When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell;
On eve of midsummer, that foe to sleep,
What time young maids their annual vigils
keep,
The tell-tale shrub,* fresh gather'd to declare
The swains who false, from those who constant
When ghosts in clanking chains the church. yard walk,
And to the wond'ring ear of fancy talk: When the scar'd maid steals trembling thro' the grove,
To kiss the grave of him who died for love; · When, with long watchings, Care at length opprest,
Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest;
Nay, Grief short snatches of repose can take,
And nothing but Despair is quite awake;
Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove
A ghastly spectre through the gloomy grove;
Then to the rock, the Bleeding-rock repair,
Where, sadly sighing it dissolves to air.
* Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by maids.
Still when the hours of solemn rites return, The village train in sad procession mourn; Pluck ev'ry weed which might the spot dis
And plant the fairest field flowers in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or flow'ret grows,
But the first daffodil, and earliest rose ;
The snow-drop spreads its whitest blossom here,
And golden cowslips grace the vernal year :
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue,
And ev'ry violet boasts a brighter blue.
Here builds the wood-lark, here the faithful
dove
Laments his lost, or woos his living love.
Secure from harm is ev'ry hallow'd nest,
The spot is sacred where true lovers rest.
To guard the rock from each malignant sprite,
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night;
Aloft in air each takes his little stand,
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy
Land.*
* By contraction, Failand, a hill well known in Somersetshire: not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which constantly issues a crimson current. A devillagesire to account for this appearance, gave rise to a whimsical conversation, which produced these slight verses.
FROM H. M. AT BRISTOL, TO DRAGON, MR. GARRICK'S HOUSE DOG, AT HAMPTON.
J. DRAGON! Since lyrics are the mode,
To thee I dedicate my ode,
And reason good I plead :
Are those who cannot write, to blame
To draw their hopes of future fame,
From those who cannot read?
II. O could I like that nameless wight,*
Find the choice minute when to write,
The mollia tempora fandi!
Like his, my muse should learn to whistle
A true heroical epistle,
In strains which ne'er can die.
III. Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace !
Can thy great shade do nothing for us
To mend the British lyre?
Our luckless bards have broke the strings,
Seiz'd the scar'd muses, pluck'd their wings,
And put out all their fire.t
IV. Dragon! thou tyrant of the yard,
Great namesake of that furious guard
That watch'd the fruits Hesperian!
Thy choicer treasures safely keep,
Nor snatch one moment's guilty sleep,
Fidelity's criterion.
V. O Dragon! change with me thy fate,
To give me up thy place and state,
And I will give thee mine:
I, left to think, and thou to feed!
My mind enlarg'd, thy body freed,
How blest my lot and thine!
VI. Then shalt thou scent the rich regale
Of turtle and diluting ale,
Nay, share the sav'ry bit;
*See the admirable epistle to sir William Chambers. A profusion of odes had appeared about this time, which strikingly violated all the rules of lyrical compo. sition.
And see, what thou hast never seen,
For thou hast but at Hampton been,
A feast devoid of wit.
VII. Oft shalt thou snuff the smoking venison,
Devour'd alone, by hungry denizen,
So fresh, thoul't long to tear it; Though Flaccus tells a diff'rent tale Of social souls who chose it stale,
Because their friends should share it. VIII. And then on me what joys would wait, Were I the guardian of thy gate,
How useless bolt and latch!
How vain were locks, and bars how vain,
To shield from harm the household train
Whom I, from love, would watch!
IX. Not that 'twould crown with joy my life
That Bowden,† or that Bowden's wife,
Brought me my daily pickings:
Though she, accelerating fate,
Decrees the scanty moral date
Of turkeys and of chickens!
X. Though fir'd with innocent ambition,
Bowden, great Nature's rhetorician,
More flow'rs than Burke produces;
And though he's skill'd more roots to find,
Than ever stock'd an Hebrew's mind,
And knows their various uses.
XI. I'd get my master's ways by rote,
Ne'er would I bark at ragged coat,
Nor tear the tatter'd sinner;
Like him I'd love the dog of merit
Caress the cur of broken spirit,
And give them all a dinner.
XII. Nor let me pair his blue-ey'd dame
With Venus' or Minerva's name,
†The gardener and poultry woman at Hampton.
One warrior, one coquet;
No; Pallas and the queen of Beauty
Shunn'd, or betray'd that nuptial duty,
Which she so high has set.
XIII. Whene'er I heard the rattling coach
Proclaim their long-desir'd approach,
How would I haste to greet 'em!
Nor ever feel I wore a chain,
Till, starting, I perceiv'd with pain
I could not fly to meet 'em!
