« AnteriorContinuar »
Where Reynolds, mid our Country's noblest Dead, IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT In the last sanctity of fame is laid. OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. —There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep LEICESTERSHIRE.
Where Death and glory a joint sabbath keep, Tøe embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine,
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear Will not unwillingly their place resigo;
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear : If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Heace, on my patrimonial Grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory,
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed, attached to him in beart; Devoted thus, their spirits did unile
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost wben Reynolds died.
FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON. Darkeo the brow of this memorial Stone,
Beneath yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound, llere may some Painter sit in future days,
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground, Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, Not mindless of that distapt age renowned
The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE Dieu; When Inspiration hovered o'er tliis cround,
Erst a religious House, which day and night The haunt of Him who sang how spear and shield
With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite : In civil conflict met on Bosworth Field;
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
To honourable Men of various worth : From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,
There, on the margin of a Streamlet wild,
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child;
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Orr is the Medal faithful to its trust
Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams
Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous race,
With which his genius shook the buskined Stage.
Communities are lost, and Empires die,
And things of Joly use unhallowed lie;
They perish;- but the Intellect can raise,
From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.
WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE Of labourer plodding for his daily gains;
HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE ISLAND AT Bai by an industry that wrought in love, With help from femde hands, that proudly strove To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers
RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is,
Vitruvius of our village liad no lielp AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT
From the great City; never, on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here Of Pillars, branching off from year to year,
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. Till they have learned to frame a darksome Aisle;- And hither does one Poet sometimes row That may recal to mind that awful Pile
His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,
At any hour he chose, the Knight forth with
WITH A SLATE-PENCIL ON A STONE, ON TJIE SIDE OF
THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.
Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
Hopes what are they?-Beads of morning
What are fears but voices airy?
What is glory?-in the socket
What is friendship ?-do not trust her, Nor the vows which she has made; Diamonds dart their brightest lustre From a palsy-shaken head.
What is truth ?-a staff rejected;
WITH A SLATE-PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A BEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY,
UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE. STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a Ruin of the ancient time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief : 't is nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot
Bright, as if through ether steering,
Gone, as if for ever hidden;
See View from the top of Black Cuin', in Poems of the Imacination.
What is youth ?-a dancing billow, (Winds bebind, and rocks before!) Age?-a drooping, tollering willow On a flat and lazy shore.
What avails the kindly shelter Yielded by this cracey rent, If my spirit toss and welter On the waves of discontent?
What is peace?-when pain is over,
Parching Summer hath no warrant
Thus, dishonouring not her station,
INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. Pause, Traveller! wboxoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat, Where silence yields reluctantly Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat;
Give voice to what my hand shall trace,
I saw this Rock, while vernal air
Nor seldom, clad in radiant vest,
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST HERBERT'S ISLAND,
DERWENT-WATER. STRANGER! this shapeless heap of stones and carth Is the last relic of St Herbert's Cell. Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, After long exercise in social cares And offices humine, intent to adere The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things, In utter solitude.—But he had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of liis Companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he:-as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit numbered bis last day, Far from St Cuthbert his beloved Friend, Those lioly Men bo:h died in the same hour.
NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE.
TEOCBLED long with warring golions,
Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty.
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SJDE, NEAR CALAIS, To genuine greatness but from just desires,
And knowledge such as he could never gaio?
*T is not in battles that from youth we train Fara Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,
The Governor who must be wise and good, Star of my country!-on the horizon's brink
And temper with the sternness of the brain Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanbood. On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Shouldst be my Country's emblem; and shouldst wink,
Of the mind's business : these are the degrees Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
doth grow on; and her rights are these. Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies. Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory! I with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802.
Festivals have I seen that were not names :
young Bonaparte's natal day,
And his is henceforth an established sway,
Consul for life. With worship France proclaims Is it a Reed that's shaken by the wind,
Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!
His business as he likes. Far other show With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time; la France, before the new-born Majesty.
The senselessness of joy was then sublime! "T is ever thus. Ye Men of prostrare mind!
Happy is he, who, caring not for pope, A seemly reverence may be paid to power;
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
The destiny of Man, and live in hope,
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West : the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
She was a Maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when She took unto herself a Mate, Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,'
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty:
And what if she had seen those glories fade, A homeless sound of joy was in the Sky;
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; The antiquated Earth, as one might say,
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, play,
When her long life hath reached its final day: Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade And now, sole register that these things were,
Of that which once was great, is passed away.
THE KING OF SWEDEN.
The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call Whose vernal coverts winter halla laid bare.
To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 1801.
Dy one example hath set forth to all
How they with dignity may stand; or fall, I GRIEVED for Bonaparte, with a vain
If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?
And what to him and his shall be the end?
That thought is one which neither can appal
Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done
INLAND, within a hollow Vale, I stood; Of fortitude, and piety, and love,
saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, Which all bis glorious Ancestors approve :
The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near! The Heroes bless him, him their rightful Son.
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and Waters roll, Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity, Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ;
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Spake laws to them, and said that by the Soul
Only the Nations shall be great and free.
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGA. Powers that will work for thee, air, earth, and skies;
TION OF SWITZERLAND.
Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea,
One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice :
In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
'There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against Him; but hast vairly striven.
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thce.
was the basing of all Negroes from France by decree of the
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; espelled.
That mountain Floods should thunder as before, DRIVEN from the soil of France, a Female came
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802.
O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our Life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Which, burning independent of the mind,
Or groom!-We must run glittering like a Brook Joined with the lustre of her rich attire
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : To mock the outcast-Oye Heavens, be kind!
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur pow in nature or in book
Plain living and high thinking are no more :
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour :
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and
pen, Europe is yet in Boods; but let that pass,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of ball and bower, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, Have forfeited their ancient Euglish dower My Country! and 'l is joy enough and pride
of inward happiness. We are selfish men; For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Oh! raise us up, return to us again ; Of England once again, and hear and sec,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. With such a dear Companion at my side.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart :