of roses lies:

By these, by all that bloom untold,
And long as all shall charm my heart,
I'll love my little Lamp of gold,

My Lamp and I shall never part!

And often, as she smiling said,

In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays Shall guide my visionary tread

Through poesy's enchanting maze!

Thy flame shall light the page refin'd,

Where still we catch the Chian's breath, Where still the bard, though cold in death, Has left his burning soul behind! Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,

Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades!? To whom the nightly-warbling Nine3 A wand of inspiration gave,*

Pluck'd from the greenest tree that shades

The crystal of Castalia's wave.
Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sages' heavenly store,
From Science steal her golden clue,
And every mystic path pursue,
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes
Through labyrinths of wonder flies!

"Tis thus my heart shall learn to know
The passing world's precarious flight,
Where all, that meets the morning glow,
Is chang'd before the fall of night!"

1 The ancients had their lucerna cubiculariæ, or bedchamber lamps, which, as the Emperor Galienus said, "nil cras meminere; and with the same commendation of secrecy, Praxagora addresses her lamp, in Aristophanes, Exxλs. We may judge how fanciful they were, in the use and embellishment of their lamps, from the famous symbolic Lucerna which we find in the Romanum Museum, Mich. Ang. Causei, p. 127.

2 Hesiod, who tells us in melancholy terms of his father's flight to the wretched village of Ascra. Epy. xa Husp. v. 251.

v. 10.

3 Εννυχίας στοιχον, περικαλλέα όσσαν ιείσαι.-Theog. 4 Kя μs σтрov sdov, Supvns spinas olov. Id. v. 30. 5 Ρειν τα όλα ποταμού δίκην, as expressed among the dogmas of Heraclitus the Ephesian, and with the same image by Seneca, in whom we find a beautiful diffusion of the though "Nemo est mane, qui fuit pridie. Corpora

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,
"Swift the tide of being runs,
And Time, who bids thy flame expire,
Will also quench yon heaven of suns!"
Oh! then if earth's united power
Can never chain one feathery hour;
If every print we leave to-day
To-morrow's wave shall steal away;
Who pauses, to inquire of Heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures given,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which Heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it guilt to lose?
Who, that has cull'd a weeping rose,
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away;
Unmindful of the scented sigh,
On which it dies and loves to die?
Pleasure! thou only good on earth!'

One little hour resign'd to thee-
Oh! by my LAIS' lip, 'tis worth,

The sage's immortality!

Then far be all the wisdom hence,

And all the lore, whose tame control Would wither joy with chill delays! Alas! the fertile fount of sense,

At which the young, the panting soul Drinks life and love, too soon decays!

Sweet Lamp! thou wert not form'd to shed Thy splendour on a lifeless pageWhate'er my blushing LAIS said

Of thoughtful lore and studies sage 'Twas mockery all-her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ !2

And, soon as night shall close the eye

Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west, When seers are gazing on the sky,

To find their future orbs of rest;

Then shall I take my trembling way,

Unseen, but to those worlds above,

nostra rapiuntur fluminum more; quicquid vides currit cum tempore. Nihil ex his quæ videmus manet. Ego ipse, dum loquor mutari ipsa, mutatus sum," etc.

i Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.

2 Maupertuis has been still more explicit than this phi losopher, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the sublimest pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in his production, he calls him, "une nouvelle créature, qui pourra comprendre les choses les plus sublimes, et ce qui est bien au-dessus, qui pourra goûter les mêmes plaisirs." See his Venus Physique. This appears to be one of the efforts at Fontenelle's gallantry of manner, for which the learned President is so well ridiculed in the Akakia of Voltaire.

Maupertuis may be thought to have borrowed from the ancient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures which he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophie Morale, and for which he was so very justly condemned. Aristippus, according to Laertius, held μη διαφέρειν τι ηδονην ηδονής, which irrational sentiment has been adopted by Maupertuis: "Tant qu'on ne considère que l'état présent, tous les plaisirs sont du même genre," ect. ect.

And, led by thy mysterious ray, Glide to the pillow of my love. Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear! Nor let her dream of bliss so near, Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel My sighs of fire in murmurs steal, And I shall lift the locks, that flow Unbraided o'er her lids of snow, And softly kiss those sealed eyes, And wake her into sweet surprise! Or if she dream, oh! let her dream

Of those delights we both have known And felt so truly, that they seem

Form'd to be felt by us alone!
And I shall mark her kindling cheek,
Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak

The murmur'd sounds so dear to love!
Oh! I shall gaze, till even the sigh,
That wafts her very soul, be nigh,
And when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest!
Sweet LAIS! what an age of bliss

In that one moment waits for me!
Oh sages! think on joy like this,
And where's your boast of apathy!

TO MRS. BL-H-D. WRITTEN IN HER ALBJM.

Έντο δε τι εστι το ποτόν ; πλάνη, εφη. Cebetis Tabula.

THEY say that Love had once a book,
(The urchin likes to copy you,)
Where, all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

"Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair,
And saw that no unhallow'd line,

Or thought profane should enter there

And sweetly did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,
And trembling close what Hope began
A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again!

But, oh! there was a blooming boy,

Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more.
And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look,

Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book! For still she saw his playful fingers

Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys; And well she knew the stain that lingers After sweets from wanton boys!

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night
He let his honey goblet fall

O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain he sought, with eager lip,

The honey from the leaf to drink, For still the more the boy would sip,

The deeper still the blot would sink! Oh! it would make you weep to see The traces of this honey flood Steal o'er a page where Modesty

Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,

And Hope's sweet lines were all defac'd, And Love himself could scarcely know What Love himself had lately trac'd!

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, In blushes flung the book away!

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure!

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages now no more,
And thinks of lines that long have faded!

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated;

And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related!

EPISTLE VII.

TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ. M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.

ΔΙΗΓΗΣΟΜΑΙ ΔΙΗΓΗΜΑΤΑ ΙΣΩΣ ΑΠΙΣΤΑ, ΚΟΙΝΩΝΑ ΩΝ ΠΕΠΟΝΘΑ ΟΥΚ ΕΧΩΝ.

Xenophont. Ephes. Ephesiac. lib. v.

'Tis evening now; the heats and cares of day
In twilight dews are calmly wept away.
The lover now, beneath the western star,
Sighs through the medium of his sweet segar,
And fills the ears of some consenting she
With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.
The weary statesman for repose hath fled
From halls of council to his negro's shed,

Where blest he woos some black Aspasia's grace,
And dreams of freedom in his slave's embrace!!
In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom,
Come, let me lead thee o'er this modern Rome !2
Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow,
And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now!
This fam'd metropolis, where fancy sees
Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees;
Which travelling fools and gazetteers adorn
With shrines unbuilt, and heroes yet unborn,
Though nought but wood* and ******** they see,
Where streets should run, and sages ought to be!
And look, how soft in yonder radiant wave,
The dying sun prepares his golden grave!—
Oh great Potomac! oh you banks of shade!
You mighty scenes, in nature's morning made,
While still, in rich magnificence of prime,
She pour'd her wonders, lavishly sublime,
Nor yet had learn'd to stoop with humbler care,
From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair!
Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods,
Your rich savannas, and majestic woods,
Where bards should meditate, and heroes rove,
And woman charm, and man deserve her love!
Oh! was a world so bright but born to grace
Its own half-organiz'd, half-minded race

wits in America.

1 The "black Aspasia" of the present ********* of the United States, "inter Avernales haud ignotissima nymphas" has given rise to much pleasantry among the anti-democrat 2 "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City (says Mr. Weld,) the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."-Weld's Travels, Letter iv.

3 A little stream that runs through the city, which with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose-Creek.

4 "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next door neighbour, and in the same city, is a curious, and I believe a novel circumstance."-Weld, Letter iv.

The Federal City (if it must be called a city,) has not been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it. Most of the public buildings, which were then in some degree of forwardness, have been since utterly suspended. The Hotel is already a ruin; a great part of its roof has fallen in, and the rooms are left to be occupied gratuitously by the miserable Scotch and Irish emigrants. The President's House, a very noble structure, is by no means suited to the philosophical humility of its present possessor, who inhabits but a corner of the mansion himself, and abandons the rest to a state of uncleanly desolation, which those who are not philosophers cannot look at without regret. This grand edifice is encircled by a very rude pale, through which a common rustic stile introduces the visitors of the first man in America. With respect to all that is in the house, I shall imitate the prudent forbearance of Herodotus, and say, τ

рит.

The private buildings exhibit the same characteristic display of arrogant speculation and premature ruin, and the few ranges of houses which were begun some years ago,| have remained so long waste and unfinished, that they are now for the most part dilapidated.

5 The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavours to disprove in general, the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers, that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it,) belittles her productions in the western world. M. de Pauw attributes the imperfection of animal life in America to the ravages of a very recent deluge, from whose effects upon its soil and atmosphere it has not yet sufficiently recovered. See his Recherches sur les Americains, Part i. tom. i. p. 102.

Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast,
Like vermin, gender'd on the lion's crest?
Were none but brutes to call that soil their home,
Where none but demi-gods should dare to roam?
Or worse,
thou mighty world! oh! doubly worse,
Did Heaven design thy lordly land to nurse
The motly dregs of every distant clime,

Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime
Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere,
In full malignity to rankle here?

But hush!-observe that little mount of pines,
Where the breeze murmurs, and the fire-fly shines
There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief,
The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief,'
Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name,
And stept o'er prostrate loyalty to fame;
Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train
Cast off their monarch, that the mob might reign
How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?
Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage!
Too form'd for peace to act a conqueror's part,
Too train'd in camps to learn a statesman's art-
Nature design'd thee for a hero's mould,
But ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold!
While warmer souls command, ray, make their fate
Thy fate made thee, and forc'd thee to be great.
Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds
Her brightest halo round the weakest heads,
Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before,
Proud to be useful, scorning to be more;
Less prompt at glory's than at duty's claim,
Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim;
All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee,
Far less, than all thou hast forborne to be!
Now turn thine eye where faint the moonlight falls
On yonder dome-and in those princely halls,
If thou canst hate, as, oh! that soul must hate,
Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great,
If thou canst loathe and execrate with me
That Gallic garbage of philosophy,
That nauseous slaver of these frantic times,
With which false liberty dilutes her crimes!
If thou hast got within thy free-born breast,
One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest,
With honest scorn for that inglorious soul,
Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control,
Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod,
And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god!
There, in those walls-but, burning tongue, forbear!
Rank must be reverenc'd, even the rank that's there:
So here I pause-and now, my HUME! we part;
But oh! full oft, in magic dreams of heart,
Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear
By Thames at home, or by Potomac here!
O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs,
Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs,
Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes
With me shall wonder, and with me despise !2

1 On a small hill near the capitol, there is to be an eques trian statue of General Washington.

2 In the ferment which the French revolution excited among the democrats of America, and the licentious sympathy with which they shared in the wildest excesses of jacobinism, we may find one source of that vulgarity of vice, that hostility to all the graces of life, which distin

« ForrigeFortsæt »