Wafted from the plain below; Where, in th'embower'd translucent stream, But oh! when evening's virgin queen Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; Of dimmest darkness-fitting well Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car Then, hermit, let us turn our feet MRS. HEMANS. TO THE IVY. On! how could Fancy crown with thee, Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound The Roman, on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee, with exulting strains, Around the Victor's tent; Yet there, though fresh in glossy green Triumphally thy boughs might wave, Better thou lov'st the silent scene, Around the Victor's grave. Where sleep the sons of ages flown, Wreath of the tomb! art there. Thoa, o'er the shrines of fallen gods, And cities of the dead. Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown, And all once glorious earthly things, At length are thine alone. Oh! many a temple, once sublime, Save thy wild tapestry: And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er mouldering towers, by lovely Rhine, Cresting the rocky shore. High from the fields of air look down Hath pass'd, and left no trace. The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round grandeur's marble halls,' The vivid hues by painting thrown Rich o'er the glowing walls; 'Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled, Left to decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength, Days pass-Thou, "Ivy never sere," And all is thine at length! GEORGE CANNING. NEW MORALITY. FROM mental mists to purge a nation's eyes; To mark how wide extends the mighty waste Ye favour'd sons of virtue and of song! Say, is the field too narrow? Are the times Barren of folly, and devoid of crimes? Yet, venial vices, in a milder age, Could rouse the warmth of Pope's satiric rage: The doating miser, and the lavish heir, The follies and the foibles of the fair, Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio's thrift, And Sappho's diamonds with her dirty shift, Blunt, Charters, Hopkins,—ineaner subjects fired The keen-eyed poet; while the Muse inspired Her ardent child,--entwining, as he sate, His laurelled chaplet with the thorns of hate. But say, indignant does the Muse retire, Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire? No pious hand to feed the sacred flame, No raptured soul a poet's charge to claim? Bethink thee, Gifford; when some future age Shall trace the promise of thy playful page ;— The hand which brush'd a swarm of fools |'Gainst learning's, virtue's, truth's, religion foes, away Should rouse to grasp a more reluctant A kingdom's safety, and the world's repos. prey! Think then, will pleaded indolence excuse The tame secession of thy languid muse? Ah! where is now that promise? why so long Sleep the keen shafts of satire and of song? The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound. Thou, too!—the nameless bard, whose honest zeal For law, for morals, for the public weal, Pours down impetuous on thy country's foes The stream of verse, and many-languaged prose; Thou, too! though oft thy ill-advised dislike The guiltless head with random censure strike, Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined, Play faintly round the car, but mock the mind ; Through the mix'd mass yet truth and learn ing shine, And manly vigour stamps the nervous line: And patriot warmth the generous rage inspires, And wakes and points the desultory fires! Yet more remain unknown: for who can tell His master's pride, his pattern to the rest. news, He loathes the world,—or with reflection sad Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft, Awake! for shame! or ere thy nobler sense Sink in th' oblivious pool of indolence! Must wit be found alone on falsehood's side, Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied? Arise! nor scorn thy country's just alarms; Wield in her cause thy long-neglected arms: Of lofty satire pour th' indignant strain, Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain If vice appal thee; if thou view with awe Insults that brave, and crimes that 'scape the law; Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claim A spurious homage under virtue's name, Sprung from that parent of ten thousand crimes, The new philosophy of modern times,— Yet these may rouse thee!-With unsparing hand Oh lash the vile impostures from the land! First, stern Philanthropy:—not she who dries The orphan's tears, and wipes the widow's eyes; Not she, who, sainted Charity her guide, Of British bounty pours the annual tide:But French Philanthropy;-whose boundless mind Glows with the general love of all mankind: Philanthropy,-beneath whose baneful sway Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away Taught in her school t' imbibe the mawkish strain, Condorcet filter'd through the dregs of Paine, Each pert adept disowns a Briton's part. And plucks the name of England from his heart. What! shall a name, a word, a sound control Th' aspiring thought, and cramp th' expar sive soul? Shall one half-peopled island's rocky round A love that glows for all creation bound? And social charities contract the plan Framed for thy freedom, universal man? No-through th' extended globe his feel ings run, As broad and general as th' unbounded sun! No narrow bigot he; his reason'd view Thy interests, England, ranks with thine Peru! France at our doors, he sees no danger nigh But heaves for Turkey's woes th' impartia sigh; A steady patriot of the world alone, Next comes a gentler virtue. Ah! bewar Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softnew scare. Visit her not too roughly ;-the warm sigi Breathes on her lips; the tear-drop gem her eye. Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined In the fine foldings of the feeling mind: With delicate mimosa's sense endued, Who shrinks instinctive from a hand to rude; Or like the anagallis, prescient flower, Shuts her soft petals at th' approaching shower. Sweet child of sickly Fancy! Her of yore From her loved FranceRousseau to exile bore; And, while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran, Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man, Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine steep To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep; False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong; Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief, With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief, Justice, whose blood-stain'd book one sole decree, One statute fills-"The people shall be free.” Free by what means? by folly, madness,guilt; By boundless rapine, blood in oceans spilt; By confiscation, in whose sweeping toils The poor man's pittance with the rich man's spoils, Mix'd in one common mass, are swept away, To glut the short-lived tyrant of the day;— By laws, religion, morals all o'erthrown:-Rouse then, ye sovereign people, claim your own;— The license that enthrals, the truth that blinds, The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds. -So Justice bids.-'Twas her enlighten'd doom, Louis, thy holy head devoted to the tomb! 'Twas Justice claim'd, in that accursed hour, The fatal forfeit of too lenient power. -Mourn for the man we may;-but for the king, Freedom, oh! Freedom's such a charming thing! "Much may be said on both sides."-Hark! I hear Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower; flood, Choak'd up with slain; of Lyons drench'd in blood; Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame, Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with Freedom's name; Altars and thrones subverted, social life Trampled to earth;-the husband from the wife, car, tell With bigot zeal to combat for its friends. Candour,—which loves in see-saw strain to Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn;-Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame, Of acting foolishly, but meaning well; Convinced that all men's motives are the same; Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn, combined Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast, They hear—and hope that all is for the best. Fond hope! but Justice sanctifies the prayer Justice! Here, Satire, strike; 't were sin And finds, with keen discriminating sight, Black's not so black;- nor white so very white. "Fox, to be sure, was vehement and wrong:But then Pitt's words, you'll own, were rather strong. Both must be blamed, both pardon'd ;—'t was just so With Fox and Pitt full forty years ago; So Walpole, Pulteney ;—factions in all times Have had their follies, ministers their crimes." Give me th' avow'd, the erect, the manly foc, Bold I can meet,-perhaps may turn his blow; But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save, save, oh! save me from the candid friend! "Barras loves plunder, Merlin takes a bribe,What then?-Shall Candour these good men proscribe? - No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng, Prove, not the facts, but, that they thought them wrong. Why hang O'Quigley?-he, misguided man, In sober thought his country's weal might plan. And, while his deep-wrought treason sapped the throne, Might act from taste in morals, all his own." But to thy worthies render homage due. Their "hair-breadth 'scapes" with anxious interest view; Statesmen and heroines whom this age adores, Though plainer times would call them rogues and whores. See Louvet, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage, Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage. Form'd for all tasks, his various talents see, Peace to such reasoners!—let them have The luscious novel, the severe decree. their way; Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day. -- Who scouts and scorns, in canting Candour's All taste in morals, innate sense of right, Unmoved, unsoften'd by Fitzpatrick's speech. That speech on which the melting commons hung, "While truths divine came mended from his How loving husband clings to duteous wife,- E'en Curwen dropt a sentimental tear, | -Then mark him weltering in his nasty stye, Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms. His widow'd mourner flies to poison's aid, But harsh emetics tear that hope away. Jaid, The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade; The doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;— And how the rigid minister prevail'd. And ah! what verse can grace thy stately Necker's fair daughter,-Stael the epicene! nose O! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in The bloom of young desire unceasing glows' vain Fain would the Muse-but ah! she dares ne more; Our colder servile spirits would attain, Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill. A mournful voice from lone Guyana's sherr Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex. |