Of dark oblivion; thus collecting all The various forms of being to present, Before the curious aim of mimic Art,
And feature after feature we refer
To that sublime exemplar whence it stole Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm
Doubts where to choose; and mortal inan aspires To tempt creative praise. As when a cloud Of gathering hail, with limpid crusts of ice Enclos'd and obvious to the beaming Sun, Collects his large effulgence; straight the Heavens With equal flames present on either hand The radiant visage: Persia stands at gaze, Appall'd; and on the brink of Ganges doubts The snowy-vested seer, in Mithra's name, To which the fragrance of the south shall burn, To which his warbled orisons ascend.
Their largest choice: like spring's unfolded blooms Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful bee May taste at will, from their selected spoils To work her dulcet food. For not the expanse Of living lakes in summer's noontide calm, Reflects the bordering shade, and sun-bright heavens, With fairer semblance; not the sculptur'd gold More faithful keeps the graver's lively trace, Than he, whose birth the sister powers of Art Propitious view'd, and from his genial star Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind; Than his attemper'd bosom must preserve The seal of Nature. Her form remains. The balmy walks of May There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling chord Resounds for ever in the abstracted ear,
Superior to disease, to grief, and time, Shines with un'bating lustre. Thus at length Endow'd with all that Nature can bestow, The child of Fancy oft in silence bends O'er these mixt treasures of his pregnant breast, With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves To frame he knows not what excelling things; And win he knows not what sublime reward Of praise and wonder. By degrees, the mind Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic powers Labour for action: blind emotions heave His bosom, and with loveliest frenzy caught, From Earth to Heaven he rolls his daring eye, From Heaven to Earth. Anon ten thousand shapes, Like spectres trooping to the wizard's call, Flit swift before him. From the womb of Earth, From Ocean's bed they come; the eternal Heavens Disclose their splendours, and the dark Abyss Pours out her births unknown. With fixed gaze He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares Their different forms; now blends them, now di- vides,
Enlarges, and extenuates by turns; Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands, And infinitely varies. Hither now, Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim,
With endless choice perplex'd. At length his plan Begins to open. Lucid order dawns; And as from Chaos old the jarring seeds Of Nature at the voice divine repair'd Each to its place, till rosy Earth unveil'd Her fragrant bosom, and the joyful Sun Sprung up the blue serene; by swift degrees Thus disentangled, his entire design Emerges.
Colours mingle, features join; And lines converge: the fainter parts retire; The fairer eminent in light advance; And every image on its neighbour smiles. Awhile he stands, and with a father's joy Contemplates. Then with Promethean art, Into its proper vehicle he breathes
The fair conception; which, embodied thus, And permanent, becomes to eyes or ears An object ascertain'd: while thus inform'd, The various organs of his mimic skill, The consonance of sounds, the featur'd rock, The shadowy picture and impassion'd verse, Beyond their proper powers attract the soul By that expressive semblance, while in sight Of Nature's great original we scan The lively child of Art; while line by line.
Such various bliss the well-tun'd heart enjoys, Favour'd of Heaven! while, plung'd in sordid cares, The unfeeling vulgar mocks the boon divine: And harsh Austerity, from whose rebuke Young Love and smiling Wonder shrink away Abash'd, and chill of heart, with sager frowns Condemns the fair enchantment. On my strain, Perhaps even now, some cold fastidious judge Casts a disdainful eye; and calls my toil, And calls the love and beauty which I sing, The dream of folly. Thou, grave censor! say, Is Beauty then a dream, because the glooms Of dulness hang too heavy on thy sense, To let her shine upon thee? So the man Whose eye ne'er open'd on the light of Heaven, Might smile with scorn while raptur'd vision teils Of the gay-colour'd radiance flushing bright O'er all creation. From the wise be far Such gross unhallow'd pride; nor needs my song Descend so low; but rather now unfold, If human thought could reach, or words unfold, By what mysterious fabric of the mind, The deep-felt joys and harmony of sound Result from airy motion; and from shape The lovely phantoms of sublime and fair. By what fine ties hath God connected things When present in the mind, which in themselves Have no connection? Sure the rising Sun O'er the cerulean convex of the sea, With equal brightness and with equal warmth Might roll his fiery orb; nor yet the soul Thus feel her frame expanded, and her powers Exulting in the splendour she beholds;
Like a young conqueror moving through the pomp Of some triumphal day. When join'd at eve, Soft murmuring streams and gales of gentlest breath Melodious Philomela's wakeful strain Attemper, could not man's discerning ear Through all its tones the sympathy pursue; Nor yet this breath divine of nameless joy Steal through his veins, and fan the awaken'd heart, Mild as the breeze, yet rapturous as the song.
But were not Nature still endow'd at large With all which life requires, though unadorn'd With such enchantment: wherefore then her form So exquisitely fair? her breath perfum'd With such ethereal sweetness? whence her voice Inform'd at will to raise or to depress
The impassion'd soul? and whence the robes of light Which thus invest her with more lovely pomp Than fancy can describe? Whence but from thee, O source divine of ever-flowing love, And thy unmeasur'd goodness? Not content With every food of life to nourish man, By kind illusions of the wondering sense Thou mak'st all nature beauty to his eye,
Or music to his car: well pleas'd he scans The goodly prospect; and with inward smiles Treads the gay verdure of the painted plain; Beholds the azure canopy of Heaven, And living lamps that over-arch his head With more than regal splendour; bends his ears To the full choir of water, air, and earth; Nor heeds the pleasing errour of his thought, Nor doubts the painted green or azure arch, Nor questions more the music's mingling sounds Than space, or motion, or eternal time; So sweet he feels their influence to attract The fixed soul; to brighten the dull glooms Of care, and make the destin'd road of life Delightful to his feet. So fables tell,
The adventurous hero, bound on hard exploits, Beholds with glad surprise, by secret spells Of some kind sage, the patron of his toils, A visionary paradise disclos'd
Amid the dubious wild: with streams, and shades, And airy songs, the enchanted landscape smiles, Cheers his long labours, and renews his frame.
What then is taste, but these internal powers Active, and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; But God alone when first his active hand Imprints the secret bias of the soul. He, mighty parent! wise and just in all, Free as the vital breeze or light of Heaven, Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain Who journeys homeward from a summer day's Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, His rude expression and untutor'd airs, Beyond the power of language, will unfold The form of beauty smiling at his heart, [Heaven How lovely! how commanding! But though In every breast hath sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring. Nor yet will every soil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labour; or attend His will, obsequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Different minds Incline to different objects: one pursues The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; Another sighs for harmony, and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires The arch of Heaven, and thunders rock the ground, When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And Ocean, groaning from its lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky; Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs, All on the margin of some flowery stream, To spread his careless limbs amid the cool Of plantane shades, and to the listening deer The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day :
Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid
Of Luxury, the syren! not the bribes Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store Of Nature fair Imagination culls
To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles and the sculptur'd gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting Sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On Nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations, if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the Sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons: all declare For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd The powers of man: we feel within ourselves His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions, act upon his plan; And form to his, the relish of their souls.
Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings Warbling at will in Pleasure's myrtle bower; Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings
By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour, Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign. A different strain,
And other themes, From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams, (Thou well canst witness) meet the purged ear: Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear; To hear the sweet instructress tell (While men and heroes throng'd around) How life its noblest use may find, How well for freedom be resign'd;
And how, by Glory, Virtue shall be crown'd.
Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands, Amid the domes of modern hands:
Amid the toys of idle state,
How simply, how severely great!
Then turn, and, while each western clime Presents her tuneful sons to Time,
So mark thou Milton's name ;
And add, "Thus differs from the throng
The spirit which inform'd thy aweful song,
Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame."
Yet hence barbaric Zeal
His memory with unholy rage pursues;
While from these arduous cares of public weal She bids each bard begone, and rest him with his
O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind Must grasp at all that yonder stars survey; Must join the noblest forms of every kind, The world's most perfect image to display, Can e'er his country's majesty behold, Unmov'd or cold!
That he, whose thought must visit every theme,
From rich domains and subject farms, They led the rustic youth to arms ; And kings their stern achievements fear'd; While private Strife their banners rear'd. But loftier scenes to thee are shown, Where Empire's wide-establish'd throne No private master fills:
Where, long foretold, the people reigns: Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains; And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.
Here be it thine to calm and guide The swelling democratic tide;
To watch the state's uncertain frame, And baffle Faction's partial aim : But chiefly, with determin'd zeal, To quell that servile band, who kneel To Freedom's banish'd foes; That monster, which is daily found Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound; Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.
