Part 3

Thou, AVALON! in whose polluted womb The patriot monarch found his narrow tomb; Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head With niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread, Stood the memorial of the pious age? Where wont the hospitable fire In cheering volumes to aspire, And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage. Low lie thy turrets now, The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth; The dome which luxury yrear'd, Though Hospitality was there rever'd, Now, from its shatter'd brow, With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth.

Ye minstrel throng, In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre: The walls, whose trophied sides along Once rung the harp's energic sound, Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground; No more the bold romantic lore Shall spread from Thule's distant shore; No more intrepid Cambria's hills among, In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song.

Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child, Where shall we seek thee now? Genius! no more thy influence mild Shall gild Affliction's clouded brow; No more thy cheering smiles impart One ray of joy to Sorrow's heart; No more within the lordly pile Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.

Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays, Where hangs the row in sullen show Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days, The gaudy toil of Turkish loom Shall decorate the stately room; Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by.

Not so where o'er the desart waste of sand Speds the rude Arab wild his wandering way; Leads on to rapine his intrepid band, And claims the wealth of India for his prey; There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand, The generous Arab gives the tent of rest, Guards him as the fond mother guards her child, Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild.

Not so amid those climes where rolls along The Oroonoko deep his mighty flood; Where rove amid their woods the savage throng, Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood; Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake, Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear; Patient of hunger, and of pain, Close in their haunts the chiefs remain, And lift in secret stand the deadly spear. Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near, And proffering forth the friendly hand, Claim their protection from the warrior band; The savage Indians bid their anger cease, Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace.

Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws, How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast! Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe! Forbids the pitying tear to flow, And steels the soul of apathy to rest; Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne, And deems of other bosoms by her own.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNETS.

* * * * *

SONNET I.

_TO ARISTE._

ARISTE! soon to sojourn with the crowd, In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go; Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud. I go: but still my soul remains with thee, Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms, Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see, And every pulse will vibrate with alarms. When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale, When envy at a rival's beauty sighs, When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail, And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes, I turn my wearied soul to her for ease, Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET II.

Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast The glow of genius never could inspire; Who never, by the future song possest, Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. Let him invoke the Muses from their grove, Who never felt the inspiring touch of love. If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view, Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, Where only from the minstrel praise is due, I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays, My Muse, ARISTE, would be found in you! And need I court the goddess when I move The warbling lute to sound the soul of love?

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET III.

Let ancient stories sound the painter's art, Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, 'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart, And every bosom bounded with alarms. He cull'd the beauties of his native isle, From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, From some the lovely look, the winning smile, From some the languid lustre of the eyes. Low to the finish'd form the nations round In adoration bent the pious knee; With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd, Whose skill, ARISTE, only imaged thee. Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek The charms that blossom on ARISTE's cheek!

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET IV.

I Praise thee not, ARISTE, that thine eye Knows each emotion of the soul to speak; That lillies with thy face might fear to vie, And roses can but emulate thy cheek. I praise thee not because thine auburn hair In native tresses wantons on the wind; Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair, Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: 'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won, That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest; Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast, As the soft radiance of the setting sun, When varying through the purple hues of light, The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET V.

_DUNNINGTON-CASTLE._

Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre First breath'd the voice of music on our isle; Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire, Old CHAUCER slowly sunk at last to night; Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, A firmer, nobler monument remain, When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; And yet the cankering tooth of envious age Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, And piercing through the shadowy mist of time, The festive Bard of EDWARD's court recall, As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET VI.

As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom, Alone and pensive, in my silent room, On man and on mortality I dwell. And as the harbinger of death I hear Frequent and full, much do I love to muse On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear; And passion varying her camelion hues, And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade, 'Till death dissolves the vision. So the child In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd, As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd; Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play, Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET VII.

_WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY._

As o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes, Weary and sad, his wayward fancy strays To scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raise The transient joy which memory bestows; And oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom, He paints the approaching scene in colours gay: So I, to cheer me in life's rugged way, Or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to come. But ah! reflection vainly we employ On pleasures past, and fugitive the joy When the mind rests on hope's delusive power; Blest only they who present joys can taste, Nor fear the future, nor regret the past, But happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET VIII.

_TO HAPPINESS._

Say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell? Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene, In pomp of courts, and in the rural green, Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell. Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few, We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go; Tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue, And sighing, says, thou dwellest not below. Does he not after fairy shadows run? Follows he not some wild illusive dream, Like children who would catch the radiant sun, Grasp at its image in the glittering stream? If right he sought, then man would meet success, For surely "Virtue leads to happiness."

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET IX.

Mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course? Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats? Lightly it drifts along, and well denotes The light impression on the youthful breast, Which, in life's summer, transiently imprest, Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force: But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns, Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd, And on its bosom, where of late it play'd, Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains. Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar, Freezes the genial flow of mental power, The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store, Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET X.

_TO FAME._

On the high summit of yon rocky hill, Proud Fame! thy temple stands, and see around What thronging thousands press; and hark! the sound That fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill. Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd, And oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim; And many spurn at justice' sacred name, And "wade to glory through a sea of blood." Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd, And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloud Upon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice, I'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere, More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hear The approving whispers of her still small voice.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET XI.

_TO THE FIRE._

My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright, Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame; Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night, Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame. I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth, I love to pause in meditation's sway; And whilst each object gives reflection birth, Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay: And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene, Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer; And wish at last, in life's declining scene, As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear: So might my children ponder o'er my shrine, And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET XII.

_THE FADED FLOWER._

Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk, Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way, Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk, Then past along, and left thee to decay. Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem, But left thy blossom still to grace the green; And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side Deep-sighing, points the fair frail EMMA's tomb; "Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride! O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy."

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET XIII.

