The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius Part 4

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village-youth were joined, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind.

Ah then, all jollity seemed noise and folly.

To the pure soul, by Fancy's fire refined, Ah, what is mirth, but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!

LVI.

Is there a heart that music cannot melt?

Ah me! how is that rugged heart forlorn!

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt, Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.

The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

LVII.

For Edwin, Fate a n.o.bler doom had planned; Song was his favourite and first pursuit.

The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languished to his breath the plaintive flute.

His infant muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance, as yet, he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit; And Edwin gained, at last, this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

LVIII.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance, or search, was offered to his view, He scanned with curious and romantic eye.

Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry.

At last, though long by penury controuled, And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

LIX.

Thus, on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurled; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

LX.

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while.

The leisure hour is all that thou can'st claim.

But on this verse if MONTAGU should smile, New strains, ere long, shall animate thy frame: And his applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords his taste refined.

At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind.

THE MINSTREL; BOOK SECOND.

_Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, Rectique cultus pectora roborant._

HORAT.

THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

BOOK SECOND.

I.

Of chance or change, O let not man complain, Else shall he never never cease to wail: For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel the a.s.sault of fortune's fickle gale; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doomed; Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale; And gulfs the mountain's mighty ma.s.s entombed; And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloomed.

II.

But sure to foreign climes we need not range, Nor search the ancient records of our race, To learn the dire effects of time and change, Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.

Yet, at the darkened eye, the withered face, Or h.o.a.ry hair, I never will repine: But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace, Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame, is mine.

III.

So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command, Shall here, without reluctance, change my lay, And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path, for aye, Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling, and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

IV.

'Perish the lore that deadens young desire,'

Is the soft tenor of my song no more.

Edwin, though loved of heaven, must not aspire To bliss, which mortals never knew before.

On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy, But now and then the shades of life explore; Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

V.

Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows.

The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; But ah, it withers in the chilling hour.

Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power Of all the warring winds of heaven, they rise, And from the stormy promontory tower, And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each a.s.sailing blast increase of strength supplies.

VI.

And now the downy cheek and deepened voice Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime; And walks of wider circuit were his choice, And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime.

One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme, It was his chance to wander far abroad, And o'er a lonely eminence to climb, Which heretofore his foot had never trode; A vale appeared below, a deep retired abode.

VII.