XIV. The master loves his sylvan shades,
Here, with the nine melodious maids,
His choicest hours are spent:
Yet shall I hear some wittling cry,
} (Such wittling from my presence fly!)
'Garrick will soon repent:
XV. Again you'll see him, never fear; Some half a dozen times a year
He still will charm the age; Accustom'd long to be admir'd,
Of shades and streams he'll soon be tir'd, And languish for the stage.'
XVI. Peace! To his solitude he bears
The full-blown fame of thirty years;
He bears a nation's praise;
He bears his lib'ral, polish'd mind,
His worth, his wit, his sense refin'd
He bears his well-earn'd bays.
XVII. When warm admirers drop a tear
Because this sun has left his sphere,
And set before his time;
I who have felt and lov'd his rays,
What they condemn will loudly praise,
And call the deed sublime.
XVIII. How wise long-pamper'd with applause,
To make a voluntary pause
And lay his laurels down!
Boldly repelling each strong claim,
To dare assert to Wealth and Fame,
'Enough of both I've known.'
XIX. How wise! a short retreat to steal,.
The vanity of life to feel,
And from its cares to fly :
To act one calm, domestic scene,
Earth's bustle, and the grave between,
Retire, and learn to die!
ON THE REVEREND MR. PENROSE, Thirty-two years Vicar of St. Gluvias, Cornwall. IF social manners, if the gentlest mind, If zeal for God, and love for human kind, If all the charities which life endear, May claim affection, or demand a tear, Then o'er Penrose's venerable urn Domestic love may weep, and friendship mourn. The path of duty still, untir'd, he trod, He walk'd in safety, for he walk'd with God! When past the power of precept and of pray'r, Yet still his flock remain'd the shepherd's care; Their wants still kindly watchful to supply, He taught his best, last lesson, how to die!
ON MRS. BLANFORD.
MEEK shade, farewell! go seek that quiet shore Where sin shall vex, and sorrow wound no more;
Thy lowly worth obtains that final bliss,
Which pride disdains to seek, and wit may miss. That path thou'st found which science cannot teach,
But faith and goodness never fail to reach :
Then share the joy the words of life impart,
The Vision promis'd to the pure in heart.
ON MRS. LITTLE,
In Redcliff Church, England.
O COULD this verse her fair example spread,
And teach the living while it prais'd the dead!
Then, reader! should it speak her hope divine,
Not to record her faith, but strengthen thine;
Then should her ev'ry virtue stand confest,
Till ev'ry virtue kindle in thy breast.
But, if thou slight the monitory strain,
And she has liv'd, to thee at least, in vain ;
Yet let her death, an awful lesson give,
Go, happy spirit, seek that blissful land
Where zealous Michael leads the glorious band
Of those who fought for truth; blest spirit, go
And perfect all the good begun below:
Go, hear applauding saints, delighted, tell
How vanquish'd Falsehood, at thy bidding fell!
Blest in that heav'n whose paths thy virtue
sought;
Blest in that God whose cause thou well hast
fought;
O let thy honour'd shade his care approve,
Who this memorial rears of filial love :
A son, whose father, living, was his pride;
A son who mourns that such a father died.
In Claybrook Church, Leicestershire.
O THOU, or friend or stranger, who shall tread
These solemn mansions of the silent dead!
Think, when this record to inquiring eyes,
No more shall tell the spot where Dicey lies;
When this frail marble, faithless to its trust,
Mould'ring itself, resigns its moulder'd dust;
When time shall fail, and Nature's self decay,
And earth, and sun, and skies dissolve away;
Thy soul, this consummation shall survive,
Defy the wreck, and but begin to live.
This truth, long slighted, let these ashes teach,
Though cold, instruct you, and though silent
preach :
O pause! reflect, repent, resolve, amend!
Life has no length, eternity no end!
Approach-For you the mourner rears this stone,
To sooth your sorrows, and record his own.
ON THE REVEREND MR. LOVE.
In the Cathedral, at Bristol.
WHEN Worthless grandeur fills th' embellish'd
No poignant grief attends the sable bier :
But when distinguish'd excellence we mourn,
Deep is the sorrow, genuine is the tear.
Stranger! should'st thou approach this awful
shrine,
The merits of the honour'd dead to seek;
The friend, the son, the Christian, the divine,
Let those who knew him, those who lov'd
him speak.
Oh let them in some pause of anguish say,
What zeal inflam'd, what faith enlarg'd his breast!
How glad the unfetter'd spirit wing'd its way From earth to heav'n, from blessing to be blest!
SIR JAMES STONHOUSE, BART. M. D.
HERE rest awhile, in happier climes to shine,
In the Chapel at the Hot-Wells, Bristol.
The orator, physician, and divine:
'Twas his, like Luke, the double task to fill,
To heal the nat'ral and the moral ill.
