Chapter 4

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine This precious Ringlet!--still the soft hairs shine, Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm With sunny gleam!--Alas! each kindred charm Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine Wither'd to shapeless Dust!--and of their grace Memory alone retains the faithful trace.-- Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere now Time on her brow had faded thee!--My care Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow; And thus her early beauty dost thou wear, Thou _all_ of that fair Frame my love cou'd save From the resistless ravage of the GRAVE!

SONNET LXXXII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon; And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave The rous'd and turbid River surges down, Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown Appals the Sense.--Yet see! from yonder cave, Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers, With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid Steals towards the flood!--Alas!--for now appears Her Lover's vacant boat!--the broken oars Roll down the tide!--What images invade! Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

SONNET LXXXIII.

ON CATANIA AND SYRACUSE SWALLOWED UP BY EARTHQUAKE.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.

Here, from laborious Art, proud TOWNS, ye rose! Here, in an instant, sunk!--nor ought remains Of all ye were!--on the wide, lonely plains Not e'en a stone, that might these words disclose, “Here stood CATANIA;”--or whose surface shows That this was SYRACUSE:--but louring reigns A trackless DESOLATION.--Dim Domains! Pale, mournful Strand! how oft, with anxious throes, Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies!-- A SILENCE--a fix'd HORROR sears my soul, Arrests my foot!--Dread DOOM of human crimes, What art thou?--Ye o'erwhelmed Cities, rise! That your terrific skeletons may scowl Portentous warning to succeeding Times!

SONNET LXXXIV.

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds, Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray, November, dragging on his sunless day, Lours, cold and fallen, on the watry fields; And Nature to the waste dominion yields, Stript her last robes, with gold and purple gay.-- So droops my life, of your soft beams despoil'd, Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smil'd; And the wild carols, and the bloomy hues Of merry Spring-time, spruce on every plain Her half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain, More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuse Than Winter's grey, and desolate domain, Faded, like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.

SONNET LXXXV.

TO MARCH.

MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne, Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn, And harshly hymn thy early-closing day. Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn, Her bleak, grey garb:--yet not for _this_ we mourn, Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway, With festal viands, and Associates gay, Arm 'gainst the Skies;--nor _shun_ the piercing gale; But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair, Meet its rough breath;--and peep for primrose pale, Or lurking violet, under hedges bare; And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1] claim The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.

1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.

SONNET LXXXVI.

TO THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY[1].

Pride of Ierne's Sea-encircled bound, Rival of all Britannia's Naiads boast, Magnificent Killarney!--from thy coast Tho' mountains rise with noblest woods embrown'd; Tho' ten-voiced Echos send the cannon's sound In thunders bursting the vast rocks around, Till startled Wonder and Delight exhaust In countless repercussion--Isles embost Upon thy liquid glass; their bloomy veil Sorbus and ārbutus;--yet not for thee So keenly wakes our local ecstacy, As o'er the narrow, barren, silent Dale, Where deeply sleeps, rude circling Rocks among, The Love-devoted Fount enamour'd PETRARCH sung.

1: This Sonnet was written on having read a description of the Killarney Scenery immediately after that of the Vale of Vaucluse, uncultivated and comparatively desert as the latter has been through more than the present Century.

SONNET LXXXVII.

TO A YOUNG LADY, ADDRESSED BY A GENTLEMAN CELEBRATED FOR HIS POETIC TALENTS.

Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine, And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast! Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shine On that contrasting snow; shall see express'd Love's better omens, in the green hues dress'd Of this selected foliage.--Nymph, 't is thine The warning story on its leaves to find, Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind, And with its umbrage veil'd, great Phœbus' power Scorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foil His swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shore Shot into boughs, and rooted to the soil.-- Thus warn'd, fair Maid, Apollo's ire to shun, Soon may his Spray's and VOTARY's lot be one.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

THE PROSPECT A FLOODED VALE.

The three following Sonnets are written in the character of Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not _intirely_ taken from one of his letters.

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour, With mind congenial to the scene, I come! To see my Valley in the lunar gloom, To see it _whelm'd_.--Amid the cloudy lour Gleams the cold Moon;--and shows the ruthless power Of yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foam Roll o'er the fields;--and, billowy as they roam, Against the bushes beat!--A Vale no more, A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind!-- Alas! the wild and angry Waves efface Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!--I find But one wide waste of waters!--In controul Thus dire, to tides of Misery and Disgrace Love opes the flood-gates of my struggling Soul.

