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To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, Oh for a world in principle as chaste
High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. As this is gross and selfish! over which Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,
Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down
The features of the last degenerate times,
Exhibit every lineament of these.
Come then, and added to thy many crowns,
Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,
Due to thy last and most effectual work, Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong,
Thy word fulfilled, the conquest of a world! Leaving the poor no remedy but tears:
He is the happy man, whose life e'en now Where he, that fills an office, shall esteem
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; The occasion it presents of doing good
Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, More than the perquisite: where law shall speak Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the And equity; not jealous more to guard
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, (fruit A worthless form, than to decide aright:
Prepare for happiness; tespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn wbile he must
Of objects, more illustrious in her view;
And, occupied as earnestly as slie, Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine
Though more sublimely, le о'erlooks the world, By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth;
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, He seeks not her's, for he has proved them vain. And overpaid its value with thy blood.
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Pursuing gilded fies; and such he deems Thy title is engraven with a pen
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss: Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, The dawn of thy last advent, long-desired,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Would creep into the bowels of the hills,
Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And flee for safety to the falling rocks.
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams The very spirit of the world is tired
Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird, Of its own taunting question, asked so long,
That flutters least, is longest on the wing. “Where is the promise of your Lord's approach ?"
Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, The infidel has shot his bolts away,
Or what achievements of immortal fame Till his exhausted quiver yielding none,
He purposes, and he shall answer-None. He gleans the blunted shafts, that have recoiled,
His warfare is within. There unfatigued And aims them at the shield of truth again.
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, That hides divinity from mortal eyes;
And never withering wreaths, compared with which And all the mysteries to faith proposed,
The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,
Perbaps the self-approving haughty world, As useless, to the moles and to the bats.
That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks They now are deemed the faithful, and are praised,
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Who constant only in rejecting thee,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, And quit their office for their error's sake.
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Blind, and in love with darkness! yet even these
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee
And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man!
When, Isaac like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself,
Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns And what they will. All pastors are alike
Of little worth, an idler in the best, To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none.
If, author of no mischief and some good, Two gods divide them all-Pleasure and Gain:
He seek his proper bappiness by means, For these they live, they sacrifice to these,
That may advance, but cannot hiuder, thine. And in their service wage perpetual war
Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts,
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an incuinbrarice on the state, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,
Receiving benefits, and rendering none.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came—she is gone—we have metHe sits secure, and in the scale of life
And meet perhaps never again; Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.
The sun of that moment is set, The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
And seems to have risen in vain. Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ;
Catharina has fled like a dreamBut he may boast what few that win it can,
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) That if his country stand not by his skill,
But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delayed Not that he peevishly rejects a mode,
By the nightingale warbling nigh. Because that world adopts it. If it bear
We paused under many a tree, The stamp and clear impression of good sense,
And much she was charmed with a tone And be not costly more than of true worth,
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witnessed so lately her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine, Not soon deceived; aware that what is base
As only her musical tongue No polish can make sterling; and that vice,
Could infuse into numbers of mine. Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed,
The longer I heard, I esteemed Like an unburied carcase tricked with flowers,
The work of my fancy the more, Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far
And ev'n to myself never seemed For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So tuneful a poet before. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,
Though the pleasures of London exceed More golden than that age of fabled gold
In number the days of the year, Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care
Catharina, did nothing impede, Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved
Would feel herself bappier here; Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
For the close woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
May even our wonder excite,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Catharina alone can rejoice,
The scene of her sensible choice !
And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads :
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, (again;
Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round
But, recollecting with a sudden thought,
That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,
They gathered close around the old pit's brink, With little to wish or to fear,
And thought again--but knew not what to think.
The man to solitude accustomed long,
Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,
How glad they catch the largess of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of every loco-motive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name,
That serve mankind, or shuu them, wild or tame;
Have all articulation in his ears;
He spells them true by intuition’s light,
This truth premised was needful as a text,
To win due credence to what follows next.
Awhile they mused; surveying every face,
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn ; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combined, Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago,
Stamped on each countenance such marks of mind, And horrid brambles intertwine below;
That sage they seemed, as lawyers o'er a doubt,
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad, addressed.
Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard
Could I believe that winds for ages pent
In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent,
And from their prison-house below arise,
With all these hideous howlings to the skies,
I could be much composed, nor should appear
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.
Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rolled
All night, we resting quiet in the fold.
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made, Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang
The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayed, All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry rang.
And being lost perhaps, and wandering wide, Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. pressed
But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest ;
That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear? Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
Dæmons produce them doubtless, brazen-clawed Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.
And fanged with brass the dæmons are abroad;
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit,
That life to save, we leap into the pit.
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
The depth how awful! falling there, we burst:
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-bavened isle, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. In part abate, that happiness were small;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, For with a race like theirs no chance I see
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of tomorrow even from a child.
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; Through mere good fortune, took a different course. And where the gardener Robin, day by day, The fiock grew calm again, and I, the road
Drew me to school along the public way, Following, that led me to my own abode,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt Much wondered that the silly sheep had found
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, Such cause of terror in an empty sound
'Tis now become a history little known, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
That thou might'st know me safe and warmlylaid;
The biscuit, or confectionary plum; Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes; “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
All this still legible in memory's page, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
And still to be so to my latest age, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Who biddest me honour with an artless song,
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Wben, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Where spices breathe and brighter
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanping light her streamers gay; My boast is not that I deduce my birth So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; shore,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise “Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" The son of parents passed into the skies. And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run Of lise, long since, has anchored at thy side. His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, Always from port withheld, always distressed I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed, To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost; Without the sin of violating thine; And day by day some current's thwarting force And, while the wings of fancy still are free, Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. And I can view this mimic show of thee, But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! Time has but half succeeded in his theftThat thought is joy, arrive what may to me. Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.