Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train, Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo, in the vale of years beneath The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, rage: That numbs the soul with icy hand, To each his sufferings: all are men, The unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate? And happiness too swiftly flies. THE PROGRESS OF POESY. I. AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. A thousand rills their mazy progress take; Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks, and nodding groves, rebellow to the roar. Oh! sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen cares, And frantic passions, hear thy soft control: On Thracia's hills the lord of war Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command; Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king Thee the voice, the dance, obey, The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, With antic sports and blue-ey'd pleasures, Slow-melting strains their queen's approach declare : In gliding state she wins her easy way : O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love. II. Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous shame, Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Or where Mæander's amber waves Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains. And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. III. Far from the sun and summer-gale, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her aweful face: the dauntless child "This pencil take," she said, "whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horrour that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time; Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. Yet oft before his infant eyes would run With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far-but far above the great. THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. OWEN's praise demands my song, Big with hosts of mighty name, Dauntless on his native sands * * * * |