SONNET LXXXIX.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece Rests;--but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase The wild disorder of this troubled Night. Redoubling Echos seem yet more to excite The roaring Winds and Waters!--Ah! why cease Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace, And drew my steps to this incumbent height? I wish!--I shudder!--stretch my longing arms O'er the steep cliff!--My swelling spirits brave The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms, And floats me tossing on the stormy wave! But Oh! what roots my feet?--what spells, what charms The daring purpose of my Soul enslave?

SONNET XC.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

My hour is not yet come!--these burning eyes Have not yet look'd their _last_!--else, 'mid the roar Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour My freed, exhaling Soul!--sublime to rise, Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies, And lash the torrents!--Bending to explore Our evening seat, my straining eye once more Roves the wide watry Waste;--but nought descries Save the pale Flood, o'erwhelming as it strays. Yet Oh! lest my remorseless Fate decree That all I love, with life's extinguish'd rays Sink from my soul, to soothe this agony, To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee, COME DEAR REMEMBRANCE OF DEPARTED DAYS!

SONNET XCI.

On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose, In amber radiance plays;--the tall young grass No foot hath bruis'd;--clear Morning, as I pass, Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows; And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows, The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.-- Now is the Year's soft youth;--yet me, alas! Cheers not as it was wont;--impending woes _Weigh_ on my heart;--the joys, that once were mine, Spring leads not back;--and those that yet remain Fade while she blooms.--Each hour more lovely shine Her crystal beams, and feed her floral Train; But ah with pale, and waning fires, decline Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.

SONNET XCII.

Behold that Tree, in Autumn's dim decay, Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind; Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find Lingering and trembling on the naked spray, Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away! Emblem, alas! too just, of Humankind! Vain MAN expects longevity, design'd For few indeed; and their protracted day What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn? The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal, That laid the Friends in dust, whose natal morn Rose near their own;--and solemn is the call;-- Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn, Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall!

SONNET XCIII.

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud, Sheds its [1]green lustre thro' the darksome air.-- Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphere Live the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroud Swell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd. They, of these long regrets perhaps aware, View them with pitying smiles.--O! then, if e'er Your guardian cares may be on me bestow'd, For the pure friendship of our youthful days, Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart, That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night, And lead it back to peace!--as now ye dart, From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays, That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.

1: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

SONNET XCIV.

All is not right with him, who ill sustains Retirement's silent hours.--Himself he flies, Perchance from that insipid equipoise, Which always with the hapless mind remains That feels no native bias; never gains One energy of will, that does not rise From some external cause, to which he hies From his own blank inanity.--When reigns, With a strong, _cultur'd_ mind, this wretched hate To commune with himself, from thought that tells Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate He struggles to escape;--or sense that dwells On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

SONNET XCV.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore Lonely at eve to wander;--or reclin'd Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind Mourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar, Vast billows into caverns surging pour, And back recede alternate; while combin'd Loud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd, Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour; To listen with deep thought those awful sounds; Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste, Or promontory rude, or craggy mounds Staying the furious main, delight has cast O'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart, Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

SONNET XCVI.

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn, Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields, A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn From the light joys of Dissipation born. Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields Against each glittering lance she gaily wields, Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mourn The Heart's dear comforts lost.--But, NATURE, thou, Thou art resistless still;--and yet I ween Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow, To MEMORY owe the magic of their scene; For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays, Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.

SONNET XCVII.

TO A COFFIN-LID.

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep, Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes, All the dire train of ills Existence knows, Thou shuttest out FOR EVER!--Why then weep This fix'd tranquillity,--so long!--so deep! In a dear FATHER's clay-cold Form?--where rose No energy, enlivening Health bestows, Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep In languid deprivation; while the flame Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd, Dark, and more dark, each passing day became. Now that angelic lights the SOUL invest, Calm let me yield to _thee_ a joyless Frame, THOU SILENT DOOR OF EVERLASTING REST.

_Lichfield, March 1790._

SONNET XCVIII.

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains, Industrious habits can, at times, repress The weight of filial woe, the deep distress Of life-long separation; yet its pains, Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.-- My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress Wont the dear aged forehead to impress At midnight, as he slept;--nor now obtains My uprising the blest news, that cou'd impart Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought Some health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heart With fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.-- Time, and the HOPE that robs the mortal Dart Of its fell sting, shall cheer me--as they ought.

SONNET XCIX.

ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS.

DECEMBER 1790.

