Part 5

The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefather's of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joy, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory, lead but to the grave. Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault, If memory to these no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desart air. Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood: Some mute inglorious MILTON here may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense, kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to dye. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Still in their ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 'Brushing with hasty dews away, 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 'The next with dirges due in sad array, 'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. 'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 'There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, 'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found; 'The red-breast loves to build and warble there, 'And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

THE EPITAPH.

"Here rests his head upon the lap of earth "A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: "Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, "And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. "Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, "Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: "He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear; "He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. "No farther seek his merits to disclose, "Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, "(There they alike in trembling hope repose) "The bosom of his father and his God.

ON THE DEATH OF

FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT

STORMONT, OF CH. CH. OXON.

Little I whilom deem'd my artless zeal Should woo the British Muse in foreign land To strains of bitter argument, and teach The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge And oozy current of Parisian Seine, To syllable new sounds in accents strange. But sad occasion calls: who now forbears The last kind office? who but consecrates His off'ring at the shrine of fair Renown To gracious FREDERIC rais'd; tho' but compos'd Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope? Where are those hopes, where fled th' illusive scenes That forgeful fancy plan'd, what time the bark Stem'd the salt wave from Albion's chalky bourn? Then filial Piety and parting Love Pour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye less'ning cliffs, "Fairer to me, than ought in fabled song "Or mystic record told of shores Atlantic! "Favour'd of heav'n, farewell! imperial isle, "Native to noblest wits, and best approv'd "In manly science, and advent'rous deed! "Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd "From regions once frequented, with Thee takes "Her stedfast station, fast beside the throne "Of scepter'd Rule, and there her state maintains "In social concord, and harmonious love. "These blessings still be thine, nor meddling fiend "Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar; "Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious "Visit your sons who ride the watry waste; "And still be heard from forth your gladsome bow'rs "Shrill tabor-pipes, and ev'ry peaceful sound. "Nor vain the wish, while GEORGE the golden scale "With steady prudence holds, and temp'rate sway. "And when his course of earthly honours run, "With lenient hand shall FREDERIC sooth your care, "Rich in each princely quality, mature "In years, and happiest in nuptial choice. "Thence too arise new hopes, a playful troop "Circles his hearth, sweet pledges of that bed, "Which Faith, and Joy, and thousand Virtues guard. "His be the care t' inform their ductile minds "With worthiest thoughts, and point the ways of honour. "How often shall he hear with fresh delight "Their earnest tales, or watch their rising passions "With timorous attention; then shall tell "Of justice, fortitude and public weal, "And oft the while each rigid precept smooth "With winning tokens of parental love!" Thus my o'erweening heart the secret stores Of Britain's hope explor'd, while my strain'd sight Pursued her fading hills, till wrapt in mist They gently sunk beneath the swelling tide. Nor slept those thoughts, whene'er in other climes I mark'd the cruel waste of foul oppression, Saw noblest spirits, and goodliest faculties, To vassalage and loathsome service bound. Then conscious preference rose; then northward turn'd My eye, to gratulate my natal soil. How have I chid with froward eagerness Each veering blast, that from my hand witheld The well known characters of some lov'd friend, Tho' distant, not unmindful? Still I learn'd Delighted, what each patriot plan devis'd Of arts, or glory, or diffusive commerce. Nor wanted its endearment every tale Of lightest import. But oh! heavy change, What notices come now? Distracted scenes Of helpless sorrow, solemn sad accounts; How fair AUGUSTA watch'd the weary night Tending the bed of anguish; how great GEORGE Wept with his infant progeny around; How heav'd the orphan's and the widow's sigh, That follow'd FREDERIC to the silent tomb. For well was FREDERIC lov'd; and well deserv'd: His voice was ever sweet, and on his steps Attended ever the alluring grace Of gentle lowliness and social zeal. Him shall remember oft the labour'd hind, Relating to his mates each casual act Of courteous bounty. Him th' artificer, Plying the varied woof in sullen sadness, Tho' wont to carrol many a ditty sweet. Soon too the mariner, who many moons Has counted, beating still the foamy surge, And treads at last the wish'd-for beach, shall stand Appall'd at the sad tale, and soon shall steal Down his rough cheek th' involuntary tear. Be this our solace yet, all is not dead; The bright memorial lives: for his example Shall Hymen trim his torch, domestic praise Be countenanc'd, and virtue fairer shew. In age succeeding, when another GEORGE, To ratify some weighty ordinance Of Britain's peers conven'd, shall pass beside Those hallowed spires, whose gloomy vaults enclose, Shrouded in sleep, pale rows of scepter'd kings, Oft to his sense the sweet paternal voice And long-remember'd features shall return; Then shall his generous breast be new inflam'd To acts of highest worth, and highest fame. These plaintive strains from ALBION far away, I lonely meditate at even-tide; Nor skill'd nor studious of the raptur'd lay; But still remembring oft the magic sounds, Well-measur'd to the chime of Dorian lute, Or past'ral stop, which erst I lov'd to hear On ISIS' broider'd mead, where dips by fits The stooping osier in her hasty stream. Hail WOLSEY'S spacious dome! hail, ever fam'd For faithful nurture, and truth's sacred lore, Much honour'd parent! You my duteous zeal Accept, if haply in thy laureat wreath You deign to interweave this humble song.

ON THE SAME.

BY MR. JAMES CLITHEROW OF ALL SOULS COLL.

I.

'Twas on the evening of that gloomy day, When FREDERIC, ever lov'd, and ever mourn'd, (Such heav'n's high will, and who shall disobey?) To earth's cold womb in holy pomp return'd:

II.

With sullen sounds, the death-denouncing bell Proclaim'd aloud the dismal tale of woe, The pealing organ join'd the solemn knell, In mournful notes, majestically slow.

III.

The full-voic'd choir, in stoles of purest white, With frequent pause, the soul-felt anthem raise; While o'er the walls in darkest sable dight, A thousand tapers pour'd their holy blaze.

IV.

In high devotion wrapt, the mitred sage, With energy sublime, the rites began; While tears from every sex, and every age, Bewail'd the prince, the father, and the man.

V.

"Who, when our sov'reign liege to fate shall yield, "Shall prop, like him, Britannia's falling state? "Who now the vengeful sword of justice wield, "Or ope, like him, sweet Mercy's golden gate?

VI.

"Who shall to Arts their pristine honours bring, "Rear from the dust fair Learning's laurell'd head, "Or bid rich commerce plume her daring wing? "Arts, Learning, Commerce are in FREDERIC dead.

VII.

"Who now shall tend, with fond, paternal care, "The future guardians of our faith and laws? "Who teach their breasts with patriot worth to dare, "And die with ardour, in Britannia's cause?

VIII.

"And who, ah! who, with soft endearing lore, "Shall sooth, like him, the royal mourner's breast? "Her lord, her life, her FREDERIC is no more."-- Deep groans and bitter wailings speak the rest.

IX.

Then, when at length the awful scene was clos'd, And dust to dust in holy hope consign'd; All to their silent homes their steps dispos'd, To feed on solitary woe the mind;

X.

All but Lorenzo;--he with grief dismay'd; Nor heeding ought but FREDERIC'S hapless fate, Musing along the cloyster'd temple stray'd, Till lonely midnight clos'd th' impervious gate.

XI.

But when each lamp by slow degrees expir'd, And total night assumes her silent reign, Sudden he starts, with wild amazement fir'd, And big with horror traverses the fane.

XII.

The vaulted mansions of th' illustrious dead Inspire his shudd'ring soul with ghastly fears, Dire shapes, and beck'ning shades around him tread, And hollow voices murmur in his ears.

XIII.

There, as around the monumental maze Darkling he wanders, a resplendent gleam Shoots o'er th' illumin'd isle a distant blaze, Pale as the glow-worm's fire, or Cynthia's beam.

XIV.

With glory clad, th' imperial shrines among, Four royal shapes on iv'ry thrones were plac'd, High o'er their heads four airy diadems hung, Which never yet their maiden brows had grac'd.

XV.

The first was he, whom CRESSY'S glorious plain Has fam'd for martial deeds and bold emprize; Nor less his praise in Virtue's milder strain, Just, humble, learned, merciful and wise.

XVI.

Next ARTHUR sat, at whose auspicious birth In one sweet flower the blended roses join'd; And HENRY next, fair plant of Scottish earth, The hope, the joy of ALBION and mankind.

XVII.

Yet green in death, the last majestic shade Wore gracious FREDERIC'S mild, endearing look; To him the rest obeysance courteous paid, And EDWARD thus the princely form bespoke:

XVIII.

"All hail! illustrious partner of our fate, "For whom, as once for us, Britannia bleeds; "Hail! to the mansions of the good and great, "Where crowns immortal wait on virtuous deeds.

XIX.

"The same our fortune, as our worth the same, "(To worth like ours short date doth heav'n assign) "As one our fortune, one shall be our fame, "And long record our deathless names shall join.

XX.

"But oh! I tremble for Britannia's state, "May guardian pow'rs avert the dire presage! "For well she knows, at our untimely fate "How heav'n's dread vengeance smote each sinful age.

XXI.

"The regal staff aspiring BOLINGBROKE "Snatch'd with rude grasp from RICHARD'S princely hand; "Loos'd from hell's confines, civil Discord shook "The dubious throne, and tore the bleeding land.

XXIII.

"When ARTHUR died, imperious HENRY'S thirst "Of subject's blood, nor heeded sex nor age; "His wives a sacrifice to vagrant lust, "His nobles victims to tyrannic rage.

XXIV.

"When pious CHARLES in right fraternal reign'd, "Rebellion proudly stalk'd from shore to shore, "Her laws, her rights, her holy faith profan'd, "And dy'd the guilty land with royal gore.

XXV.

"Yet ah! may pity move relenting heav'n! "Enough she groans beneath her present woe; "Enough to vengeance is already given; "Her FREDERIC'S dead;--there needs no other blow."

XXVI.

Scarce had he spoken, when the bird of day 'Gan morn's approach with clarion shrill declare, At once th' unbodied phantoms fade away, The fond illusion all dissolves in air.

ODE

ON THE

APPROACH OF SUMMER.

BY A GENTLEMAN FORMERLY OF THE UNIVERSITY

OF ABERDEEN.

_Te dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila coeli, Adventumque tuum; tibi suaveis dædala tellus Submittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti; Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine coelum._ LUCRETIUS.