_TO SENSIBILITY._

I'll court thy lone bow'r, Sensibility! And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair, Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye, And all those charms which blend to make thee fair. Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to stray Recluse, and listen at the silent hour, When wildly warbling from her secret bow'r The pensive night-bird pours her evening lay. 'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard, And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam, Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deem Her mournful note than song of blither bird; So more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dye Charms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET XIV.

_TO HEALTH._

Nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek, Who erst from courts and luxury didst speed, And with thine elder sister, Temperance, seek The woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead; There will I woo thee, for thou dwellest there Amid the sons of industry; thy smile Soothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil, And, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare. When the woods echo with the early horn Thou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest, (While youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast) And, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn; The airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves, Thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves.

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

SONNET XV.

_TO THE NIGHTINGALE._

Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, As by thy wonted haunts again I rove; Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay? For faintly fades the sinking orb of day, And yet thy music charms no more the grove. The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour; Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood No longer need thy care to cull their food, And nothing now remains to prompt the song: But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to the lay of love.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET XVI.

_TO REFLECTION._

Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye Revert again to many a sorrow past? Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly, Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam, Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam, As the last splendour of the summer sky. Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know To mourn its absence; let them contemplate The thorny windings of our mortal state, Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe; Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow, Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom, In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.

BION.

* * * * *

THE WISH.

_TO A FRIEND._

The Muse who struck to moral strains the lyre, Now turns to court a visionary theme, To frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire, When fancy revels in her golden dream.

I ask no lone retreat, no shady grove, Nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me; I muse on Justice, Liberty, and Love, And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

I bend, great Justice! at thine awful throne, Eternal arbiter of good and ill, The sons of soul shall make thy laws their own, And form their dictates by thy sov'reign will.

But oft perverted is thy high behest, And oft I'm doom'd oppression's rod to see; I see wealth triumph, and the poor opprest, And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

How bounds the soul at freedom's sacred call? How shrinks from slavery's heart-appalling train? But still her victims avarice will inthral, Afric's sad sons still wear the accursed chain.

Still, power despotic, with ambition join'd, Would crush the soul determin'd to be free; I see debas'd man's dignity of mind, And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

Were justice follow'd, then would man be good, Were freedom guarded, then would man be blest; No generous impulse of the soul subdu'd, But love, unfraught with anguish, fill the breast.

I felt the magic of LUCINDA's eye, I thought her charms were of no mean degree; LUCINDA's name inspir'd the secret sigh, And, need I, ORSON! tell my wish to thee?

One only wish remain'd! oh! might I find, Amid this scene of danger and of strife, Some kindred spirit, some congenial mind, To cheer my journey through the vale of life.

Indulgent heav'n vouchsafed the boon to send, A youth I found, and just and mild was he; My heart sprang mutual to embrace its friend, And, need I, ORSON! name that friend to thee?

MOSCHUS.

* * * * *

TO LYCON.

On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what form Beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair? Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm? Why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair? The deep dull groan I hear, I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear.

Ah! fly her dreadful reign, For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain; For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower, For oft the ill-omen'd owl Yells loud the dreadful howl, And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour.

Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know, I know the horrors of thy barren plain, I know the dreadful force of woe, I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain; But I have fled thy drear domains, Have broke thy agonizing chains, Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl, Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my soul.

Fair smiles the morn along the azure sky, Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by, And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain; As down the dale, with perfumes sweet, The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet, His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain; And every bird that loves to sing The choral song to coming spring, Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove, Heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love.

Ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet, Distrust each soul-subduing sweet, Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl, For thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep, Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep, And stain with sable hue the spotless soul; For soon the valley's charms decay, In haggard griefs ill omen'd sway, And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day: Then reason strives in vain, Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye, And virtue sinks beneath the galling chain, And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl, And sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul.

Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light; She bids the wretch no more despondent weep, Or linger in the loathly realms of night; And Science comes, celestial maid! As mild as good she comes to aid, To smooth the rugged steep with magic power, And fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour.

Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day Array'd, the wide horizon streams with light; Anon the dull mists blot the living ray, And darksome clouds presage the stormy night: Yet may the sun anew extend his ray, Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright; Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain, And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain.

And what, my friend, is life? What but the many weather'd April day! Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife, Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray; Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form, For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm.

If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam O'er distant hill or plain, Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home, Whilst heaven drops down the rain? Or will thy hope expect the coming day, When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray?

Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time, In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore, Or shake off grief, and "build the lofty rhyme," And live 'till time himself shall be no more? If thy light bark have met the storm, If threatening clouds the sky deform, Let honest truth be vain; look back on me, Have I been "sailing on a summer's sea?" Have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails, As smooth the gentle vessel glides along? LYCON, I met unscar'd the wintry gales, And sooth'd the dangers with the song: So shall the vessel sail sublime, And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time.

BION.

* * * * *

TO LYCON.

And does my friend again demand the strain, Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay? Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain, When melancholy loads the lingering day? Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye, No fault behold, but every charm descry; And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny?

"No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:" Ah, LYCON! 'tis that thought affords delight; 'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe, When memory reigns amid the gloom of night: For fancy loves the distant scene to see, Far from the gloom of solitude to flee, And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me.

Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade, What time the pale moon glimmering on the plain Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade, Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain: Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow, Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow, Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe.

Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay, The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear, When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day, And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear; For staid reflection loves the doubtful light, When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night, And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight.

Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar, And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain, When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore, The exil'd OVID pour'd his plaintive strain; He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome, He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home, And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom.

Oh! could my lays, like SULMO's minstrel, flow, Eternity might love her BION's name; The muse might give a dignity to woe, And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame: But I have pluck'd no bays from PHOEBUS' bower, My fading garland, form'd of many a flower, May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour.