The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair, and Falconer Part 5

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Is there a heart that music cannot melt?

Alas! 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.

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

The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languish'd 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 gain'd at last this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

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Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance or search, was offer'd to his view, He scann'd 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 controll'd And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

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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 caves the storms are bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and, lo!

The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. [5]

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Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while, The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.

But on this verse if Montagu should smile, New strains ere long shall animate thy frame.

And her applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords her 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.

[Footnote 1: There is hardly an ancient 'ballad' or romance, wherein a minstrel or a harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have been 'of the north countrie'. It is probable that under this appellation were formerly comprehended all the provinces to the north of the Trent.--See 'Percy's Essay on the Minstrels'.]

[Footnote 2: 'Dazzling sheen:' Brightness, splendour. The word is used by some late writers, as well as by Milton.]

[Footnote 3: Allusion to Shakspeare:--

'Mac'. How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, What is't ye do?

'Wit'. A deed without a name.

(MACBETH, Act 4, Scene 1.)]

[Footnote 4: See the fine old ballad called, 'The Children in the Wood.']

[Footnote 5: Spring and autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sudden full of gra.s.s and flowers.--Scheffer's 'History of Lapland.']

BOOK II.

Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, Rectique cultus pectora roborant.

(HORAT.)

1

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 doom'd; Earthquakes have raised to Heaven the humble vale, And gulfs the mountain's mighty ma.s.s entomb'd; And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd. [1]

2

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 darken'd eye, the wither'd 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.

3

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.

4

"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.

5

Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows: The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; But soon 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.

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