'Tis highest Heaven's command,
That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue; That what ensnares the heart should maim the hand,
And Virtue's worthless foes be false to Glory too. But look on Freedom. See, through every age, What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd! What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage, Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd! For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains Of happy swains,
Which now resound [bound, Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate, And show to strangers passing down the vale, Where Ca'ndish, Booth, and Osborne sate; When, bursting from their country's chain, Even in the midst of deadly harms, Of papal snares and lawless arms, They plann'd for Freedom this her noblest reign.
Praise is reproach. Eternal God alone For mortals fixeth that sublime award. He, from the faithful records of his throne, Bids the historian and the bard Dispose of honour and of scorn; Discern the patriot from the slave; And write the good, the wise, the brave For lessons to the multitude unborn.
The kindred powers, Tethys, and reverend Ops, And spotless Vesta; while supreme of sway Remain'd the cloud-compeller. From the couch Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race, Who from a thousand urns, o'er every clime, Send tribute to their parent: and from them Are ye, O Naiads: Arethusa fair,
And tuneful Aganippe; that sweet name, Bandusia; that soft family which dwelt With Syrian Daphne; and the honour'd tribes Belov'd of Pæon. Listen to my strain, Daughters of Tethys: listen to your praise.
You, Nymphs, the winged offspring, which of old Aurora to divine Astræus bore,
Owns; and your aid beseecheth. When the might Of Hyperion, from his noontide throne, Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you They ask: Favonius and the mild South-west From you relief implore. Your sallying streams Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart. Again they fly, disporting; from the mead Half ripen'd and the tender blades of corn, To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel Contagious streams, which oft the parched Earth Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve,
The nymphs, who preside over springs and rivulets, | are addressed at day-break, in honour of their several functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, or powers of Nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the gener- ation of the gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nou-Along the river and the paved brook, rishing and beautifying the vegetable creation; as Ascend the cheerful breezes hail'd of bards contributing to the fullness of navigable rivers, Who, fast by learned Cam, the Æolian lyre and consequently to the maintenance of com- Solicit; nor unwelcome to the youth merce; and by that means, to the maritime part Who on the heights of Tibur, all inclin'd of military power. Next is represented their fa- O'er rushing Anio, with a pious hand vourable influence upon health, when assisted by The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes, rural exercise: which introduces their connection Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp with the art of physic, and the happy effects of Of ancient Time; and haply, while he scans mineral medicinal springs. Lastly, they are ce- The ruins, with a silent tear revolves lebrated for the friendship which the Muses bear The fame and fortune of imperious Rome. them, and for the true inspiration which temper- ance only can receive: in opposition to the en- thusiasm of the more licentious poets.
O'ER yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the god of day, With bright Astræa seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs, Ye Nymphs, ye blue-ey'd progeny of Thames, Who now the mazes of this rugged heath Trace with your fleeting steps; who all night long Repeat, amid the cool and tranquil air, Your lonely murmurs, tarry: and receive My offer'd lay. To pay you homage due, I leave the gates of Sleep; nor shall my lyre Too far into the splendid hours of morn Engage your audience: my observant hand Shall close the strain ere any sultry beam Approach you. To your subterranean haunts Ye then may timely steal; to pace with care The humid sands; to loosen from the soil The bubbling sources; to direct the rills To meet in wider channels; or beneath Some grotto's dripping arch, at height of noon To slumber, shelter'd from the burning heaven. Where shall my song begin, ye Nymphs? or end? Wide is your praise and copious - First of things, First of the lonely powers, ere Time arose, Were Love and Chaos. Love the sire of Fate; Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time, Who many sons and many comely births Devour'd, relentless father: till the child Of Rhea drove him from the upper sky,
You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid The rural powers confess; and still prepare For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands, Oft as the Delian king with Sirius holds The central heavens, the father of the grove Commands his Dryads over your abodes To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the god Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime. Pales, the pasture's queen, where'er ye stray, Pursues your steps, delighted; and the path With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts The laughing Chloris, with profusest hand, Throws wide her blooms, her odours. Still with you Pomona seeks to dwell: and o'er the lawns, And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian born, Her dower; unmindful of the fragrant isles Nysæan or Atlantic. Nor canst thou, (Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou dost mock The beverage of the sober Naiad's urn, O Bromius, O Lenæan) nor canst thou Disown the powers whose bounty, ill repaid, With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me, Yet, blameless Nymphs, from my delighted lyre, Accept the rites your bounty well may claim, Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band. For better praise awaits you. Thames, your sire, As down the verdant slope your duteous rills Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives, Delighted; and your picty applauds; And bids his copious tide roll on secure,
And quell'd his deadly might. Then social reign'd | For
Te his daughters; and with words
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