Part 12

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun; Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! 5 While pensive Memory traces back the round Which fills the varied interval between, Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road; 10 Yet still one joy remains--that not obscure, Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature, Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed. _Thomas Warton._

CLX

_TO MARY UNWIN._

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 5 I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings:-- But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 10 On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright-- There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine. _William Cowper._

CLXI

_TO THE SAME._

The twentieth year is well nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah would that this might be the last, My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 5 I see thee daily weaker grow-- ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, 10 Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 15 My Mary!

But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! 20

Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 25 Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? 30 The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, 35 My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st That now at every step thou mov’st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st, My Mary! 40

And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know 45 How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, 50 Thy worn-out heart will break at last-- My Mary! _William Cowper._

CLXII

_TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON._

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! 5 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul’s best part for ever to the grave! 10 How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; 15 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 20 Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 25 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e’er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, 30 My grief be doubled, from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35 What worthies form the hallowed mould below; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; 40 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven. Ne’er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation, came a nobler guest; Nor e’er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 45 A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. In what new region, to the just assigned, What new employments please the unbodied mind? A wingèd Virtue, through the ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? 50 Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven’s decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 55 In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 60 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 65 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. 70 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 75 His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove; ’Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: There patient showed us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; 80 There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race, Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears, 85 O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! 90 His image thy forsaken bowers restore; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. From other ills, however Fortune frowned; 95 Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found: Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; And these sad accents, murmured o’er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 100 Oh must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in the unfinished song! These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, 105 To thee, O Craggs, the expiring sage conveyed, Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. 110 Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell, Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. _Thomas Tickell._

CLXIII

_ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY._

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? ’Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, 5 Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lovers, or a Roman’s part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10 Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15 And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20 Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, 25 And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! 30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, 35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) 40 Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeled, And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne’er learned to glow 45 For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe. What can atone (O ever injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear, Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier: 50 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned! What though no friends in sable weeds appear; 55 Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polished marble emulate thy face? 60 What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow, 65 There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o’ershade The ground now sacred by thy relics made. So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70 How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee; ’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75 Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80 Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! _Alexander Pope._

CLXIV

_ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET_,

A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year, 5 See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection’s eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; 10 Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed 15 The power of art without the show.

In Misery’s darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, And lonely Want retired to die. 20

No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round, 25 Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed.

The busy day--the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 30 His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, 35 And freed his soul the nearest way. _Samuel Johnson._

CLXV

_HIGHLAND MARY._

Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, 5 And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, 10 As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o’er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life 15 Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu’ tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; 20 But, oh! fell Deaths untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 30 But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary. _Robert Burns_

CLXVI

_THE CAST-AWAY._

Obscurest night involved the sky; The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 5 His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast, Than he, with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast With warmer wishes sent. 10 He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay: Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 15 Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had failed To check the vessel’s course, 20 But so the furious blast prevailed, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford; 25 And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delayed not to bestow. But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Whate’er they gave, should visit more. 30

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die 35 Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld: And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repelled: 40 And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried--‘Adieu!’

At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, 45 Could catch the sound no more. For then by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, 50 That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson’s tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream, 55 Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date; But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another’s case. 60

No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When snatched from all effectual aid We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, 65 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. _William Cowper._

CLXVII

_THE LAND O’ THE LEAL._

I’m wearing awa’, John, Like snaw when its thaw, John, I’m wearing awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John, 5 There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, John, Your task’s ended noo, John, 10 And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal. Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, She was baith guid and fair, John; Oh we grudged her right sair 15 To the land o’ the leal!

Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels wait on me To the land o’ the leal. 20 Now fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld’s care is vain, John; We’ll meet and aye be fain In the land o’ the leal. _Lady Nairn._

CLXVIII

_ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD._

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening 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, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40

Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; 50 Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its sweetness on the desert 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. 60

The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade 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, 70 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 learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75 They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80

Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 85 This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90 E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tales relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, ‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100

‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

‘One morn, I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; 110 Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;