Remorseless WINTER! in thy iron reign Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne; The _long long_ night,--the tardy, leaden morn; The grey frost, riv'ling lane, and hill, and plain; Chill silent snows, and heavy, pattering rain. These are thy _known_ allies;--and Life forlorn, Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain; But now, Usurper, thou hast madly torn From Summer's hand his stores of angry sway; His rattling thunders with thy winds unite, On thy pale snows those livid lightnings play, That pour their deathful splendors o'er his night, To poise the pleasures of his golden day, Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light.

SONNET C.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.

Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains, When graver cares forbade the _lengthen'd_ strains, To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime A long farewell!--the splendid forms of Rhyme When Grief in lonely orphanism reigns, Oppress the drooping Soul.--DEATH's dark domains Throw mournful shadows o'er the Aonian clime; For in their silent bourne my filial bands Lie all dissolv'd;--and swiftly-wasting pour From my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands. Sleep then, my LYRE, thy tuneful tasks are o'er, Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless hands Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!

PARAPHRASES AND IMITATIONS OF HORACE.

PREFACE.

Translations scrupulously faithful are apt to be stiff, vapid and obscure, from the often irreconcilably different nature of languages, from local customs, and from allusions to circumstances over which time has drawn a veil. In attempting to put the most admired and interesting of Horace's Odes into English Verse, I have taken only the Poet's general idea, frequently expanding it, to elucidate the sense, and to bring the images more distinctly to the eye; induced by the hope of thus infusing into these Paraphrases the spirit of original composition. Neither have I scrupled to follow the example of Dryden and Pope, by sometimes adding ideas and imagery congenial to the subject, and thus to translate Horace like a Poet, rather than a Versifier.

The trust, whether partial or not, that it was in my power _so_ to paraphrase the Odes of Horace, prompted the late Mr. Grove of Lichfield, and the late Mr. Dewes of Wellsburn in Warwickshire, to request that I would undertake the task respecting those whose subjects best pleased me. Not acquainted with each other, the coincidence of their opinion and request was flattering. They were extensively known to be Gentlemen of distinguished virtues, much classic erudition, and poetic taste;

“Blest with each talent, and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live at ease.”

Mr. Dewes was the highly esteemed Friend of Dr. Parr, Mr. Grove of Lord Sheffield. A beautiful epitaph in verse, written by Mr. Grove, on his beloved Wife, is one of the chief ornaments of Lichfield Cathedral.

The imitation of the Ode to Delius, applied to Mr. Erskine, was written since the lamented death of those Gentlemen, which happened in the meridian of their days. All the other Paraphrases had been submitted to their revision and correction, and had been honoured by their warm praise. That consciousness makes me indifferent to the expected cavils of illiberal criticism.

Men of letters have often observed to me, that in paraphrasing Horace, my sex would be an unpardonable crime with every Pedant, whether within, or without the pale of professional criticism. It is not in their power to speak or write more contemptuously of my Horatian Odes than the Critics of Dryden's and Pope's time, in the literary journals of that Period, wrote of their Translations from Homer, Virgil, Horace, Boccace, and Chaucer. Instances of that _public abuse_ are triumphantly inserted by Warburton in his Edition of Pope's works. See Appendix to the Dunciad. It is re-published there, to justify some of the personal severities of Pope's celebrated Satire.

Most of the notes to the ensuing Paraphrases are addressed to their unlearned Readers, since no allusion can interest which is not perfectly comprehended.

ODES FROM HORACE.

TO MÆCENAS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIRST.

I.

Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung, For whom my golden lyre I strung, Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song, O mark the Youth, that towers along, With triumph in his air; Proud of Olympic dust, that soils His burning cheek and tangled hair! Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils! Each look the throbbing hope reveals That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels, Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal, Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol.

II.

Who the civic crown obtains, Or bears into his granaries large The plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains; Or he, who watches still a rural charge, O'er his own fields directs the plough, Sees his own fruitage load the bough; These would'st thou tempt to brave the faithless main, And tempt with regal wealth, thy effort should be vain.

I.

The stormy South howls thro' the sullen cloud, Contending billows roar aloud! The Merchant sees the gathering danger rise, And sends a thousand yearning sighs To his dear shelter'd home.-- Its shades receive him;--but the tides Grow smooth;--the wild winds cease to roam; And see!--his new-trimm'd vessel gaily rides!-- Fir'd with the hope of wealth, once more He quits, so hardly gain'd, the shore; Watches, with eager eye, th' unfurling sail, Nor casts one look behind to the safe, sylvan vale.

