Chapter 8

Awful Genius of the land! Who (thy reign of glory closed) By marble wrecks, half-hid in sand, Hast mournfully reposed; Who long, amid the wasteful desert wide, Hast loved with death-like stillness to abide; 140 Or wrapped in tenfold gloom, From noise of human things for ages hid, Hast sat upon the shapeless tomb In the forlorn and dripping pyramid; Awake! Arise! Though thou behold the day no more That saw thy pride and pomp of yore; Though, like the sounds that in the morning ray Trembled and died away From Memnon's statue; though, like these, the voice 150 That bade thy vernal plains rejoice, The voice of Science, is no longer heard; And all thy gorgeous state hath disappeared: Yet hear, with triumph, and with hope again, The shouts of joy that swell from thy forsaken main!

And, oh! might He, at whose command Deep darkness shades a mourning land; At whose command, bursting from night, And flaming with redoubled light, The Sun of Science mounts again, 160 And re-illumes the wide-extended plain! Might He, from this eventful day, Illustrious Egypt, to thy shore Science, Freedom, Peace restore, And bid thy crowded ports their ancient pomp display! No more should Superstition mark, In characters uncouth and dark, Her dreary, monumental shrine! No more should meek-eyed Piety Outcast, insulted lie 170 Beneath the mosque, whose golden crescents shine, But starting from her trance, O'er Nubia's sands advance Beyond the farthest fountains of the Nile! The dismal Gallas should behold her smile, And Abyssinia's inmost rocks rejoice To hear her awful lore, yet soft consoling voice!

Hasten, O GOD! the time, when never more Pale Pity, from her moonlight seat shall hear, And dropping at the sound a fruitless tear, 180 The far-off battle's melancholy roar; When never more Horror's portentous cry Shall sound amid the troubled sky; Or dark Destruction's grimly-smiling mien, Through the red flashes of the fight be seen! Father in heaven! our ardent hopes fulfil; Thou speakest "Peace," and the vexed world is still! Yet should Oppression huge arise, And with bloody banners spread, Upon the gasping nations tread, 190 Whilst he thy name defies, Trusting in Thee alone, we hope to quell His furious might, his purpose fell; And as the ensigns of his baffled pride O'er the seas are scattered wide, We will take up a joyous strain and cry-- Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!

[49] This poem, "Coombe Ellen," "St Michael's Mount," _et cet._, down to the Monody on Dr Warton, originally dedicated to the Countess of Mansfield, are dated from Donhead, 1802.

A GARDEN-SEAT AT HOME.

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home, Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose, And slender woods that the still scene inclose, For yon magnificent and ample dome[50] That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense The blessings of retired munificence. Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear O'er Harriet's urn, scarce wishing to emerge Into the troubled ocean of that life, Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife. Calm roll the seasons o'er my shaded niche; I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string, Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing; Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich Deign my abode to visit, and the poor Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.

DONHEAD, _Oct. 12, 1798._

[50] Wardour Castle.

IN HORTO REV. J. STILL,

APUD KNOYLE, VILLAM AMOENISSIMAM.

Stranger! a while beneath this aged tree Rest thee, the hills beyond, and flowery meads, Surveying; and if Nature's charms may wake A sweet and silent transport at thine heart, In spring-time, whilst the bee hums heedless nigh, Rejoice! for thee the verdant spot is dressed, Circled with laurels green, and sprinkled o'er With many a budding rose: the shrubs all ring To the birds' warblings, and by fits the air Whispers amid the foliage o'er thine head! Rejoice, and oh! if life's sweet spring be thine, So gather its brief rose-buds, and deceive The cares and crosses of humanity.

GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

Come to these peaceful seats, and think no more Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar Of Ocean, tossing on his restless bed! Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled For honour, who have traversed the great flood, Or on the battle's front with stern eye stood, When rolled its thunder, and the billows red Oft closed, with sudden flashings, o'er the dead! Oh, heavy are the sorrows that beset Old age! and hard it is--hard to forget The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride! But here, O aged men! ye may abide Secure, and see the last light on the wave Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave; Like the calm evening ray, that smiles serene Upon the tranquil Thames, and cheers the sinking scene.

A RUSTIC SEAT NEAR THE SEA.

To him, who, many a night upon the main, At mid-watch, from the bounding vessel's side, Shivering, has listened to the rocking tide, Oh, how delightful smile thy views again, Fair Land! the sheltered hut, and far-seen mill That safe sails round and round; the tripping rill That o'er the gray sand glitters; the clear sky, Beneath whose blue vault shines the village tower, That high elms, swaying in the wind, embower; And hedge-rows, where the small birds' melody Solace the lithe and loitering peasant lad! O Stranger! is thy pausing fancy sad At thought of many evils which do press On wide humanity!--Look up; address The GOD who made the world; but let thy heart Be thankful, though some heavy thoughts have part, That, sheltered from the human storms' career, Thou meetest innocence and quiet here.

