Chapter 3
"Oh Father! who in mercy reigns, If thy all-ruling will ordains, That my unhappy Cen'lin dies, Remove the picture from my eyes! At the same moment set us free, Both rebel sons, my God, to thee!" Thus did the king pour forth his pray'r, With all the wildness of despair; Then, stilling every rising sigh, He calm'd the anguish of his eye, And though within the burthen lay, He wip'd the falling tears away.
When lo! there comes a youthful train, Descending swiftly to the plain, Drest like the fairest sons of day, In floating robes and colours gay; No crested helmets there appear, No glittering shield or pointed spear, But youths with honey-suckles crown'd, Or their fair locks with fillets bound, Whose circling ranks and varied dyes, Shew'd like the bow, that gilds the skies. Whilst in the van a pair were seen, Of peerless charms and graceful mien; One lovely form the Mercians knew, And gladden'd at the pleasing view, Who, with the glow of youthful prime, Had all the majesty of time. And beauteous was the fair he led, As any fabled Grecian maid; The nymphs who tend Aurora's car, And usher in the morning star, Though made inhabitants of air, Were not more elegant and fair; Nor Dian's ever-healthful train, When skimming o'er the spacious plain. Had not more pure, more lively dyes, Or brighter lustre in their eyes.
The king, so late by woe deprest, Felt hope reanimate his breast, And as his Cen'lin nearer drew, His waking hopes more vivid grew. "My friends," he cried, "will you believe, That open mien can e'er deceive? That blooming form can e'er unfold, A heart ungenerous and cold, That melting softness of the eye, Can harbour direst cruelty? Ah no! a poison's baleful pow'r, Lurks not beneath so fair a flow'r. Nor are those youths with amber hair, Such as fell treason would prepare, An aged monarch to dethrone, And hear, unmov'd, a father's groan. Gay are their looks, no dark disguise, Dims the mild radiance of their eyes; No murderous thoughts their souls employ, But, heralds of transporting joy, They come to bid suspicion cease, And sooth my sorrow into peace." Caution could scarce awhile controul The strong delights of Cenulph's soul, When Cen'lin knelt, and by his side Half-kneeling, bent his lovely bride. But, when he first essay'd to speak, A hasty blush pass'd o'er his cheek, He hung awhile his graceful head, Till thus, with air confus'd he said: "I come, by love with honours crown'd, Yet sorrow casts a shade around, That when my consort here I bring, The heiress of a potent king, The Mercians, clad in armour, come, To lead their princess to her home. No joyful hail our nuptial greets, No proof of love my Ela meets, But scarlet banners, waving high, The bridal knot and wreath supply. Alas! I see mistrust has won E'en Cenulph's fondness from his son; Or could my ever-honour'd sire, A proof of Cen'lin's faith require? Can force so needful now appear, To aid a pow'r which I revere? When eager beauty's form to view, I first to Selred's court withdrew, A single wish thy pow'r maintain'd, A single wish thy son regain'd. I left the maid whose matchless charms, Each rooted prejudice disarms, Who rul'd my heart with sovereign sway, And taught a Mercian to obey Laws that East-Saxons can impart, When wit and beauty string the dart; Left her when hope my doubts beguil'd, And on our love her father smil'd. Oft have I tried to win thine ear, The fond, romantic tale to hear, But when I found a lonely hour, My coward soul has lost the pow'r; As on my lips the accents hung, Thy hate to Selred check'd my tongue. Yet flattering hopes my passion fed, And from thy court again I fled; I thought when you my fair beheld, And knew how greatly she excell'd, In every charm, each art refin'd, And virtue of the female mind, Thy judgment would approve my choice, And bless it with a cheerful voice. And ah! though fortune did combine With love, in making Ela mine, I cannot from a grief refrain, Remembering that I gave thee pain. Yet if thy Cen'lin e'er could please, If e'er my cares could give thee ease, Let mild affection now arise, And beam forgiveness from thine eyes! No more thy son shall make thee know A pain, or give thee cause of woe. No nights the Mercians have to fear, For all I love is center'd here," He spoke, and o'er his father's soul, A stream of healing comfort stole; He rose, with slow, majestic grace, Tears of delight adorn'd his face, His pious heart with rapture glow'd, And joy a second youth bestow'd.
"To meet thee thus, my son," he cried, "This peerless maiden for your bride, Bids each distressing thought depart, And joy again possess my heart. Fair princess, thine the happy fate, To heal the wounds of mutual hate; No longer shall this bosom know, An Eastern-Saxon as my foe; And she, who bids that passion rest, Doubt not, shall be supremely blest; The part is holy and benign, Befitting such a form as thine. This day, far dearer than before, Kind heav'n does twice my son restore, For by those speaking looks I see, Another valued child in thee."
As then he raised them to his breast, Around the joyful Mercians prest, And made their shouts of triumph rise, To the fair concave of the skies.
OCTOBER 1795.
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[Footnote 12: King of the East-Saxons.]
RHAPSODY.
Lo! here a cloud comes sailing, richly clad In royal purple, which the parting beams Of bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of gold And lucid crimson. One might fancy it A noble bird, that laves its graceful form, And bathes its rosy bosom in the light. Look! how it swells and rears its snowy crest With haughty grandeur; while the blue expanse, In smiling patience lets the boaster pass, And swell his train with all the lazy vapours That hover in the air: an easy prey To the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing, Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky, And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow! Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness, A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing, Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front, And drives thee downward to thy mother earth, To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew.
Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eye Of youthful inexperience, seem to touch The pure, unclouded sky of certainty. Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought, And nurtur'd by the smile of vanity, Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk, And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues, Varied and wild, till it abounds in charms Which sink the soul to sadness, when the breath Of gentle Reason breaks the beauteous bubble, And leaves us nought but vain regret behind.
FEBRUARY 1, 1797.
HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN.
When clouds and rain deform the sky, And light'nings glare around, Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene, Some comfort may be found.
There will, at some far-distant spot, A streak of light appear, Or, when the sullen vapours break, The ether will be clear.
And if the sun illumes the east, And sheds his gladsome ray, Some boding mist, or passing cloud Will threat the rising day.
The heart rejoicing in the view, And dancing with delight, Oft feels the touch of palsied fear, And sinks at thought of night.
So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines, Amidst surrounding gloom, And, beldame Fortune vainly throws Her mantle o'er the tomb.
MARCH 15,1797.
THE COMPLAINT OF FANCY.
To A.R.C.
As, musing, late I sat reclin'd, And waking dreams absorb'd my mind, A damsel came, of various dyes, Like painted Iris from the skies; A purfled saffron was her vest, And sweet gum-cistus form'd her crest; In many a playful ring, her hair Flew light and flossy in the air; The mantle, blue and gold, she wore, A rose of opals held before, While, graceful in her fairy hand, Appear'd a crimson-tufted wand, Whose shade on every object threw A glowing tint of roseate hue.
"Whence art thou, blooming nymph?" I cried, And thus a tuneful voice replied: "Men call me Fancy; at my shrine Myriads confess my power divine; There painters bend the willing knee, And laurell'd poets sue to me: For mine is every vivid ray, Which partial Nature gave the day; And, to the music of my song, A thousand nameless charms belong.
"The friend of Happiness, I dwell Belov'd alike in court or cell; Where Glory lifts her ardent eye, With hasty, kindred zeal I fly, In sun-beams place the hero's form, And bid his arm command the storm; On swelling clouds an altar raise, And fan the tow'ring flame of praise.
"Oft, from the lorn enthusiast's lyre, My fingers strike etherial fire, And give to sounds of piercing woe, Extatic rapture's fervent glow. Oft sooth the maniac's throbbing vein, And grace her simple, wilder'd strain; The tribe of Pain in fetters keep, Lull wounded Memory to sleep, And, in the mind of gloomy Care, Bid Thought an angel's semblance wear.
"Dear to each blest aerial pow'r, E'en Wisdom calls me to her bow'r; My songs her leisure hours beguile, And teach her holy lip to smile. And, when the Muse, with thoughtful care, Has woven chaplets for her hair, I let her, with her myrtles, twine, Full many a fragrant rose of mine.
"Then why, since all the wise and gay, To me a grateful homage pay, Since I to all my hand extend, And, liberal, every heart befriend, Does Nancy from the croud retire, And rend my blossoms from her lyre? Though every string the loss bewail, And tones of mellow sweetness fail, Which us'd to charm the pensive ear, When list'ning Friendship bent to hear.
"Tell her I wish not to intrude Upon her sacred solitude, Nor cast my undulating chain, Around her glowing heart again; No! every claim I now resign, Yet let some small regard be mine; Let one, who nurs'd her infant years, And wip'd away some bitter tears, Still animate the scenes around, And make her tread on fairy ground; Give playful sweetness to each lay, And decorate the passing day.
"Tell her, if now she scorns my strain, She may invoke my name in vain; In vain my proffered aid implore, Contemn'd, I hardly pardon more."
She said, and springing from the earth, Attending found her suitor Mirth, Who caught her hand, with lively air, And plac'd her in his silver chair, Which through the yielding ether flew, And quickly bore them from my view.
ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE FROM O----
Loud beats the rain! The hollow groan Of rushing winds I hear, That with a deep and sullen moan, Pass slowly by the ear.
Soon will my dying fire refuse To yield a cheerful ray, Yet, shivering still I sit and muse The latest spark away.
Ah, what a night! the chilly air Bids comfort hence depart, While sad repining's clammy wings Cling icy, to my heart.
To-morrow's dawn may fair arise, And lovely to the view; The sun with radiance gild the skies, Yet then--I say adieu!
Oh, stay, dear Night, with cautious care, And lingering footsteps move, Though day may be more soft and fair, Not her, but thee, I love.
Stay, wild in brow, severe in mien, Stay! and ward off the foe; Who, unrelenting smiles serene, Yet tells me I must go.
Forsake these hospitable halls, Where Truth and Friendship dwell, To these high towers and ancient walls, Pronounce a long farewell.
Alas! will Time's rapacious hand, These golden days restore? Or will he suffer me to taste These golden days no more?
Will he permit that here again, I turn my willing feet? That my glad eyes may here again, The look of kindness meet?
That here I ever may behold, Felicity to dwell, And often have the painful task Of sighing out farewell?
Ah, be it so! my fears I lose, By hope's sweet visions fed; And as I fly to seek repose, She flutters round my bed.
NOV. 17, 1796.
TO M.I.
Thou, Margaret, lov'st the secret shade, The murmuring brook, or tow'ring tree; The village cot within the glade, And lonely walk have charms for thee.
To thee more dear the jasmine bow'r, That shelt'ring, undisturb'd retreat, Than the high canopy of pow'r, Or Luxury's embroider'd seat.
More sweet the early morning breeze, Whose odours fill the rural vale, The waving bosom of the seas, When ruffled by the rising gale.
Than all which pride or pomp bestow, To grace the lofty Indian maid, Who prizes more the diamond's glow, Than all in humbler vest array'd.
Sweet is the rural festive song, Which sounds so wildly o'er the plain, When thoughtless mirth the notes prolong, And heart-felt pleasure pours the strain.
Sweet is the dance where light and gay, The village maiden trips along; Her simple robe in careless play, As her fleet step winds round the throng.
Sweet is the labourer's blazing fire, When evening shades invite to rest; Though weary, home does joy inspire, And social love dilates his breast.
His rural lass with glee prepares, The dainties fondness made her hoard; Her husband now the banquet shares, And children croud around the board.
Ah! who could wish to view the air Of listless ease and languid wealth? Who with such pleasures could compare The joys of innocence and health?
AUGUST 20, 1796.
CANTATA. DEL METASTASIO.
"D'atre nubi è il sol ravvolto, Luce infausta il Ciel colora. Pur chi sa? Quest' alma ancora La speranza non perdè.
Non funesta ogni tempesta Co' naufragj all' onde il seno; Ogni tuono, ogni baleno Sempre un fulmine non è."
TRANSLATION.
Dark, mournful clouds hang o'er the sun, Lights gleam portentous in the air, And yet who knows? This troubled heart Still gives not up to blank despair.
Not big with shipwrecks every storm, That sweeps the bosom of the main, Nor does the threatening, turbid sky, Always the thunder-bolt contain.
LA FORTUNA. DELLO STESSO.
A chi serena io miro, Chiaro è di notte il cielo: Torna per lui nel gelo La terra a germogliar.
Ma se a taluno io giro Torbido il guardo, e fosco, Fronde gli niega il bosco, Onde non trova in mar.
TRANSLATION.
To him whom kindly I behold, The midnight sky is clear, And 'mid the wintry frost and cold, The blushing flowers appear.
But to the wretch who meets my eye, When kindled by disdain, The very grove will leaves deny, And waveless be the main.
CANTATA DELLO STESSO.
Finchè un zeffiro soave Tien del mar l'ira placata, Ogni nave È fortunata, È felice ogni nocchier;
È ben prova di coraggio Incontrar l'onde funeste, Navigar fra le tempeste, E non perdere il sentier.
TRANSLATION.
Whilst zephyr sooths the angry waves Of Ocean into rest, Each vessel is in safety borne, And every pilot blest.
But he indeed demands our praise, Who stems the tempest's force, And midst the ire of hostile waves, Pursues his destin'd course.
SONETTO.
DI GIOVANNI DELLA CASA.
Oh sonno, oh della cheta, umida, ombrosa Notte placido figlio; oh de' mortali Egri conforto, oblio dolce de' mali, Sì gravi, ond' è la vita aspra, e nojosa: Soccorri al core omai, che langue, e posa Non have; e queste membra stanche, e frali Solleva: a me ten vola, oh sonno, e l'ali Tue brune sovra me distendi, e posa. Ov' è il silenzio, che'l dì fugge, e'l lume? E i lievi sogni, che con non secure Vestigia di seguirti han per costume? Lasso, che'nvan te chiamo, e queste oscure, E gelide ombre invan lusingo; oh piume D'asprezza colme; oh notti acerbe, e dure!
SONNET, TO SLEEP.
TRANSLATION.
Son of the silent, dark, and humid Night, Consoler of the wretched, by whose sway The gloomy train of ills are put to flight, That blacken Life's uncertain, tedious day,
O! succour now this restless, pining heart! Give to these feeble, weary limbs repose! Fly to me, Sleep! and let thy sombre wings Over my couch their dusky plumes disclose!
O! where is Silence, who avoids the light? Where the wild dreams that flutter in thy train? Alas! in vain I call thee, cruel Night! And flatter these insensate shades in vain.
And oh! without thy cheering dews are shed, How full of hardships is the downy bed!
EDITHA.
Breathing the violet-scented gale, Near to a river's limpid source, Which, through a wide-extended vale, Wound slowly on its sleeping course,
Attended by a youthful pair, With rubied lip and roving eye, Oft would fair Editha repair, And let her children wander nigh.
There pleas'd behold their footsteps turn, To each new object in their way, Their ringlets glittering in the sun, Their faces careless, blythe, and gay.
Once, when they drest their flaxen hair, With flow'rets wild of various hue, And with a proud, exulting air, To their delighted parent drew:
"Ah! thus may every day arise! And pleasure thus your hearts, pervade!" The widow'd mother fondly cries, "Before the youthful blossoms fade.
"My sighs are all dispers'd in air, Resign'd to fate, I weep no more, Your welfare now is all my care, Yet am I constant as before.
"The world, because a vermil bloom, Tinges my yet unfading cheek, Says I forget my William's tomb, A new and earthly love to seek.
"Because I join the social train, With lip that wears a kindred smile; And a gay sonnet's lively strain, Does oft the lonely hour beguile:
"Because no longer now I mourn, With sweeping robes of sable hue; No more I clasp the marble urn, Or vainly bid the world adieu.
"Ah! ill my secret soul they know, Where my lost hero still remains, Where memory makes my bosom glow, And binds me still in closer chains.
"Whoe'er hath seen my William's form, Heighten'd with every martial grace, The ever-varying, unknown charm, Which beam'd in his expressive face;
"Or heard his fine ideas try, In Fancy's fairy garb to teach, While the sweet language of his eye, Excell'd the eloquence of speech,
"Could ne'er suppose my faith would fail, Or aught again this heart enslave; That absence would o'er love prevail, Or hope be bounded by the grave.
"Could all but I his merit know? His wit and talents see? And is his name by all below Remember'd, but by me?
"No, ne'er will I the memory lose, Though from my sight thy form is flown, Of tenderness for other's woes, And noble firmness in thy own.
"No slavish fear thy soul deprest, Of Death, or his attendant train; For in thy pure and spotless breast, The fear of heav'n did only reign.
"Thus, when the still-unsated waves Spread o'er thy head their whelming arms, When horrid darkness reign'd around, And lightnings flash'd their dire alarms,
[13]"When, wing'd with death, each moment flew, And blood the foaming ocean stain'd, Thy courage cool, consistent, true, Its native energy maintain'd.
"And when the fatal moment came, The bullet enter'd in thy side, Only thy spirit's beauteous frame, Its prisoner flying, droop'd and died.
"This is it that consoles my mind, Which to my love aspiring flies, And makes me hope, in future days, To hail my William in the skies.
"Should tears from my pale eyelids steal, I teach my children's how to flow, And make their little bosoms feel, Before their time, the touch, of woe.
"I will not weep! the world shall see That I a nobler tribute pay; More grateful both to heaven and thee, By guiding them in virtue's way."