II.

[1]The youth of gay, luxurious taste, Breaks, in the ārbutus' soft shade, The precious day with interrupting feast; Or quaffs, by some clear fountain in a glade, The mellow wine of ruby gleam, While in vain the purer stream Courts him, as gently the green bank it laves, To blend th' enfevering draught with its pellucid waves.

I.

Th' uplifted trumpet, and the clarion, send, Confus'd, the mingled clang afar; Lo! while the Matron's tender breast they rend, Her Soldier hails that din of war.-- The wood-land _Chase_ desired, Far other sounds the Hunter charms; By the enlivening shout inspired, He breaks from his young Bride's encircling arms; Nor heeds the morning's wintry gale, While his deep-mouth'd hounds inhale The tainted breeze, or hold the stag at bay, Or while, from his strong toils, the wild boar bursts away.

II.

[2]THEE bright Learning's ivy crown Exalts above a mortal fate; _Me_ shady Groves, light Nymphs, and Satyrs brown, Raise o'er the Crowd, in sweet sequester'd state. And there is heard the Lesbian lute, And there Euterpe's Dorian flute; But, should'st thou rank me with the LYRIC CHOIR, To GLORY's starry heights thy Poet would aspire.--

1: The Romans, in general, made no regular meal till the business of the day was over. They considered a mid-day feast as a mark of indolence and luxury.

2: “_Diis miscent superis._] A manner of expression not unusual amongst the Greeks and Latins, for any eminent degree of happiness. Unless we adopt this explanation of the words, says Dacier, we shall make Horace guilty of a manifest contradiction, since a few lines farther he tells his Patron, that _his suffrage_, not the _ivy crown_ is that, which will exalt him to the skies. The judicious emendation of the late Bishop of Chichester, who for _Me doctarum_, reads _Te doctarum_, removes all objection; and adds beauty to the Ode by the fine compliment it contains to Mæcenas.” BROM. HOR.

TO PYRRHA.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIFTH.

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave, Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy, Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave, Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy? For whom the simple band dost thou prepare, That lightly fastens back thy golden hair?

Alas! how soon shall this devoted Youth Love's tyrant sway, and thy chang'd eyes deplore, Indignant curse thy violated truth, And count each broken promise o'er and o'er, Who hopes to meet, unconscious of thy wiles, Looks ever vacant, ever facile smiles!

He, inexperienc'd Mariner! shall gaze In wild amazement on the stormy deep, Recall the flattery of those sunny days, That lull'd each ruder wind to calmest sleep. 'T was then, with jocund hope, he spread the sail, In rash dependence on the faithless gale.

Ah Wretch! to whom untried thou seemest fair! By me, who late thy halcyon surface sung, [1]The walls of Neptune's fane inscrib'd, declare That I have dank and dropping garments hung, Devoted to the GOD, whose kind decree Snatch'd me to shore, from an o'erwhelming sea.

1: Horace alludes to the custom of the Roman Mariners after a shipwreck--that of suspending their garments, which had been drenched in the storm, in the temple of Neptune, together with a votive tablet, on which the circumstances of the danger and escape, were painted.

TO [1]MUNATIUS PLANCUS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE SEVENTH.

Be far-fam'd [2]RHODES the theme of loftier strains, Or [3]MITYLENE, as their Bard decrees; Or EPHESUS, where great DIANA reigns, Or CORINTH, towering 'twixt the rival seas; Or THEBES, illustrious in thy birth divine, Purpureal BACCHUS;--or of PHŒBUS' shrine DELPHOS oracular; or warbling hail Thessalian TEMPE's flower-embroider'd vale.

The Art-crown'd City, chaste MINERVA's pride, There are, whose endless numbers have pourtray'd; They, to each tree that spreads its branches wide, Prefer the [4]tawny Olive's scanty shade. Many, in JUNO's honor, sing thy meads, Green ARGOS, glorying in thy agile steeds; Or opulent MYCENE, whose proud fanes The blood of murder'd AGAMEMNON stains.

Nor patient LACEDÆMON wakes my lyre, Who trains her Sons to all the Warrior's toil; Nor me [5]LARISSA's airy graces fire, Tho' round her hills the golden vallies smile: But my lov'd mansion, 'mid the circling wood, On the green bank of clear Albūnea's flood, Its walls resounding with the echo'd roar, As Anio's torrents down the mountain pour.