Chapter 3

Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor, Nor in the chains of thine own indolence Slumber enervate, while the joys of sense Engross thee; and thou say'st, “I ask no more.”-- _Wise_ Men the Shepherd's slumber will deplore When the rapacious Wolf has leapt the fence, And ranges thro' the fold.--My Son, dispense Those laws, that justice to the Wrong'd restore.-- The Common-Weal shou'd be the first pursuit Of the crown'd Warrior, for the royal brows The People first enwreath'd.--They are the Root, The King the Tree. Aloft he spreads his boughs Glorious; but learn, impetuous Youth, at length, Trees from the Root alone derive their strength.

SONNET LV.

ON THE QUICK TRANSITION FROM WINTER TO SUMMER IN THE YEAR 1785.

Loud blew the North thro' April's pallid days, Nor grass the field, nor leaves the grove obtains, Nor crystal sun-beams, nor the gilded rains, That bless the hours of promise, gently raise Warmth in the blood, without that fiery blaze, Which makes it boil along the throbbing veins.-- Albion, displeas'd, her own lov'd Spring surveys Passing, with volant step, o'er russet plains; Sees her to Summer's fierce embraces speed, Pale, and unrobed.--Faithless! thou well may'st hide Close in his sultry breast thy recreant head, That did'st, neglecting thy distinguish'd Isle, In Winter's icy arms so long abide, While Britain vainly languish'd for thy smile!

SONNET LVI.

TO A TIMID YOUNG LADY, DISTRESSED BY THE ATTENTIONS OF AN AMIABLE, AND _ACCEPTED_ LOVER.

What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes, Fair Zillia!--Ah! more dear to LOVE the gaze That _dwells_ upon its object, than the rays Of that vague glance, quick, as in summer skies The lightning's lambent flash, when neither rise Thunder, nor storm.--I mark, while transport plays Warm in thy Lover's eye, what dread betrays Thy throbbing heart:--yet why from his soft sighs Fleet'st thou so swift away?--like the young Hind[1], That bending stands the fountain's brim beside, When, with a sudden gust, the western wind Rustles among the boughs that shade the tide: See, from the stream, innoxious and benign, Starting she bounds, with terror vain as thine!

1: “Vitas hinnuleo me similis Chloe.” HORACE.

SONNET LVII.

WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE [1]FUNERAL OF MRS. CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.

In the chill silence of the winter eve, Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way By that sad mansion, where NERINA's Clay Awaits the MORNING KNELL;--and awed perceive, In the late bridal chamber, the clear ray Of numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling stray Shadows of those who frequent pass beneath Round the PALE DEAD.--What sounds my senses grieve! For now the busy hammer's stroke appals, That, “in dread note of preparation,” falls, Closing the sable lid!--With sighs I bear These solemn warnings from the House of Woes; Pondering how late, for young NERINA, there, Joyous, the Love-illumin'd Morn arose.

1: In Lichfield Cathedral the funeral rites are performed early in the Morning.

SONNET LVIII.

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes, The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn, The dark robe floating, the dejection worn On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes; Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes It pays Affection's debt, is due concern To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes, While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame Memory shou'd hourly feed;--if, thro' each day, She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say, Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame, O! can the alien Heart expect to prove, In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!

SONNET LIX.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE, passing her winters at Ethic House on the Coast of Scotland, with her Father, Lord Northesk, who retired thither after the death of his excellent Countess.

WRITTEN FEBRUARY 1787.

Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind, Flowing thro' thy free pen, shows thee endu'd With taste so just for all of wise, and good, As bids me hope thy spirit does not find, Young as thou art, with solitude combin'd That wish of change, that irksome lassitude, Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrude On Youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'd To pant for more than peace.--Rich volumes yield Their soul-endowing wealth.--Beyond e'en these Shall consciousness of filial duty gild The gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid Seas Roar round the rocks; when the dark Tempest lours, And mourn the Winds round Ethic's lonely towers.

SONNET LX.[1]

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien The little Naiad of the Downton Wave? High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave The circling, gloomy basin.--In such scene, Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween, That _last_ perfection Phidian chisels gave. Dimly the soft and musing Form is seen In the hush'd, shelly, shadowy, lone concave.-- As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there, I love to recollect her, stretch'd supine Upon its mossy brink, with pendent hair, As dripping o'er the flood.--Ah! well combine Such gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair, To aid the magic of her watry shrine.