Embracing then her fondest cares, She cast her raptur'd eyes above, And breath'd to heav'n emphatic pray'rs, Of mingled reverence and love.
APRIL 15, 1795.
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[Footnote 13: I know not if I have expressed myself with much clearness here, but I meant to describe a sea-fight as concisely as possible.]
TO M.I.
Light breezes dance along the air, The sky in smiles is drest, And heav'ns pure vault, serene and fair, Pourtrays the cheerful breast.
Each object on this moving ball Assumes a lovely hue; So fair good-humour brightens all That comes within her view.
Her presence glads the youthful train, Reanimates the gay, And, round her, by the couch of pain, The light-wing'd graces play.
Her winning mein and prompt reply, Can sullen pride appease; And the sweet arching of her eye E'en apathy must please.
To you, with whom the damsel dwells A voluntary guest, To you, Maria, memory tells, This tribute is addrest.
The feeble strains that I bequeath, With melody o'erpay; And let thy lov'd piano breathe A sweet responsive lay.
Although the mellow sounds will rise, So distant from my ear, The charmer Fancy, when she tries, Can make them present here.
Can paint thee, as with raptur'd bend, You hail the powers of song; When the light fingers quick descend, And fly the notes along:
Feel the soft chord of sadness meet, An echo in the soul, And waking joy the strains repeat, When Mirth's-quick measures roll.
This "mistress of the powerful spell," Can every joy impart; And ah! you doubtless know too well How she can wring the heart.
She rules me with despotic reign, As now I say adieu_; And makes me feel a sort of pain, As if I spoke to you.
FEB. 14, 1797.
WRITTEN IN ZIMMERMANN'S SOLITUDE.
Hail, melancholy sage! whose thoughtful eye, Shrunk from the mere _spectator's_ careless gaze, And, in retirement sought the social smile, The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes, And which sounds far more grateful to the ear, Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve, Stealing across the waters: Zimmermann! Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do, With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air, And tearful eye, averted from mankind. No! warm, benign, and cheerful, she appears The friend of Health, of Piety, and Peace; The kind Samaritan that heals our woes, The nurse of Science, and, of future fame The gentle harbinger: her meek abode Is that dear home, which still the virtuous heart, E'en in the witching maze of Pleasure's dance, In wild Ambition's dream, regards with love, And hopes, with fond security, to pass The evening of a long-protracted day, Serenely joyful, there.
IN MEMORY OF MR. AGOSTINO ISOLA,
OF CAMBRIDGE,
Who died on the 5th of June, 1797.
Awake, O Gratitude! nor let the tears Of selfish Sorrow smother up thy voice, When it should speak of a departed friend. A tender friend, the first I ever lost! For Destiny till now was merciful, And though I oft have felt a transient pang, For worth unknown, and wept awhile for those, Whom long acquaintance only made me love, No keen regret laid pining at my heart, Nor Memory in the solitary hour, Would sting with grief, as when she speaks Thy virtue, knowledge, wisdom, gentleness, Thy venerable age, and says that I Had once the happiness to call thee friend.
Yes! I once bore that title, and my heart Thought nobler of itself, that one so good, So honor'd, so rever'd, should give it me. O _Isola!_ when that glad season comes, Which brought redemption to a ruin'd world, And, like thee, hides beneath the snow of age, A gay, benevolent, and feeling heart, I hop'd again to hear thy tongue repeat, With youthful warmth and zealous energy, Those passages, where Poetry assumes An air divine, and wakes th' attentive soul To holy rapture! Then you promis'd me The luxury to weep o'er Dante's muse, And fair Italia's loftier poets hail.
I have often heard That years would blunt the feelings of the soul, And apathy ice the once-glowing heart. Injurious prejudice! Dear, guileless friend! Thou read'st mankind, but saw not, or forgot Their faults and vices; for thy breast was still The residence of sweet Simplicity, Daughter of letter'd Wisdom, and the friend Of Love and Pity. Happy soul, farewell! Long shall we mourn thee! longer will it be, "Ere we shall look upon thy like again!"
* * * * *
This humble tribute to the memory of my venerated friend, was written in the first impulse of my sorrow for his loss, and though unworthy of his virtues, is still a small memorial of my respect for a man, on whose tomb might justly be inscribed, as I have seen on an old monument:
"Heven hath his soule. He fruits of Pietie, This Towne his want. Our hearts his Memorie."
TO THE NUNS OF BODNEY.