WARDOUR CASTLE.

If rich designs of sumptuous art may please, Or Nature's loftier views, august and old, Stranger! behold this spreading scene;--behold This amphitheatre of aged trees, That solemn wave above thee, and around Darken the towering hills! Dost thou complain That thou shouldst cope with penury or pain, Or sigh to think what pleasures might be found Amid such wide possessions!--Pause awhile; Imagine thou dost see the sick man smile; See the pale exiles, that in yonder dome, Safe from the wasteful storm, have found a home;[51] And thank the Giver of all good, that lent To the humane, retired, beneficent, The power to bless. Nor lift thy heart elate, If such domains be thine; but emulate The fair example, and those deeds, that rise Like holy incense wafted to the skies; Those deeds that shall sustain the conscious soul, When all this empty world hath perished, like a scroll!

[51] French emigrants, chiefly supported by the bounty of Lord Arundel.

POLE-VELLUM, CORNWALL.

A PICTURESQUE COTTAGE AND GROUNDS BELONGING TO J. LEMON, ESQ.

Stranger! mark this lovely scene, When the evening sets serene, And starting o'er the silent wood, The last pale sunshine streaks the flood, And the water gushing near Soothes, with ceaseless drip, thine ear; Then bid each passion sink to rest;-- Should ev'n one wish rise in thy breast, One tender wish, as now in mine, That some such quiet spot were thine, And thou, recalling seasons fled, Couldst wake the slumbers of the dead, And bring back her you loved, to share With thee calm peace and comfort there;-- Oh, check the thought, but inly pray To HE, "who gives and takes away," That many years this fair domain Its varied beauties may retain;-- So when some wanderer, who has lost His heart's best treasure, who has crossed In life bleak hills and passes rude, Should gain this lovely solitude; Delighted he may pause a while, And when he marks the landscape smile, Leave with its willows, ere he part, The blessings of a softened heart.

JULY 1786.

ON A BEAUTIFUL SPRING,

FORMING A COLD BATH, AT COOMBE, NEAR DONHEAD, BELONGING TO MY BROTHER, CHAS. BOWLES, ESQ.

Fountain, that sparklest through the shady place, Making a soft, sad murmur o'er the stones That strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest Should haply wander near, with slow disease Smitten, may thy cold springs the rose of health Bring back, and the quick lustre to his eye! The ancient oaks that on thy margin wave, The song of birds, and through the rocky cave The clear stream gushing, their according sounds Should mingle, and, like some strange music, steal Sadly, yet soothing, o'er his aching breast. And thou, pale exile from thy native shores,[52] Here drink,--oh, couldst thou!--as of Lethe's stream! Nor friends, nor bleeding country, nor the views Of hills or streams beloved, nor vesper bell, Heard in the twilight vale, remember more!

[52] French priests, who have a residence near.

A CENOTAPH,

TO THE MEMORY OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL ISAAC, WHO DIED AT CAPE ST NICHOLA MOLE, 1797.

Oh, hadst thou fall'n, brave youth! on that proud day,[53] When our victorious fleet o'er the red surge Rolled in terrific glory, thou hadst fall'n Most honoured; and Remembrance, while she thought Upon thy gallant end, had dried her tear! Now far beyond the huge Atlantic wave Thy bones decay; the withering pestilence, That swept the islands of the western world, Smote thee, untimely drooping to the tomb! But 'tis enough; whate'er a soldier's fate, That firm he hied him, where stern honour bade; Though with unequal strength, he sunk and died.

[53] The 1st of June 1794, when Colonel Isaac greatly distinguished himself as commander of the military on board Lord Howe's ship.

TRANSLATION{d} OF A LATIN POEM

BY THE REV. NEWTON OGLE, DEAN OF MANCHESTER.

Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way Through my paternal vale dost stray, Working thy shallow passage to the sea! Oh, stream, thou speedest on The same as many seasons gone; But not, alas, to me Remain the feelings that beguiled My early road, when, careless and content, (Losing the hours in pastimes innocent) Upon thy banks I strayed a playful child; 10 Whether the pebbles that thy margin strew, Collecting, heedlessly I threw; Or loved in thy translucent wave My tender shrinking feet to lave; Or else ensnared your little fry, And thought how wondrous skilled was I! So passed my boyish days, unknown to pain, Days that will ne'er return again. It seems but yesterday I was a child, to-morrow to be gray! 20 So years succeeding years steal silently away. Not fleeter thy own current, hurrying thee, Rolls down to the great sea. Thither oh carry these sad thoughts; the deep Bury them!--thou, meantime, thy tenor keep, And winding through the green-wood, cheer, As erst, my native, peaceful pastures here.

ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD SOMERS.