Poetry Part 4

GILES.

No longer sit we idly chatting here; The village clock has struck; come, let us up!

To-night, friend David, we'll together sup.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd?

Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles, Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane With sacred awe, repentant, to confess The Son of Venus is indeed a G.o.d?

I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.

The great, creating Parent, when she breathed Into thine earthly frame the breath of life, Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul Of finer essence, capable to trace, To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good, Wherever found, through all her various works.

And is not Woman, then, her fairest work, Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts Potent to captivate, and softly rule The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou, By partial Nature favour'd from the birth?

Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf Through half thy genial season to the voice Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste Felicity congenial to thy soul?

This was the secret cause:--inscrutable To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd To celibacy, for thyself alone Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend-- The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast A visionary flame; for, while retired In solitude, on cla.s.sic lore intent, Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid, With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd, Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length She dared to stand on disappointment's verge, Antic.i.p.ating such thy future bride.

What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes, So darkly bright, should innocently glance, Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame?

That many a Fair should unregarded pa.s.s, So far unlike the picture in thy mind?

At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien, Of artless manners, affable, and gay, Yet modestly reserved, with native taste Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught, Well-principled in things of prime concern.

Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd Upon thy ravish'd view:--'twas She!--'twas She!

Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live; And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love; And Nature was obeyed.--

Yet still suspense Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand Between the realms of happiness and pain, Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend!

What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid With virgin blushes and approving smile Received thy vows, consented to be thine?

Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot, Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times, Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend.

TO DELILLE.

Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng I mark with transport some diviner song; Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire, Commanding silence to the vulgar quire; Apollo smiles, and all the tongues of Fame Through the poetic realm Delille proclaim.

O let a British Bard, admiring, greet Thy glorious triumph, and thy praise repeat!

When merit claims the panegyric lay, Envy he scorns, and joys the debt to pay.

Painter of Nature hail! to thee belong Unrivall'd talents for descriptive song: While others, fired with more ambitious views, Invoke the Epic, or the Tragic Muse, And, throned in Glory's temple, shine sublime, Proud of their laurel-wreaths that fear not Time, Thy Genius fondly stoops to softer themes, The landscape's beauties--flowers, and groves, and streams, And round his brows in modest triumph wears A simple garden-wreath, but ever green, as theirs.

What though, some critics, in their taste severe, Turn from thy subject a disdainful ear, Demanding still, their duller minds to strike, War, pa.s.sion, plot, surprises--and the like?

Yet will true Taste, that ranges unconfined, And feels the charms of every various kind, Oft quit Voltaire, or Corneille, to peruse, Delille! the milder beauties of thy Muse; Oft love, with thee, through rural scenes to stray, And sweetly study Nature in thy lay.

But, ah! what boldness does thy breast inspire?

Say, wilt thou dare to touch the Mantuan lyre?

Long has thy country wish'd that cla.s.sic spoil, Yet, of her tongue distrustful, shunn'd the toil; O cease then!--but thy hand essays the strings,-- Amazement!--Fancy cries, 'tis Virgil sings!

The same thy numbers, so correctly free, So full of sweetness, full of majesty!

Now, France, exult! nor view with envy more Surrounding nations rich in Roman lore; Delille has sung; then glory in his name, Engraved, immortal, on the rolls of Fame.

ODE

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS FOR LORD HOWE'S VICTORY ON 1ST JUNE, 1793.

Whence the shouts of public joy, Whence the galaxies of light, That strike the deafen'd ear?

That charm the dazzled sight?

While Night, arrested in her highest way, Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway?

Hark! Fame exalts her voice:-- 'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice!

The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave, Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave; Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main, His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.'

Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn!

O fly the giddy train!

From their inhuman transports turn With pity,--with disdain!

Strip, strip, from Victory the fair disguise, And let her own dire form appal thine eyes!

Ah, mark her triumphs in yon hideous scene!

Myriads of brother-men untimely slain; Hear the deep groan, survey the dying mien, Convulsed with agonies of pain; And hark! what cries of wretchedness resound Throughout the troubled air!

Widows and Orphans doom'd a helpless prey To famine and despair!

And does ambition glory? Oh! the shame!

The direful outrage to the human name!

Nature herself is moved, the blushing stars retire, And sudden storms denounce high heaven's awaken'd ire.

See the black firmament divide!

The almighty sword, with heavenly l.u.s.tre bright, Flashes on the sight Terrific glory, dazzling mortal pride; The parted concave closes, while around Deep, rushing peals resound, Scatter the clouds, in airy tempest hurl'd, And shake the solid pillars of the world.

As breathing from the tomb, A death-like stillness reigns, Save that in Fancy's jealous ear A sad, prophetic breeze complains Of some impending doom, While every soul is lost in vacancy and fear.

Now while Ambition lies in sleep unblest, Portentous visions haunt his guilty breast: Borne on a trophied car, sublime he goes Amid the gazing crowd, Who shout his triumphs loud; With haughty bliss his flatter'd spirit glows:-- Sudden deserted and alone, Confused, alarm'd, in dreary shades unknown, He hears the wild waves beat the sh.o.r.e, The din of battle roar:-- 'Tis silence! frowning vengeful from the gloom, Before his shrinking eyes Unnumber'd spectres rise, Point to their bleeding wounds, and sternly curse their doom: The conscious Murderer starts, the thunders roll, And h.e.l.l's dread chaos yawns on his despairing soul.

But when the morn exerts her cheering power, And guilt-alarming darkness disappears, Wilt thou, Ambition! slight the warning hour, And fondly strive to dissipate thy fears?

Yet wilt thou dare fulfil The madness of thy will?

Kindle round earth the wasteful flames of strife, And glut the fiends of war with human life?

Then mask with glory's name thy murderous cause, While fond, deluded mortals shout applause?

Yet madly wilt thou dare?-- Devoted Wretch! forbear!-- Cries of the living, curses of the dead, Have claim'd thy destined head; And that same Power, whose mighty hand Once humbled thine aspiring flight, And hurl'd thee, with thy rebel band, Down to the deeps of h.e.l.l and night, Now warns no more; that Power no longer spares, Thy sentence he hath fix'd, thy fate he now prepares.

ODE

TO HORROR.

I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul, Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw; Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul, And let my trembling hand the vision draw.

Lo! what terrific Forms around thee wait, The monstrous births abhorr'd of Mind and Fate!

Murder, with blood of innocence defiled; Despair, deep-groaning; Madness screaming wild; Mid clouds of smoke, the fire-eyed Fury, War, Through gore and mangled flesh whirl'd in her thundering car; Plague, sallow Hag! who arms her breath With thousand viewless darts of death; And Earthquake, image of the final doom, That, bursting fierce his anguish'd mother's womb, Whelms nations in the yawning jaws of night, And palsies mighty Nature with affright.

Amid that direful band I see thee, Horror! stand, With bloodless visage, terror-frozen stare, Distorted, ice-bound limbs, and bristling hair, Thy shivering lips bereft of speech and breath, In monstrous union life combined with death.

I see thee still, O Horror! and in thee Methinks an image of myself I see; For, while I gaze with fear-fixed sight, O Horror! thy Gorgonian might Turns me to stone: dread tyrant, O forbear!