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Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm her contest vain. Life's little day



Shall pass, and she is gone: while I appear

Flush'd with the bloom of youth thro' Heav'n's eternal year.
Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung, ·
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I shone amid the heav'nly throng;
These eyes beheld Creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,

And taught Archangels their triumphant song.
Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,...
Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth,
And Ocean heave on its extended bed ;

Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky,
The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly.
Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face,
And, as he rose, the high behest was given,
"That I alone of all the host of heav'n,
"Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth:
Thus the Almighty spake ; he spake and call'd me Truth.

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O PARENT of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.

O Nymph with loosely flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water you reside,
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between,
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human heart appear'd,

Nor e'en one straw roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;

Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,

Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest :
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro' a fairy grove :
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,

And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-soothing sound!

Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads;
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List'ning to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ :
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to hold her arms and sigh:
Let us with silent footsteps go

To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each sad night some Virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek ;
Or to some Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's show'rs,
The naked beggar shiv'ring lies,
Whilst whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,

For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat!

The trumpet's clangors pierce mine car,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo the base Gallic squadrons fly

Whence is this rage?

To battle hurries me away?

'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,

What spirit, say,

Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead:
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield!

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura serks to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun:
The pangs of abscence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,

And let me think I steal a kiss.

When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the soft turtle of the dale

To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When winter ke poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold,
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid,
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line;
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing.

Ohear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb,
O which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling grave;
O Queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly strike the sounding lyre,
May rise above the rhyming throng,
And with some new unequall'd song
O'er all our list'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain;
With terror shake, with pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t' attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottos talk:
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd beart;
Like lightning let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce:
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critics' studied laws:
O let each Muse's fame increase.
O bid Britannia rival Greece!




HENCE loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell,

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