How fleet is a glance of the mind,
Compared with the speed of its flight!
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land.
In a moment I seem to be there,
But alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair,
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought,
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
CCXXII. RICHARD CUMBERLAND, 1732-1811
This storm which I have raised,
Will call up Proteus from the troubled deep:
On the sea-shore, upon the western point,
Within his oozy haunt you'll find the god;
A prophet, as thou know'st, he can resolve me,
If 'tis decreed Ulysses shall revisit
His native Ithaca; to me, alas!
The book of fate is shut. ANTIOPE. And kindly shut;
Why wilt thou urge enquiry? CAL. Nay, but go.
To all but thee ungentle, the fond monster
Gloats on thy beauties: thou through all his forms
Canst fix the shifting deity: away!
But, if thy charms prevail not, take these fetters,
And, by my nymphs assisted, cast them on him.
And bring him bound before us.
PROTEUS. Peace, peace! forbear to lash the deep,
What is this mighty coil you keep,
Ye brawling winds? would you uprend
The solid-seated rocks, and send
The dashing billows to the sky?
Up, father Neptune, hear my cry!
The scaly subjects of my peaceful reign,
Protect, great sire, and let me sleep again.
Where are you, nymphs?
Now haste, and fetter this evasive god.
Ah! you're too late! he's gone, escap'd . . . and look
He glares a lion . . . stand, nor be amazed;
He has no power to harm you: yes, deceiver,
I know thee and thy arts; that brutal form
Suits thy base nature. Give the chains to me,
Yet, yet, I'll fetter him . . . Hah, what is this?
A flaming fire! He can take any form,
Each living thing, the elements themselves,
All nature is his own; yet wait awhile;
Too gross and sleepy for that active flame,
He soon will shift, and see! 'tis done.
A rilling fountain . . . Fair betide the change!
To thine own murmurs I bequeath thee, sluggard.
CCXXIII. HANNAH COWLEY, 1733-1809.
Ah! what a sea of crimes, one step from shore,
Bears me away! Thou whirling eddy, Vice!
Touch but the outmost circle of thy ring,
Thy strong resistless current draws us in:
Torn from the shore, despairing we look back
And hurried on, are overwhelm'd and lost!
2. MAN'S FANTASY.
How self-degraded seems now lordly Man!
A being, formed in nature's vanity
To show how great, how exquisite her skill,
With mind so powerful that the universe
In its vast scheme its reach eludes not,
Lets thus one passion powers so great absorb,
And yields them all mere slaves to fantasy.
CCXXIV. JOHN OGILVIE, 1733-1814.
Short is ambition's gay deceitful dream ;
Though wreaths of blooming laurel bind her brow;
Calm thought dispels the visionary scheme,
And time's cold breath dissolves the withering bough.
Slow as some miner saps the aspiring tower,
When working secret with destructive aim;
Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour,
But works the fall of empire, pomp and name.
The busts of grandeur and the pomp of power,
Can these bid sorrow's gushing tears subside?
Can these avail in that tremendous hour,
When death's cold hand congeals the purple tide? Ah no! the mighty names are heard no more:
Pride's thought sublime, and beauty's kindling bloom, Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er,
And swell with pompous verse the escutcheon'd tomb.
CCXXV. GEO. COLMAN THE ELDER,
PSALM XXXIX, IMITATED.
I will take heed, I said, I will take heed,
Nor trespass with my tongue; will keep my mouth
As with a bridle, while the sinner's near.
-Silent I mused, and e'en from good refrained;
But, full of pangs, my heart was hot within me,
The lab'ring fire burst forth, and loosed my tongue.
Lord, let me know the measure of my days,
Make me to know how weak, how frail I am!
My days are as a span, mine age as nothing,
And man is altogether vanity.
Man walketh in an empty shade; in vain
Disquieting his soul, he heaps up riches,
Knowing not who shall gather them. And now
Where rests my hope, O Lord? It rests in Thee.
Forgive me mine offences! Make me not
A scorn unto the foolish! I was dumb,
And opened not my mouth, for 'twas thy doing.
Oh take thy stroke away! Thy hand destroys me.
When with rebukes thou chast'nest man for sin,
Thou mak'st his beauty to consume away:
Distemper prays upon him, as a moth
Fretting a garment. Ah, what then is Man?
Every man living is but Vanity!
Hear, hear my prayer, O Lord! oh hear my cry!
Pity my tears! for I am in thy sight
But as a stranger, and a sojourner,
As all my fathers were. Oh, spare me then,
Though but a little, to regain my strength
Ere I be taken hence and seen no more.
CCXXVI. ROBERT LLOYD, 1733-1764.
1. THE POET.
The harlot muse, so passing gay,
Bewitches only to betray.
Though for awhile with easy air
She smoothes the rugged brow of care,
And laps the mind in flowery dreams,
With Fancy's transitory gleams;
Fond of the nothings she bestows,
We wake at last to real woes.
Through every age, in every place,
Consider well the poet's case;
By turns protected and caressed,
Defamed, dependent, and distressed.
The joke of wits, the bane of slaves,
The curse of fools, the butt of knaves;
Too proud to stoop for servile ends,
To lacquey rogues or flatter friends;
With prodigality to give,
Too careless of the means to live;
The bubble fame intent to gain,
And yet too lazy to maintain;
He quits the world he never prized,
Pitied by few, by more despised,
And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes,
Sinks to the nothing whence he rose.
O glorious trade! for wit's a trade,
Where men are ruin'd more than made!
Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay,
The shabby Otway, Dryden gray,
Those tuneful servants of the Nine,
(Not that I blend their names with mine), Repeat their lives, their works, their fame." And teach the world some useful shame.
Were I at once empowered to show
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremest rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger,
Than, using him as learning's tool,
To make him usher of a school.
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren soil,
And labouring with incessant pains,
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,
The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit.
For one, it hurts me to the soul,
To brook confinement or control;
Still to be pinioned down to teach
The syntax and the parts of speech ;
Or, what perhaps is drudgery worse,
The links, and points, and rules of verse;
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pots of Oxford ale;
Oh 'tis a service irksome more,
Than tugging at the slavish oar!
Yet such his task, a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth,
And while a paltry stipend earning,
He sows the richest seeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And sees them their due produce bear ·
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,
His own lies fallow all the while.
'Yet still he's on the road,' you say,
'Of learning.' Why, perhaps he may,
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