1: The above Sonnet was addressed to a Friend, who had fastidiously despised, because he did not think it exquisite sculpture, the Statue of a Water-Nymph in Mr. Knight's singular, and beautiful Cold Bath at Downton Castle near Ludlow. It rises amidst a Rotunda, formed by Rocks, and covered with shells, and fossils, in the highest elevation of that mountainous and romantic Scene.

SONNET LXI.

TO MR. HENRY CARY[1], ON READING HIS SONNETS WRITTEN AT SIXTEEN.

Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell Amid the wild wood, and irriguous dell, O'er thymy hill, and thro' illumin'd glade, Led thee, for her thy votive wreaths to braid, Where flaunts the musk-rose, and the azure bell Nods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well.-- Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aid Liberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strain Breath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguil'd The languid hours of Sorrow, and of Pain, But when Youth's tide ran high, and tempting smil'd Circean Pleasure, rescuing did she stand, Broke the Enchantress' cup and snapt her wand.

1: Then of Sutton Coldfield.

SONNET LXII.

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast From whom my life I drew;--and thrice has Spring Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing, Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'd Or strength of frame, or intellect.----Now bring Nor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'd Thy pavement, LICHFIELD, in the spirit bless'd Of social gladness. They have fail'd, and cling Feebly to the fix'd chair, no more to rise Elastic!--Ah! my heart forebodes that soon The FULL OF DAYS shall sleep;--nor Spring's soft sighs, Nor Winter's blast awaken him!--Begun The twilight!--Night is long!--but o'er his eyes Life-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!

1: When this Sonnet was written, the Subject of it had languished three years beneath repeated paralytic strokes, which had greatly enfeebled his limbs, and impaired his understanding. Contrary to all expectation he survived three more years, subject, through their progress, to the same frequent and dreadful attacks, though in their intervals he was serene and apparently free from pain or sickness.

SONNET LXIII.

TO COLEBROOKE DALE.

Thy GENIUS, Colebrooke, faithless to his charge, Amid thy woods and vales, thy rocks and streams, Form'd for the Train that haunt poetic dreams, Naiads, and Nymphs,--now hears the toiling Barge And the swart Cyclops ever-clanging forge Din in thy dells;--permits the dark-red gleams, From umber'd fires on all thy hills, the beams, Solar and pure, to shroud with columns large Of black sulphureous smoke, that spread their veils Like funeral crape upon the sylvan robe Of thy romantic rocks, pollute thy gales, And stain thy glassy floods;--while o'er the globe To spread thy stores metallic, this rude yell Drowns the wild woodland song, and breaks the Poet's spell.

SONNET LXIV.

TO MR. HENRY CARY, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS SONNETS.

Prais'd be the Poet, who the Sonnet's claim, Severest of the orders that belong Distinct and separate to the Delphic Song, Shall venerate, nor its appropriate name Lawless assume. Peculiar is its frame, From him deriv'd, who shunn'd the City Throng, And warbled sweet thy rocks and streams among, Lonely Valclusa!--and that Heir of Fame, Our greater MILTON, hath, by many a lay Form'd on that arduous model, fully shown That English Verse may happily display Those strict energic measures, which alone Deserve the name of SONNET, and convey A grandeur, grace and spirit, all their own.

SONNET LXV.

TO THE SAME.

Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain To thy young eyes and kindling fancy, gleam With somewhat of the vivid hues, that stream From Poesy's bright orb, each envious stain Shed by dull Critics, venal, vex'd and vain, Seems recompens'd at full;--and so wou'd seem Did not _maturer_ Sons of Phœbus deem My verse Aonian.--Thou, in time, shalt gain, Like them, amid the letter'd World, _that_ sway Which makes encomium _fame_;--so thou adorn, Extend, refine and dignify thy lay, And Indolence, and Syren Pleasure scorn; Then, at high noon, thy Genius shall display The splendors promis'd in its shining morn.

SONNET LXVI.

Nobly to scorn thy gilded veil to wear, Soft Simulation!--wisely to abstain From fostering Envy's asps;--to dash the bane Far from our hearts, which Hate, with frown severe, Extends for those who wrong us;--to revere With soul, or grateful, or resign'd, the train Of mercies, and of trials, is to gain A quiet Conscience, best of blessings here!-- Calm Conscience is a land-encircled bay, On whose smooth surface Tempests never blow; Which shall the reflex of our life display Unstain'd by crime, tho' gloom'd with transient woe; While the bright hopes of Heaven's eternal day Upon the fair and silent waters glow.

SONNET LXVII.

ON DOCTOR JOHNSON'S UNJUST CRITICISMS IN HIS LIVES OF THE POETS[1].

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear, Fancy, or judgment?--no! his splendid strain, In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea.--The pain Which writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clear _Whence_ all his spleen to GENIUS.--Ill to bear A Friend's renown, that to his _own_ must reign, Compar'd, a Meteor's evanescent train, To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer, Subtle and fatal to poetic Sense, Did from insidious ENVY meanly flow, Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence, And Sophist-Wit, that labor to o'er-throw Th' awards of AGES, and new laws dispense That lift the _mean_, and lay the MIGHTY low.

1: When Johnson's Idolaters are hard pressed concerning his injustice in those _fallacious_ though _able_ pages;--when they are reminded that he there tells us the perusal of Milton's Paradise Lost is a _task_, and never a _pleasure_;--reminded also of his avowed contempt of that exquisite Poem, the LYCIDAS;--of his declaration that Dryden's absurd Ode on the death of Mrs. Anne Killegrew, written in Cowley's _worst_ manner, is the _noblest_ Ode in this Language;--of his disdain of GRAY as a _lyric_ Poet; of the superior respect he pays to _Yalden_, _Blackmore_, and _Pomfret_;--When these things are urged, his Adorers seek to acquit him of _wilful_ misrepresentation by alledging that he wanted ear for lyric numbers, and taste for the _higher_ graces of POETRY:--but it is impossible so to believe, when we recollect that even his _prose_ abounds with poetic efflorescence, metaphoric conception, and harmonious cadence, which in the highest degree adorn it, without diminishing its strength. We must look for the source of his injustice in the envy of his temper. When Garrick was named a Candidate for admission into the Literary Club, Dr. Johnson told Mr. Thrale he would black-ball him. “_Who_, Sir? Mr. Garrick! Companion of your Youth! your acknowledged Friend!” “Why, Sir, I love my little David better than any, or all of his Flatterers love him; but surely we ought to sit in a Society like ours, 'unelbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or PLAYER.” See Supplement to Dr. Johnson's Letters, published by Mrs. Piozzi. The blended hypocrisy and malice of this sally show the man. Johnson knew, at times, how to coax without sincerity as well as to abuse without justice. His seeming fondness for Mrs. C---- of Lichfield, on his visits to that City, and the contempt with which he spoke of her to her Townspeople, was another instance of the same nature.

SONNET LXVIII.

ON THE POSTHUMOUS FAME OF DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow JOHNSON's high claims!--yet boasting that his fires Were of _unclouded_ lustre, TRUTH retires Blushing, and JUSTICE knits her solemn brow; The eyes of GRATITUDE withdraw the glow His moral strain inspir'd.--Their zeal requires That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres, Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand, Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore, That JUSTICE, TRUTH, and GRATITUDE demand Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.-- A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run, But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.

SONNET LXIX.

TO A YOUNG LADY, PURPOSING TO MARRY A MAN OF IMMORAL CHARACTER IN THE HOPE OF HIS REFORMATION.

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice. Misleading thought! has he not paid the price, His taste for virtue?--Ah, the sensual stream Has flow'd too long.--What charms can so entice, What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise, That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?-- [1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore, The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go, And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below A channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.-- Vain hope!--it flows--and flows--and yet will flow, Volume decreaseless, to the FINAL HOUR.

1:

“Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at ille Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.” HORACE.

SONNET LXX.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION, WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!--Time always heals In youth, the wounds of Sorrow.--O! survey Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey To warring Winds, and to their furious peals Surging tumultuous!--yet, as in dismay, The settling Billows tremble.--Morning steals Grey on the rocks;--and soon, to pour the day From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils In all his pride of light.--Thus shall the glow Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe; Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please, Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow, Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

SONNET LXXI.

TO THE POPPY.

While Summer Roses all their glory yield To crown the Votary of Love and Joy, Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh, Thee, scarlet POPPY of the pathless field, Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield Thy flaccid vest, that, as the gale blows high, Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.-- So stands in the long grass a love-craz'd Maid, Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind Her gairish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain; But brain-sick visions cheat her tortur'd mind, And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain, Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed, THOU FLIMSY, SHEWY, MELANCHOLY WEED.

SONNET LXXII.

WRITTEN IN THE RAINY SUMMER OF 1789.

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train, The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain; Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain, Thy drench'd and heavy rose.--Yet pledg'd and dear Fair Hope still holds the promise of the Year; Suspends her anchor on the silver horn Of the next wexing Orb, tho', JUNE, thy Day, Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn, And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway, Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing Hours Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

SONNET LXXIII.

TRANSLATION.

He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives, Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd, And blended with his own.--No more she lives! No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives His thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious wind The Future's darkling maze!--His wish refin'd, The wish to please, exists no more, that gives The will its energy, the nerves their tone!-- He feels the texture of his quiet torn, And stopt the settled course that Action drew; Life stands suspended--motionless--till thrown By outward causes, into channels new;-- But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!

SONNET LXXIV.

[1]In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay, Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade, Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray. Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid, Starts;--and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd, Slides in his half-clos'd hand;--and speeds away.-- “Ye eyes, ye human stars!--if, thus conceal'd By Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart, Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd Your rays had shone!”--Bright Nymph, thy strains impart Hopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove, Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.

1: This romantic circumstance of our great Poet's juvenility was inserted, as a well known fact, in one of the General Evening Posts in the Spring 1789, and it was there supposed to have formed the first impulse of his Italian journey.

SONNET LXXV.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

He found her not;--yet much the POET found, To swell Imagination's golden store, On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore, Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound, Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round Her ruin'd towers and temples;--classic lore Breathing sublimer spirit from the power Of local consciousness.--Thrice happy wound, Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair “Hung over them enamour'd,” the desire Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there, Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre, Might haply fan the emulative flame, That rose o'er DANTE's song, and rival'd MARO's fame.

SONNET LXXVI.

THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].

Lo! modern Critics emulously dare Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone And massy words their true _no meaning_ down! But while their envious eyes on Genius glare, While axioms false assiduously they square In arrogant antithesis, a frown Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown The _kindred malice_ with its mimic air. Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endure The incrustation hard without the _gem_? Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour, The Oak's rough knots on every _Osier_'s stem? The dark contortions of the Sybil bear, Whose inspirations never meet our ear?

1: In jargon, like the following, copied from a REVIEW, are the works of Genius perpetually criticized in our public Prints: “Passion has not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor has metaphor ardor enough to keep pace with passion.”--Nothing can be less true. Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to the highest refinement. Passion has no occasion to _pause_ for metaphors, they _rush_ upon the mind which it has heated. Similies, it is true, are not natural to strong emotion. _They_ are the result of spirits that are calm, and at leisure to _compare_.

2: This idea is from a speech of Mr. Burke's, recorded by Boswell.

SONNET LXXVII.

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning bright Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews, Tinging the green fields with her amber hues, Changing the leaden streams to lines of light? Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night, Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse, Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose, And faint, and colourless, no more invite The glistening gaze of Joy?--'Twas emblem just Of my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell, Spread from the PALL OF FRIENDS; and Grief's loud gust Resistless, oft wou'd wasted tears compel: Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd days Science, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.

SONNET LXXVIII.

Sophia tempts me to her social walls, That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise, Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure vies In soft allurement; and each Science calls To philosophic Domes, harmonious Halls, And [1]storied Galleries. With duteous sighs, Filial and kind, and with averted eyes, I meet the gay temptation, as it falls From a seducing pen.--Here--here I stay, Fix'd by Affection's power; nor entertain One latent wish, that might persuade to stray From my ag'd Nurseling, in his life's dim wane; But, like the needle, by the magnet's sway, My constant, trembling residence maintain.

1: “And storied windows richly dight.”--IL PENSEROSO.

SONNET LXXIX.

While unsuspecting trust in all that wears Virtue's bright semblance, stimulates my heart To find its dearest pleasures in the part Taken in other's joys; yielding to theirs Its own desires, each latent wish that bears The selfish stamp, O! let me shun the art Taught by smooth Flattery in her courtly mart, Where Simulation's studied smile ensnares! Scorn that exterior varnish for the Mind, Which, while it polishes the _manners_, veils In showy clouds the _soul_.--E'en thus we find Glass, o'er whose surface clear the pencil steals, Grown less transparent, tho' with colours gay, Sheds but the darken'd and ambiguous ray.

SONNET LXXX.

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid green When juvenescent April's showery Sun Looks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon; So on the gloom of Life's now faded scene Shines the dear image of those days serene, From Memory's consecrated treasures won; The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown, Soft as the morn of May;--and well I ween If they had clouds, in Time's alembic clear They vanish'd all, and their gay vision glows In brightness unobscur'd; and now they wear A more than pristine sunniness, which throws Those mild reflected lights that soften care, Loss of lov'd Friends, and all the train of Woes.

SONNET LXXXI.

ON A LOCK OF MISS SARAH SEWARD'S HAIR WHO DIED IN HER TWENTIETH YEAR.