You, whose awaken'd hearts his labours blest,
Where ev'ry truth, by ev'ry grace was drest;
Oh! let your lives evince that still you feel
Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal.
One spirit rescued from eternal wo
Were nobler fame than marble can bestow;
That lasting monument will mock decay
And stand, triumphant, at the final day.
ON SARAH STONHOUSE,
Second wife of the Rev. Sir James Stonhouse,
COME resignation! wipe the human tear,
Domestic anguish drops o'er Virtue's bier;
Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint,
Nor, from the God she lov'd, detain the saint,
Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd shade
were thine;
And holy hope, and charity divine:
Though these thy forfeit being could not save,
Thy faith subdu'd the terrors of the grave.
Oh! if thy living excellence could teach.
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech:
Let death thy strongest lesson then impart;
And write prepare to die, on ev'ry heart.
THE FOOLISH TRAVELLER:
OR, A GOOD INN IS A BAD HOME.
THERE was a prince of high degree,
As great and good as prince could be;
Much pow'r and wealth were in his hand,
With lands and lordships at command,
One son, a fav'rite son, he had,
An idle thoughtless kind of lad;
Whom, spite of all his follies past,
He meant to make his heir at last.
The son escap'd to foreign lands,
And broke his gracious sire's commands;
Far, as he fancied, from his sight,
In each low joy he took delight.
The youth, detesting peace and quiet,
Indulg'd in vice, expense, and riot;
Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted,
Till health declined, and substance wasted
The tender sire, to pity prone,
Promis'd to pardon what was done;
And, would he certain terms fulfil
He should receive a kingdom still.
The youth the pardon little minded,
So much his sottish soul was blinded;
But though he mourn'd no past transgression,
He lik'd the future rich possession.
He lik'd the kingdom when obtain'd,
But not the terms on which 'twas gain'd;
He hated pain and self-denial,
Chose the reward, but shunn'd the trial.
He knew his father's power how great,
How glorious too the promis'd state!
At length resolves no more to roam
But straight to seek his father's home.
His sire had sent a friend to say,
He must be cautious on his way;
Told him what road he must pursue,
And always keep his home in view.
The thoughtless youth set out indeed,
But soon he slacken'd in his speed;
For ev'ry trifle by the way
Seduc'd his idle heart astray.
By ev'ry casual impulse sway'd,
On ev'ry slight pretence he stay'd;
To each, to all, his passions bend,
He quite forgets his journey's end.
For ev'ry sport, for ev'ry song,
He halted as he pass'd along;
Caught by each idle sight he saw,
He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw.
Whate'er was present seiz'd his soul,
A feast, a show, a brimming bowl;
Contented with this vulgar lot,
His father's house he quite forgot.
Those slight refreshments by the way,
Which were but meant his strength to stay,
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin,
He look'd no farther than his inn.
His father's friend would oft appear
And sound the promise in his ear;
Oft would he rouse him, 'Sluggard come!
This is thy inn, and not thy home.'
Displeas'd he answers, 'Come what will,
Of present bliss I'll take my fill;
In vain you plead, in vain I hear,
Those joys are distant, these are near.'
Thus perish'd, lost to worth and truth,
In sight of home this hapless youth;
While beggars, foreigners, and poor,
Enjoy'd the father's boundless store.
My fable, reader, speaks to thee,
In God this bounteous father see;
And in his thoughtless offspring trace,
The sinful, wayward, human race.
The friend, the generous father sent
To rouse, and to reclaim him, meant.
The faithful minister you'll find,
Who calls the wand'ring, warns the blind.
Reader, awake! this youth you blame,
Are not you doing just the same?
Mindless your comforts are but given
To help you on your way to heav'n.
The pleasures which beguile the road,
The flow'rs with which your path is strew'd;
To these your whole desires you bend
And quite forget your journey's end.
The meanest toys your soul entice,
A feast, a song, a game at dice;
Charm'd with your present paltry lot,
Eternity is quite forgot.
Then listen to a warning friend,
Who bids you mind your journey's end;
A wand'ring pilgrim here you roam;
This world's your inn, the next your home.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY CONQUERED:
OR, LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR AS YOURSELF.
IN THE MANNER OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
I. EACH man who lives the Scriptures prove,
Must as himself his neighbour love;
But though the precept 's full of beauty,
"Tis an impracticable duty:
I'll prove how hard it is to find
A lover of this wond'rous kind.
II. Who loves himself to great excess,
You'll grant must love his neighbour less;
When self engrosses all the heart
How can another have a part?
Then if self-love most men enthral,
A neighbour's share is none at all.
III. Say, can the man who hoards up pelf
E'er love his neighbour as himself?
For if he did, would he not labour
To hoard a little for his neighbour?
Then tell me, friend, can hoarding elves
E'er love their neigbour às themselves?
IV. The man whose heart is bent on pleasure
Small love will to his neighbour measure:
Who solely studies his own good,
Can't love another if he would.
Then how can pleasure-hunting elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves!
V. Can he whom sloth and loitering please
E'er love his neighbour like his ease?
Or he who feels ambition's flame
Loves he his neighbour like his fame?
Such lazy, or such soaring elves
Can't love their neighbour as themselves.
VI. He, whose gross appetites enslave him,
Who spends or feasts the wealth God gave him;
Full, pamper'd, gorg'd at ev'ry meal,
He cannot for the empty feel.
How can such gormandizing elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?
VII. Then since the man who lusts for gold,
Since he who is to pleasure sold;
Who soars in pride, or sinks in ease,
His neighbour will not serve or please;
Where shall we hope the man to find
To fill this great command inclin'd?
VIII. I dare not blame God's holy word,
Nor censure Scripture as absurd;
But sure the rule 's of no avail
If plac'd so high that all must fail;
And 'tis impossible to prove
That any can his neighbour love.
THE ANSWERER.
IX. Yes, such there are of heav'nly mould, Unwarp'd by pleasure, ease, or gold;
He who fulfils the nobler part
By loving God with all his heart;
He, only he, the Scriptures prove,
Can, as himself, his neighbour love.
X. Then join, to make a perfect plan,
The love of God to love of man;
Your heart in union both must bring,
This is the stream, and that the spring;
This done, no more in vain you'll labour, A Christian can't but love his neighbour. XI. If then the rule 's too hard to please ye, Turn Christian, and you'll find easy.
Still, 'tis impossible.' you'll cry,
'In vain shall feeble nature try.'
'Tis true; but know a Christian is a creature Who does things quite impossible to nature.
IN A BEAUTIFUL RETREAT, CALLED FAIRY BOWER.
AIRY spirits, you who love
Cooling bow'r, or shady grove:
Streams that murmur as they flow,
Zephyrs bland that softly blow;
Babbling echo, or the tale
Of the love-lorn nightingale;
Hither airy spirits, come,
This is your peculiar home,
If you love a verdant glade,
If you love a noon-tide shade,
Hither, sylphs and fairies fly,
Unobserv'd of earthly eye.
Come, and wander ev'ry night, By the moon-beam's glimm'ring light And again at early day Brush the silver dews away.
Mark where first the daisies blow, Where the bluest violets grow; Where the sweetest linnet sings, Where the earliest cowslip springs; Where the largest acorn lies. Precious in a fairy's eyes; Sylphs, though unconfin'd to place, Love to fill an acorn's space.
Come, and mark within what bush Builds the blackbird or the thrush; Great his joy who first espies, Greater his who spares the prize!
Come, and watch the hallow'd bow'r, Chase the insect from the flow'r;
Little offices like these,
Gentle souls and fairies please.
Mortals! form'd of grosser clay,]
From our haunts keep far away;
Or, if you should dare appear,
See that you from vice are clear.
Folly's minion, Fashion's fool,
Mad Ambition's restless tool!
Slave of passion, slave of pow'r,
Fly, ah fly! this tranquil bow'r !
Son of Av'rice, soul of frost,
Wretch of Heav'n abhorred the most,
Learn to pity others' wants,
Or avoid these hallow'd haunts.
Eye unconscious of a tear, When Afflictions train appear; Heart that never heav'd a sigh, For another, come not nigh.
But, ye darling sons of Heav'n, Giving freely what was giv'n; You, whose lib'ral hand dispense The blessings of benevolence:
You, who wipe the tearful eye,
You, who stop the rising sigh;
You, whose souls have understood
The luxury of doing good-
Come, ye happy virtuous few,
Open my bow'r to you;
You, these mossy banks may press;
You, each guardian fay shall bless.
THE BAD BARGAIN:
OR, THE WORLD SET UP TO SALE.
THE Devil, as the Scriptures show,
Tempts sinful mortals high and low;
And acting well his various part,
Suits every bribe to every heart:
See where the prince of darkness stands
With baits for souls in both his hands.
To one he offers empires whole,
And gives a sceptre for a soul;
To one, he freely gives in barter,
A peerage, or a star and garter;
To one he pays polite attention,}]
And begs him just to take a pension.
Some are so fir'd with love of fame,
He bribes them by an empty name;
For fame they toil, they preach, they write,
Give alms, build hospitals or fight;
For human praise renounce salvation,
And sell their souls for reputation.
But the great gift, the mighty bribe,
Which Satan pours amid the tribe,
Which millions seize with eager haste,
And all desire at least to taste,
|