Chapter 5

But, ah! no willing mourner here Attends to tell the tale of woe: Why is yon statue prostrate thrown? Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone? Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear, So sullen seems the wind to blow?

How mournful was the lonely bird, Within yon dark neglected grove! Say, was it fancy? From its throat Issu’d a strange and cheerless note; ’Twas not so sad as grief I heard, Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.

In the deep gloom of yonder dell Ambition’s blood-stain’d victims sigh’d; While Time beholds, without a tear, Fell Desolation hov’ring near, Whose angry blushes seem to tell. Here Juliana shudd’ring died!

[18] This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I visited them in 1804, much neglected.

SONG

Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero’s Prisoner.

A wreath from an immortal bough Should deck that gen’rous victor’s brow, Who hears his captive’s grateful praise Augment the thanks his country pays; For him the minstrel’s song shall flow, The canvass breathe, the marble glow.

LINES

UPON A LADY DYING

_Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast_,

LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER.

Sweet stranger! tho’ the merc’less storm Here sternly cast thy fainting form, What tho’ no kindred hand was near To wipe away Affliction’s tear,

Yet shall thy gentle spirit own, Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown, That Pity pour’d her balmy store, And kindred hands could do no more.

Ne’er shall that pang disturb thy rest, That moves the parted mother’s breast; The object of thy dying fear Shall want no father’s fondness here.

Oft shall his little lips proclaim, With April-tears, thy treasur’d name; His little hands, when summers bloom, Shall gather flow’rs to deck thy tomb.

JEU D’ESPRIT

UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS OPINION OF BEAUTY.

Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: Require them rather from your looking-glass!

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS, BY OUDAAN,

Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, in Rotterdam.

[_The Original in Dutch_.]

_ORIGINAL_.

Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder! De Rykstad eer’ en vier’ dien Heilig in zyn grav; Dit tweede leeven geevt, die’t eerste leeven gav: Maar ’t ligt der taalen, ’t zout der zeden, ’t heerlyk wonder.

Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald, Word met geen grav gëerd nog met zeen beeld betaald: Dies moet hier’t lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken, Nadien geen mind’re plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken!

_TRANSLATION_.

Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise, That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam O’er a benighted world, thro’ low’ring skies, And shed on Basil’s tow’rs his parting gleam.

There his great relics lie: he bless’d the place: No proud preserver of his fame shall prove The Parian pile, tho’ fraught with sculptur’d grace: Reader! his mausoleum is above.

THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS

Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the French would invade our Country.

SONG.

_To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England_.”

No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow.

Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r, But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r, That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe.

Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove, ’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love; Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow.

SONG.

When storms on the ocean Create high emotion, It pleases the wish Of the monarch of fish, For he gambols and sports in the motion.

Should a shoal of small fry Attempt to draw nigh, With a flap of his tail, Th’ imperial whale Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.

Oh! thus, on the seas, Just with the same ease, Should the enemy come, In ship, boat, or bomb, We will knock them about as we please;

Till at last they shall cry, “We are the small fry, And Britannia’s the whale, By a flap of whose tail, If we dare to approach her we die.”

SONNET,

Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey? No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay.

The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d, And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d.

And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye, Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound, Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh, Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone.

IMPROMPTU,

IN REPLY TO A LADY,

_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_.

How like is childhood to the lucid tide That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell, Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side, And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!

LINES

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,

_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the Evening_.

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense; Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence. Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r! So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close, The night-flow’r[19] blooms, the rival of the rose!

[19] One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.

LINES TO STUDY.

O Study! while thy lovers raise Thy name with all the pow’r of praise, Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! If in this bosom thou should’st find That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, Which charm’d it once, now charms no more: Frown not, if, on thy classic line, One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine; Frown not, if, when a smile should start, A sigh should heave an aching heart: If Mem’ry, roving far away, Should an unmeaning homage pay, Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit, Should turn her from the proffer’d food, To tread the shades of Solitude: Frown not, if, in the humble line, Ungrac’d by any thought of thine, Should but that gentle name appear, Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear; I love, tho’ rude, I love it more, Than all thy piles of letter’d lore: Frown not if ev’ry airy word, Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, More rich, more eloquently, flow, To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow, Than all by thee so much approv’d, The wit of age on age improv’d. Go, then! and, since it is denied That thou shalt be my radiant guide! Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove How little Learning is to Love.

