The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius Part 12

'Twas this that raised the ill.u.s.trious line, To match the first in fame; A thousand years have seen it shine With unabated flame: Have seen thy mighty sires appear Foremost in Glory's high career, The pride and pattern of the brave.

Yet, pure from l.u.s.t of blood their fire, And from Ambition's wild desire, They triumphed but to save.

The Muse with joy attends their way The vales of peace along; There, to its Lord the village gay Renews the grateful song.

Yon castle's glittering towers contain No pit of woe, nor clanking chain, Nor to the suppliant's wail resound: The open doors the needy bless.

The unfriended hail their calm recess, And gladness smiles around.

There, to the sympathetic heart Life's best delights belong, To mitigate the mourner's smart, To guard the weak from wrong.

Ye sons of luxury, be wise; Know, happiness for ever flies The cold and solitary breast; Then let the social instinct glow, And learn to feel another's woe, And in his joy be blessed.

O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare For unsuspecting youth; Ere Flattery her song prepare To check the voice of Truth; O may his country's guardian power Attend the slumbering Infant's bower, And bright, inspiring dreams impart; To rouse the hereditary fire, To kindle each sublime desire, Exalt, and warm the heart.

Swift to reward a parent's fears, A parent's hopes to crown, Roll on in peace, ye blooming years, That rear him to renown; When, in his finished form and face, Admiring mult.i.tudes shall trace Each patrimonial charm combined; The courteous yet majestic mien, The liberal smile, the look serene, The great and gentle mind.

Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes, And win a nation's love, Let not thy towering mind despise The village and the grove.

No slander there shall wound thy fame, No ruffian take his deadly aim, No rival weave the secret snare: For Innocence, with angel smile, Simplicity, that knows not guile, And Love and Peace are there.

When winds the mountain oak a.s.sail, And lay its glories waste, Content may slumber in the vale, Unconscious of the blast.

Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home; It hopes in time to roam no more: The mariner, not vainly brave, Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest, at last, on sh.o.r.e.

Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, How vain your mask of state!

The good alone have joy sincere, The good alone are great: Great, when, amid the vale of peace, They bid the plaint of sorrow cease, And hear the voice of artless praise; As, when along the trophied plain, Sublime they lead the victor train, While shouting nations gaze.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY CHARLOTTE GORDON, DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET, WITH FEATHERS, &c.

Why, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow, With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's antient realm?

Thou knowest that virtue is of power the source, And all her magic to thy eyes is given; We own their empire, while we feel their force, Beaming with the benignity of heaven.

The plumy helmet, and the martial mien, Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far the Idalian queen-- Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.

THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, A Hermit his song of the night thus began; No more with himself, or with nature, at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man:

"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?

"Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?

"For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, "And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.

"Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, "Mourn, sweetest complainer! man calls thee to mourn: "O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pa.s.s away-- "Full quickly they pa.s.s--but they never return.

"Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, "The moon, half-extinguished, her crescent displays: "But lately I marked, when majestic on high, "She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.

"Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue "The path that conducts thee to splendour again: "But man's faded glory no change shall renew-- "Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: "I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; "For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, "Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.

"Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; "Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.-- "But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?

"O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?"

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

"O pity, great Father of light," then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee!

"Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: "From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."

And darkness and doubt are now flying away: No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1756.

I. 1.

Peace, heaven-descended maid! whose powerful voice From antient darkness called the morn; And hushed of jarring elements the noise, When Chaos, from his old dominion torn, With all his bellowing throng, Far, far was hurled the void abyss along; And all the bright angelic choir, Striking, through all their ranks, the eternal lyre, Poured, in loud symphony, the impetuous strain; And every fiery orb and planet sung, And wide, through Night's dark solitary reign, Rebounding long and deep, the lays triumphant rung!

I. 2.

Oh, whither art thou fled, Saturnian Age!

Roll round again, majestic years!

To break the sceptre of tyrannic Rage; From Woe's wan cheek to wipe the bitter tears; Ye years, again roll round!

Hark! from afar what desolating sound, While echoes load the sighing gales, With dire presage the throbbing heart a.s.sails!

Murder, deep-roused, with all the whirlwind's haste, And roar of tempest, from her cavern springs, Her tangled serpents girds around her waist, Smiles ghastly fierce, and shakes her gore-distilling wings.

I. 3.

The shouts, redoubling, rise In thunder to the skies; The nymphs, disordered, dart along, Sweet powers of solitude and song, Stunned with the horrors of discordant sound; And all is listening, trembling round.

Torrents, far heard amid the waste of night, That oft have led the wanderer right, Are silent at the noise.

The mighty Ocean's more majestic voice, Drowned in superior din, is heard no more; The surge in silence seems to sweep the foamy sh.o.r.e.

II. 1.

The b.l.o.o.d.y banner, streaming in the air, Seen on yon sky-mixt mountain's brow, The mingling mult.i.tudes, the madding car, Driven in confusion to the plain below, War's dreadful Lord proclaim.

Bursts out, by frequent fits, the expansive flame; s.n.a.t.c.hed in tempestuous eddies, flies The surging smoke o'er all the darkened skies; The chearful face of heaven no more is seen; The bloom of morning fades to deadly pale; The bat flies transient o'er the dusky green, And Night's foul birds along the sullen twilight sail.

II. 2.