The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence,
Glory your aim but justice your pretence;
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain,
And tells you where you have a right to reign,
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,
Studious of peace, their neighbor's and their own.
Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet sounds your legions swarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road;
At every step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine and pestilence her firstborn son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun;
And echoing praises such as fiends might earn,
And folly pays resound at your return.
A calm succeeds-but Plenty, with her train
Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again:
And years of pining indigence must show
What scourges are the gods that rule below.
Yet man, laborious man by slow degrees,
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease.)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,
Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain,
And the sun gilds the shining spires again.
Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes say, But Etnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are.
O place me in some heaven-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood. No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where Power secures what Industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.
RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK,
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear.
O welcome guest though unexpected here:
Who bidst me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for any relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,'
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou was dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then life's journey just begun!
Perhaps thou gav'st ine though untelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll d on thy burial day.
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away.
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art goe
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And, disappointed still was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot
But, though I less deplored thee ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way.
Delighted with my bauble couch and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet capp d,
"Tis now become a history little known
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [eid;
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my checks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all.
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a trail memorial but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swit! hast reach'd the
shore,
Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass
lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
WHAT virtue, or what mental grace
But men unqualified and base
Will boast it their possession?
Profusion apes the noble part
Of liberality of heart,
And dullness of discretion.
If every polish'd gem we find,
Illuminating heart or mind,
Provoke to imitation;
No wonder friendship does the same,
That jewel of the purest flame,
Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend
The requisites that form a friend,
A real and a sound one;
Nor any fool, he would deceive,
But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he had found one.
Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,
An error soon corrected-
For who but learns in riper years
That man, when smoothest he appears,
Is most to be suspected?
But here again a danger lies,
Lest, having misapplied our eyes,
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal good,
A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare
Is yet no subject of despair;
Nor is it wise complaining,
If, either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,
We sought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on sordid interest,
Or mean self-love erected;
Nor such as may awhile subsist
Between the sot and sensualist,
For vicious ends connected.
Who seek a friend should come disposed
To exhibit in full bloom disclosed,
The graces and the beauties
That form the character he seeks,
For 'tis a union that bespeaks
Reciprocated duties.
Mutual attention is implied,
And equal truth on either side,
And constantly supported;
"Tis senseless arrogance to accuse
Another of sinister views.
Our own as much distorted.
But will sincerity suffice?
It is indeed above all price,
And must be made the basis;
But every virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole,
All shining in their places.
A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied,
By ceaseless sharp corrosion;
A temper passionate and fierce
May suddenly your joys disperse
At one immense explosion
In vain the talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight-
The secret just committed,
Forgetting its important weight,
They drop through mere desire to prate,
And by themselves outwitted.
How bright soe'er the prospect seems,
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,
If envy chance to creep in;
An envious man, if you succeed,
May prove an envious foe indeed,
But not a friend worth keeping.
As envy pines at good possess'd, So jealousy looks forth distress'd
On good that seems approaching: And if success his steps attend. Discerns a rival in a friend,
And hates him for encroaching.
Hence authors of illustrious name
Unless belied by common fame,
Are sadly prone to quarrel,
To deem the wit a friend displays
A tax upon their own just praise.
And pluck each other's laurel.
A man renown'd for repartee
Will seldom scruple to make free
With friendship's finest feeling,
Will thrust a dagger at your breast,
And say he wounded you in jest,
By way of balm for healing.
Whoever keeps an open ear
For tattlers will be sure to hear
The trumpet of contention;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
To listen is to lend him aid,
And rush into dissension.
A friendship that in frequent fits
Of controversial rage emits
The sparks of disputation,
Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates,
Most unavoidably creates
The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as a needle to the pole,
Their humor yet so various
They manifest their whole life through
The needle's deviation too,
Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meet
On terms of amity complete;
Plebeians must surrender,
And yield so much to noble folk,
It is combining fire with smoke,
Obscurity with splendor.
Some are so placid and serene
(As Irish bogs are always green)
They sleep secure from waking;
And are indeed a bog that bears
Your unparticipated cares
Unmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix
Their heterogeneous politics
Without an effervescence,
Like that of salts with lemon juice,
Which does not yet like that produce
A friendly coalescence.
Religion should extinguish strife,
And make a calm of human life;
But friends that chance to differ
On points which God has left at large,
How freely will they meet and charge-
No combatants are stiffer.
To prove at last my main intent
Needs no expense of argument,
No cutting and contriving-
Seeking a real friend we seem
To adopt the chemist's golden dream,
With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own,
Some blemish in due time made known
By trespass or omission;
Sometimes occasion brings to light
Our friend's defect long hid from sight,
And even from suspicion.
Then judge yourself and prove your man
As circumspectly as you can,
And having made election,
Beware no negligence of yours,
Such as a friend but ill endures,
Enfeeble his affection.
That secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,
That constancy befits them,
Are observations on the case,
That savor much of common place,
And all the world admits them.
But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone,
An architect requires alone
To finish a fine building-
The palace were but half complete,
If he could possibly forget
The carving and the gilding.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack.
And proves by thumps upon your back
How he esteems your merit,
Is such a friend that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed
To pardon or to bear it.
As similarity of mind,
Or something not to be defined,
First fixes our attention;
So manners decent and polite,
The same we practised at first sight,
Must save it from declension.
Some act upon this prudent plan,
Say little, and hear all you can."
Safe policy, but hateful—
So barren sands imbibe the shower
But render neither fruit nor flower,
Unpleasant and ungrateful.
The man I trust, if shy to me,
Shall find me as reserved as he,
No subterfuge or pleading
Shall win my confidence again;
I will by no means entertain
A spy on my proceeding.
These samples-for alas! at last
These are but samples, and a taste
Of evils yet unmention'd-
May prove the task a task indeed,
In which 'tis much if we succeed,
However well intention'd.
Pursue the search, and you will find
Good sense and knowledge of mankind
To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast
A principal ingredient.
The noblest Friendship ever shown
The Saviour's history makes known,
Though some have turn'd and turn'd it;
And, whether being crazed or blind,
Or seeking with a biass'd mind,
Have not, it seems, discern'd it
O Friendship! if my soul forego
Thy dear delights while here below,
To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear,
Unworthy, base and insincere,
Or may my friend deceive me!
WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.
Go-thou art all unfit to share
The pleasures of this place
With such as its old tenants are,
Creatures of gentler race.
The squirrel here his hoard provides,
Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the sides
Of rugged oaks for worms.
The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn
With frictions of her fleece;
And here I wander eve and morn,
Like her, a friend to peace.
Ah!-I could pity thee exiled
From this secure retreat-
I would not lose it to be styled
The happiest of the great.
But thou canst taste no calm delight;
Thy pleasure is to show
Thy magnanimity in fight,
Thy prowess-therefore, go
I care not whether east or north,
So I no more may find thee;
The angry muse thus sings thee forth,
And claps the gate behind thee.
WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S
HAPPY RECOVERY.
I RANSACK'D for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast Prowess to dissipate a host;
Through tomes of fable and of dream I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shared Already by some happier bard.
To modern times with truth to guide My busy search, I next applied; Here cities won, and fleets dispersed, Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, Deeds of unperishing renown, Our fathers' triumphs and our own. Thus as the bee from bank to bower, Assiduous sips at every flower, But rests on none till that be found Where most nectareous sweets abound, So I, from theme to theme display'd In many a page historic stray'd, Siege after siege fight after fight, Contemplating with small delight,
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view.)
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near,
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.
The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An æra cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of heaven that cried-Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more:
And for the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.
Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
O Queen of Albion queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine;
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.
If they who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
"Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than queen
Who is beloved where never seen.
FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL, AT OLNEY.
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,
In heaven thy dwelling place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face.
Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear-but O impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.
For if vain thoughts the minds engage Of older far than we,
What hope that at our heedless age, Our minds should e'er be free?
Improve the present hour, for all beside
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide.
COULD I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage
To whom the rising year shall prove his last,
As I can number in my punctual page,
And item down the victims of the past;
How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet,
SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF On which the press might stamp him next to die;
THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,*
Palida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.-HORACE.
Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.
WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?
No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives his claim.
Like crowded forest trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,
The gay. the thoughtless, have I seen,
I pass'd-and they were gone.
Read, ye that run the awful truth
With which I charge my page;
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
No present health can health ensure
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always balk the tomb.
And O! that humble as my lot,
And scorn'd as is my strain.
These truths, though known, too much forgot, I may not teach in vain.
So prays your clerk with all his heart,
And ere he quits the pen.
Begs you for once to take his part,
And answer all-Amen!
* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.
And, reading here his sentence. how replete
With anxious meaning heavenward turn his eye!
Time then would seem more precious than the
joys
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And prayer more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.
Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore,
Forced to a pause. would feel it good to think,
Told that his setting sun inust rise no more.
Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say
Who next is fated, and who next to fall,
The rest might then seem privileged to play;
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL
Observe the dappled foresters, how light
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade-
One falls-the rest, wide scatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest shade.
Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,
Still need repeated warnings and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,
Die self-accused of life run all to waste!
Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones.
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;
Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones,
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.
Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught
Of all these sepulchres instructors true,
That, soon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next opening grave may yawn for you
-Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit.-VIRGThere calm at length he breathed his soul away.
"O MOST delightful hour by man
Experienced here below,
The hour that terminates his span,
His folly and his woe!
"Worlds should not bribe me back to tread
Again life's dreary waste,
To see again my day o'erspread
With all the gloomy past.
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