SONG.

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng, With him to dwell in peaceful groves, With him to hear the shepherd’s song?

Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign The homage by thy charms inspir’d? To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine What oft so many have admir’d?

Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love, Till time shall bid it cease to flow; With thee shall ev’ry moment prove A little heaven form’d below!

THE FURY OF DISCORD

In a chariot of fire, thro Hell’s flaming arch, The Fury of Discord appear’d; A myriad of demons attended her march, And in Gallia her standard she rear’d.

Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, But in vain did she try to assume Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, And thy roseate mountainous bloom.

For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, At her girdle a poniard she wore; Her bosom and limbs were expos’d to the sky, And her robe was besprinkled with gore.

Nature shudder’d, and sigh’d as the wild rabble past, Each flow’r droop’d its beautiful head; The groves became dusky, and moan’d in the blast, And Virtue and Innocence fled.

She rose from her car ’midst the yell of her crew; Emblazon’d, a scroll she unfurl’d, And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; “’Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World.”

Plunder, keen-ey’d and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, Murder grinn’d as he whetted his steel; While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high Was the creature of Folly and Zeal.

The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, Kings turn’d pale on their thrones at her nod; While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, And Piety knelt to her God.

At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, She sought a fresh fav’rite, with dexterous skill, From Obscurity’s darkest abyss.

The pow’rs of her monstrous adoption to try, ’Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, And defile all thy relics of taste.

The chieftain obey’d: with a merciful air He wrung from thy natives a tear; But the justice and valour of Britain, e’en there, Shook his legions, recoiling with fear.

Well-pleas’d with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, To her empire safe wafted him o’er; Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, The murd’rer pursued to the shore.

Arriv’d, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, Bright with gems pluck’d from Gallia’s crown; To give him a name, she Rome’s hist’ry survey’d, In the days of her early renown.

To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, The Arts mournful captives she kept; And the plund’rer and plunder of Europe display’d To the wand’rer, who wonder’d and wept.

To support this apostate imperial shade, This impious mock’ry of good, She rais’d a banditti, to whom she convey’d His spirit for plunder and blood.

The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld The flash of his sabre afar; They enter’d, but pensively mov’d from the field, And bow’d to this idol of war.

Till, fum’d with the incense of slavish applause, O’er the globe’s fairest portion he trod; And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, Conceiv’d himself rais’d to a god.

But England disdain’d to the Tyrant to bend; Still erect, undismay’d, she was found; Infuriate, he swore that “his bolt should descend,” And her temples should fall to the ground.

Yes, here, if his banner is destin’d to wave, It shall float o’er her temples laid low, O’er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, Such a victory never will know.

Oh! banish the thought; for, learn ’tis in vain, Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; As soon shall her base be remov’d by the main, As her empire by thee and thy host.

The sound is gone forth, ’tis recorded above, To the mountain it spread from the vale; “Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love, And for them we will die or prevail.”

Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, Let the winds blow thy myriads along; Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song.

Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, Shall view, as she moves to our shore, The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, And shall boast her achievements no more.

Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, Big with freedom to nations afar; The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, Shall join in the conflict of war.

In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest Lean over its bright-beaming walls, To guide and support to the regions of rest The soul of the patriot who falls.

Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, The fate of the fight shall proclaim; The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, Recording each hero by name.

The world to its centre shall shake with delight, As thus she announces their fall; “They sink! our invaders submit to our might, The ocean has buried them all!”

LINES TO ANNETTE.

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see? His trembling love unfolded hear? And mark the while th’ impassion’d tear, Th’ impassion’d tear of agony?

Adown his anxious features steal, Nor then one burst of pity feel? But, as bereav’d of ev’ry sense, Look on with cold indifference. Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; Go, rest secure, thy fear give o’er, These eyes shall follow thee no more; And never shall these lips impart One thought of all that rends my heart.

Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, And since the tear will ever fall, From thee and from the world I’ll fly; Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all.

LINES

SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W——.

Go, faithless bloom! on Delia’s cheek Your boasted captivations try; Alas! o’er Nature would you seek To gain one moment’s victory? Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, Shall prove you’re but a vain intruder there.

But go, display your charms and taste; Soon shall you blush a richer red, To find your mimic pow’r surpass’d; And, whilst upon her cheek you spread Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, ’Tis the first time she ever practis’d art.

MISS W—— RETURNED THE ROUGE

_With the following elegant Lines_.

When men exert their utmost pow’rs, To while away the tedious hours, With soothing Flatt’ry’s art, When ev’ry art and work well skill’d, And ev’ry look with poison fill’d, Assail a woman’s heart,

Tho’ ardently she’d wish to be Proof ’gainst the charms of Flattery, The task is hard, I ween; Self-love will whisper “’Tis quite true, Who can there be more fair than you? Who more admir’d, when seen?”

Then take this tempting gift of thine, Nor e’er again wish me to shine In any borrow’d bloom: Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; Full well I know they both will harm; Truth is my only plume.

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,

OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

_Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author_.

Oh! form’d to prompt the smile or tear, At once so sweet, yet so severe! As much for you as him I grieve; Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave A mind with wit and learning bright, Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; Where manly honour, taste refin’d, With ev’ry virtue, are combin’d; If you can quit a heart so true, Which has so often throbb’d for you, I’ll pity, tho’ I can’t reprove; And did I, such is Florio’s love, Eager he’d fly to take thy part, E’en in a war against his heart.

THE MUSHROOM.

Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb’ring string, And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; Charm’d by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move Thro’ lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove! As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound. Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray O’er fragrant hills proclaim’d th’ approaching day; Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, With spirits light, and mind without a stain, Rose from her simple bed, refresh’d with rest; Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had’st thou prest Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, And by a blissful vision’s fairy pow’r Hadst thou impress’d her mind with forms of love, The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm’ring dove, The little nymph had never sought the plain, Nor fill’d with one romantic thought this brain. In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, To neighb’ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; Nor stile oppos’d her; like a bounding fawn Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, He would have sigh’d: alas! poor love-sick fool! Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool! And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, Where, bath’d with dew, the modest Mushroom rose. Less fair the swan, by Richmond’s flow’ry side, That in the river views herself with pride, As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, To see her sail in majesty along. Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, Not distant far thy skin of velvet white She views, and to thee presses with delight Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, Arrest her flight, and alter ev’ry charm; Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear She fled!—See on each beauteous limb appear Soft leaves and flow’rs, the sweetest of the year; And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath O’er the fair form that now she dooms to death: But, ah! in vain, the pray’r no goddess hears; } She bends—she plucks—and, bath’d in purple tears,} The much-priz’d victim in her lap she bears! } Tears that, preserv’d in crystal, will prolong, And paint its worth beyond this simple song.

LINES

Written _en badinage_, after visiting a Paper-Mill near Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W——, who excels in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making Paper, in Verse.

Reader! I do not wish to brag; But, to display Eliza’s skill, I’d proudly be the vilest rag That ever went to paper-mill.

Content in pieces to be cut; Tho’ sultry were the summer-skies, Pleas’d between flannel I’d be put, And after bath’d in jellied size.

Tho’ to be squeez’d and hang’d I hate, For thee, sweet girl! upon my word, When the stout press had forc’d me flat, I’d be suspended on a cord.

And then, when dried and fit for use, Eliza! I would pray to thee, If with thy pen thou would’st amuse, That thou would’st deign to write on me.

Gad’s bud! how pleasant it would prove Her pretty chit-chat to convey, P’rhaps be the record of her love, Told in some coy enchanting way.

Or, if her pencil she would try, On me, oh! may she still imprint Those forms that fix th’ admiring eye, Each graceful line, each glowing tint!

Then shall I reason have to brag, For thus, to high importance grown, The world will see a simple rag Become a treasure rarely known.

LINES

TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST.