Part 4
O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more, Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye, Melting thy fairy visions into air. Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove, There study nature, and with grateful heart, In thy serene, translucent stream behold The light of truth reflected, and the smile Of heaven's benevolence, and in that glass The loveliness of every Virtue woo And every Grace. There let me, too, behold In all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy, That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart; And let the love of glory fire my breast; And let me see, to stimulate my powers, The new-born crescent of my fame ascend, While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope, On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wings To fan its beams and joyful hails the hour When in its full-orb'd glory it shall shine.
A SUMMER-EVENING.
Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill, The prospect, from its height, will well reward The toil of climbing; thence we shall command The various beauties of the landscape round.-- Now we have reached the top. O! what a scene Opens upon the sight, and swallows up The admiring soul! She feels as if from earth Uplifted into heaven. Scarce can she yet Collect herself, and exercise her powers. While o'er heaven's lofty, wide-extended arch, And round the vast horizon, the bold eye Shoots forth her view, with what sublime delight The bosom swells! See, where the God of day, Who through the cloudless ether long has rid On his bright, fiery car, amidst a blaze Of dazzling glory, and in wrath shot round His burning arrows, with tyrannic power Oppressing Nature, now, his daily course Well-nigh completed, toward the western goal Declines, and with less awful majesty Concludes his reign; his flamy chariot hid In floods of golden light that dazzles still, Though less intense. O! how these scenes exalt The throbbing heart! Louisa, canst thou bear These strong emotions? do they not o'erpower Thy tender nerves? I fear, my Love, they do; Those eyes that, late, with transport beam'd so bright, Now veil their rays with the soft, dewy shade Of tenderness. Let us repose awhile; The roots of yonder tree, cover'd with moss, Present a pleasing seat; there let us sit. Hark! Zephyr wakes, and sweetly-whispering, tells The approach of Eve; already Nature feels Her soothing influence, her refreshing breath; The fields, the trees, imbibe the cool, moist air, Their feverish thirst allay, and smile revived. The Soul, too, feels her influence, sweetly soothed Into a tender calm. O! let us now, My loved Louisa! let us now enjoy The landscape's charms, and all the nameless sweets Of this, our favourite hour, for ever dear To Fancy and to Love. Cast round thy sight Upon the altered scene, nor longer fear The dazzling sun; his latest, lingering beams Where are they? can'st thou find them?--see! they gild The glittering top of yonder village-spire; Upon that distant hill they faintly shine; And look! the topmost boughs of this tall oak Majestic, which o'ercanopies our heads, Yet catch their tremulous glimmerings:--now they fade, Fade and expire; and, as they fade, the Moon, The full-orb'd Moon, that seem'd, erewhile, to melt In the bright azure, from the darkening sky Emerging slow, and silent, sheds around Her snowy light, that with the day's last, dim Reflection, from the broad, translucid lake, Insensibly commingles, and unites In sweetest harmony, o'er all the scene Diffusing magic tints, enchanting power. How lovely every object now appears! Each in itself, and how they all combine In one delightful whole! What eye, what heart, O Nature! can resist thy potent charms When thus in soft, transparent shade half-veil'd? Now Beauty and Sublimity, methinks, Upon the lap of Eve, embracing sleep. Mark the tree-tops, my Love, of yonder wood, Whose moonlight foliage fluctuates in the breeze, Say, do they not, in figure, motion, hue, Resemble the sea-waves at misty dawn? What shadowy shape along the troubled lake Comes this way moving? how mysteriously It glides along! how indistinct its form! Imagination views with sweet surprise The unknown appearance--breathless in suspense. The Spirit of the waters can it be, On his aerial car? some fairy Power? Pants not thy heart, Louisa, half-alarm'd? It grows upon the sight,--strange, watery sounds Attend its course;--hark! was not that a voice? O! 'tis a fishing-boat!--its sails and oars I now discern. The church-clock strikes! how loud Burst forth its sound into the startled air, That feels it still, and trembles far around! My dearest Love! it summons us away; The dew begins to fall; let us depart: How sweetly have we spent this evening-hour!
PROLOGUE.
The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind, For which the appropriate name is hard to find; No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be, With strictest truth, pronounced a Tragedy; Since, though predominant the tragic tone, It reigns not uniformly and alone; Then, that its character be best proclaim'd, A Tragic-drama let the piece be named.
But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude, 'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude, Where incidents in strange confusion blend, Without connexion, interest, or end: Not so;--far different was the bard's design; For though, at times, he ventures to combine With grave Melpomene's impassion'd strain The gay Thalia's more enlivening vein; (As all mankind with one consent agree How strong the charms of sweet variety,) Yet Reason's path he still with care observes, And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves, His plot conducting by the rules of art: And, above all, he strives to touch the heart; Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire, Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.
Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent; The poet means not here to represent The tragic Muse in all her terrors drest, With might tempestuous to convulse the breast; Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien, To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene; But with an air more mild and versatile, } Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile, } Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style, } Resembling in effect an April-night When from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light; And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease, Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.
But, in few words our author ends his plea, Already tending to prolixity, To paint from Nature was his leading aim; Let then, the play your candid hearing claim: Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws; If good, reward it with deserved applause; If bad, condemn; yet be it still exempt From your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.
PROLOGUE.
Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight, The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night; How on this blissful night, while yet remote, Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat! Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky, With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high, To greet the appearance of the poet's name, Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame.
Alas! they soar not now;--the demon, Fear, Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere: Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;-- The world of torment opens on her eyes, Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;-- (_The speaker pauses--the audience are supposed to clap, when he continues,_) But Hope, returning to dispel her fears, Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and light At once have forced their dreaded foe to flight, Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round, And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground.
Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly? Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky, To greet the appearance of the poet's name, Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame; Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise, Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes, Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere, On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear; O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws, Fondly anticipate your kind applause.
EPILOGUE.
Perplexing case!--your pardon, Friends, I pray,-- My head so turns, I know not what to say;-- However, since I've dared to come before ye, I'll stop the whirligig,-- (_Clapping his hand to his forehead_,) and tell my story: Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.
Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise, That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise, Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit: The devil take him for neglecting it! Nay though,--'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd From certain motives--which were most absurd; For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein, And still-prepared inventiveness of brain, He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan, To set about it when the play began; Thus purposing the drama's fate to know, Then write his epilogue quite à propos.
The time at last arrives--the signal rings, Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs, And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene, With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,-- Watches opinion's breezes as they blow, To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.
Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write, And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose, Could not forbear, at times, to cock my nose Over his shoulder, curiously to trace His progress;--zounds! how snail-like was his pace! Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken, Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken: 'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done! As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun, My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded; He was--excuse the pun--with grape high-loaded. Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar, Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.
But lest, here too, like hazard I should run; } I'll end my story. When the play was done, } The epilogue was--look! 'tis here--begun: } Such as it is, however, if you will, I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (_They clap._) Your orders I fulfil.
(_He reads._)
'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell Summons me--Duncan-like, to heaven or hell; See, see, the curtain draws;--it now commences; Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses: But let me to my task:--what noise is this? They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss! Now then, to work, my pen:--descend, O Muse! Thine inspiration through my soul infuse; Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before Has been imagined,--never will be more.
What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise, I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:-- They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night. Again they clap, O extacy!-- Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein, He halts,--reads,--curses,--and begins again; But not a single couplet could he muster; How should he, with his soul in such a fluster, All rapture, gratitude, for your applause? Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. B. (SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MISS B***, HIS SISTER.)
At God's command the vital spirit fled, And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead. Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare To gaze on thee;--dread sight! death, death is there. How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief! But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief. Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:-- Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell; Thy tender friendship felt so long for me, Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity, Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence, Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense, Thy patriot love of genuine liberty, Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy; And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feel Thy firm religious faith and pious zeal, Enlighten'd, liberal, free from bigotry, And, that prime excellence, thy charity. Farewell!--for ever?--no! forbid it, Heaven! A glorious promise is to Christians given; Though parted in this world of sin and pain, On high, my Brother! we shall meet again.
LINES TO AN INFIDEL, AFTER HAVING READ HIS BOOK AGAINST CHRISTIANITY.
Your book I've read: I would that I had not! For what instruction, pleasure, have I got? Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt Long, long I wander'd, striving to get out; Your thread of sophistry, my only clue, I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through: That spider's web entangled me the more: With desperate courage onward still I went, Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent: Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er. I've been a child, who whirls himself about, Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round; Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out, He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.
LINES
ON HEARING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO IS BOTH LAME AND BLIND, BUT IN OTHER RESPECTS VERY HANDSOME, SING AND PLAY ON HIS VIOLIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.
Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes; I view the youth, and feel compassion rise. He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze I listen,--listen, and admiring gaze. Still, as he catches inspiration's fire, Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings, That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings, He pours into the music all his soul, And governs mine with strong, but soft controul: Raptured I glow, and more and more admire. His mortal ailments I no longer see; But, of divinities my fancy dreams; Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire; And lame the powerful Deity of fire; His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems; And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.
LINES TO A PEDANTIC CRITIC.
Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee, Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be: Now, cold correctness!--I despise the name; Is that a passport through the gates of fame? Thy pedant rules with care I studied once; Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce? Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more; My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er. When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul, Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll, Onward they rush with unresisted sway, } Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away } Who would with obstacles their progress stay. } As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply With the great luminaries of the sky, So Genius, to direct his course aright, Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.
LINES ON SHAKSPEARE.
(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed The name of Shakspeare!-- What a glorious theme For never-ending praise! His drama's page, Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view Displays the living image of the world, And all the different characters of men: Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay, We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel All the strong sympathies of real life. To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent Her magic wand, potent to conjure up Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd, Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.
The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane, Majestic as the canopy of heaven, Embracing all created things, a fane His superhuman genius has upraised, To Nature consecrate? The Goddess there For ever dwells, and from her sanctuary, By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest, Reveals her awful mysteries to man, And with her power divine rules every heart. At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sons Of learning, and of art! ye men, endow'd With talent, taste! ye nobler few who feel The genuine glow of genius! bow down all In admiration! with deep feeling own Your littleness, your insignificance; And with one general voice due homage pay To Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!
LINES ON MILTON.
(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
Milton!-- the name of that divinest Bard Acts on Imagination like a charm Of holiest power;--with deep, religious awe She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd The relics that enshrined his godlike soul.
O! with what heartfelt interest and delight, With what astonishment, will all the sons Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride Will England ever boast her Milton's name, The Poet matchless in sublimity! E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre; Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought, They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power No longer treads the guilt-polluted world, But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air: Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour, When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake With frames resuscitated, glorified: Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard, Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs, Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir, And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.
ANACREONTIC.
Still, as the fleeting seasons change, From joy to joy poor mortals range, And as the year pursues its round, One pleasure's lost, another found; Time, urging on his envious course, Still drives them from their last resource. So butterflies, when children chase The gaudy prize with eager pace, On each fresh flower but just alight, And, ere they taste, renew their flight.
Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess A constant source of happiness, And am not poorly forced to live On what the seasons please to give. Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole, What care I, while I quaff the bowl? In that secure, I can defy The changeful temper of the sky. No weatherglass, or if I be, Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.
ANACREONTIC.
Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear, While yonder Censor mounts the chair: His form erect, his stately pace, His huge, white wig, his solemn face, His scowling brows, his ken severe, His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer, Some high Philosopher declare:-- Hush! let us hear him from the chair:
'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth; How ill-beseeming sons of earth! Know ye not well the fate of man? That death is certain, life a span? That merriment soon sinks in sorrow, Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow? Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice, That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'
Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine, Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine. Since mortals must die, Since life's but a span, 'Tis wisdom, say I, To live while we can, And fill up with pleasure The poor little measure. Of fate to complain How simple and vain! Long faces I hate; They shorten the date. My Friends! while ye may, Be jovial to-day; The things that will be Ne'er wish to foresee; Or, should ye employ Your thoughts on to-morrow, Let Hope sing of joy, Not Fear croak of sorrow. But see! the Sage flies, so no more. Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.
ANACREONTIC.
Why must Poets, when they sing, Drink of the Castalian spring? Sure 'tis chilling to the brain; Witness many a modern strain: Poets! would ye sing with fire, Wine, not water, must inspire. Come, then, pour thy purple stream, Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme. How within thy crystal frame Does the rosy nectar flame! Not so beauteous on the vine Did the clustering rubies shine, When the potent God of day Fill'd them with his ripening ray; When with proudness and delight Bacchus view'd the charming sight. Still it keeps Apollo's fires; Still the vintage-God admires. Hail sweet antidote of wo! Chiefest blessing mortals know! Nay, the mighty powers divine Own the magic force of wine. Wearied with the world's affairs, Jove himself, to drown his cares, Bids the nectar'd goblet bear: Lo! the youthful Hebe fair Pours the living draught around;-- Hark! with mirth the skies resound. 'Tis to wine, for aught I know, Deities their godship owe; Don't we mortals owe to wine Manhood, and each spark divine? Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl, Who thy heavenly treasure stole? Not the hand that stole Jove's fire Did so happily aspire; Tell the lucky spoiler's name, Worthy never-dying fame. Since it must a secret be, Him I'll praise, in praising thee. Glory of the social treat! Source of friendly converse sweet! Source of cheerfulness and sense, Humour, wit, and eloquence, Courage and sincerity, Candour and philanthropy! Source of--O thou bounteous wine! What the good that is not thine? Were my nerves relax'd and low? Did my chill blood toil on slow? When thy spirit through me flows, How each vital function glows! Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy, Answer to the touch of joy: On the steams, that from thee rise, Time on swifter pinions flies; Fancy gilds them with her rays; Hope amid the rainbow plays. But behold! what Image bright Rises heavenly to my sight! Could such wondrous charms adorn Venus, when from ocean born? Say, my Julia, is it thou, Ever lovely, loveliest now? Yet, methinks, the Cyprian Queen Comes herself, but takes thy mien. Goddess! I confess thy power, And to love devote the hour, Let me but, with grateful soul, Greet once more the bounteous Bowl.
SONG.
Ere Reason rose within my breast, To enforce her sacred law, Still would some charm, in every maid, My veering passions draw.
But now, to calm those gales of night, The morn her light displays; The twinkling stars no more I view, For only Venus sways:
The spotless heaven of genuine love Unveil'd I wondering see, And all that heaven, transported, claim For Julia and for me.
SONG.
Yes, I could love, could softly yield To passion all my willing breast, And fondly listen to the voice That oft invites me to be blest;
That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss, Stands gazing on the form divine, So sweetly whispers to my soul, O make the heavenly Julia thine!
But hush, thou fascinating voice! Hence visionary extacy! Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear She would not deign to smile on me.
SONG TO BACCHUS.
Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay; See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd? See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around? O come then, propitious to our invocation, To preside of thy rites at the solemnization.
Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free, And the music of glasses that merrily ring, Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee; With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King! To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation, And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation.
On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee, Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine; While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see, We greet thy munificence boundless, divine. From these we already inhale animation, Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation.
As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows, We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane; Each breast with thy own godlike character glows; There truth, generosity, happiness reign. Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation; Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration.