The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 14

[80] St Cross Hospital.

[81] Homer.

[82] See the last book.

[83] Theocritus.

[84] [Greek: Megale moira.]--_Soph._

[85] Philoctetes, see Sophocles. Youthful impressions on first reading it.

[86] See Warton's "Ode to Fancy."

[87] Alluding to some pathetic lines in Warton's "Ode to Fancy."

[88] See Warton's "Ode on West's Translation of Pindar."

EPITAPH ON H. WALMSLEY, ESQ.,

IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH, HANTS.

Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true; The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed, Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed; Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze, Pale from thy hospitable home depart, Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart!

But how shall she her love, her loss express, Thy widow, in this uttermost distress, When she with anguish hears her lisping train Upon their buried father call in vain!

She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow, She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe, And rests (while humbled in the dust she kneels) On Him who only knows how much she feels.

AGE.

Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn!

But thou art pa.s.sing to that night-still bourne, Where labour sleeps. The linnet, chattering loud To the May morn, shall sing; thou, in thy shroud, Forgetful and forgotten, sink to rest; And gra.s.s-green be the sod upon thy breast!

ON A LANDSCAPE BY RUBENS.

Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full, Upon the rich creation, shadowed so That not great Nature, in her loftiest pomp Of living beauty, ever on the sight Rose more magnificent; nor aught so fair Hath Fancy, in her wildest, brightest mood, Imaged of things most lovely, when the sounds Of this cold cloudy world at distance sink, And all alone the warm idea lives Of what is great, or beautiful, or good, 10 In Nature's general plan.

So the vast scope, O Rubens! of thy mighty mind, and such The fervour of thy pencil, pouring wide The still illumination, that the mind Pauses, absorbed, and scarcely thinks what powers Of mortal art the sweet enchantment wrought.

She sees the painter, with no human touch, Create, embellish, animate at will, The mimic scenes, from Nature's ampler range 20 Caught as by inspiration; while the clouds, High wandering, and the fairest form of things, Seem at his bidding to emerge, and burn With radiance and with life!

Let us, subdued, Now to the magic of the moment lose The thoughts of life, and mingle every sense Ev'n in the scenes before us!

The fresh morn Of summer shines; the white clouds of the east 30 Are crisped; beneath, the bright blue champaign steams; The banks, the meadows, and the flowers, send up An incensed exhalation, like the meek And holy praise of Him whose soul's deep joy The lone woods witness. Thou, whose heart is sick Of vanities; who, in the throng of men, Dost feel no lenient fellowship; whose eye Turns, with a languid carelessness, around Upon the toiling crowd, still murmuring on, Restless;--oh, think, in summer scenes like these, 40 How sweet the sense of quiet gladness is, That, like the silent breath of morning, steals From lowly nooks, and feels itself expand Amid the works of Nature, to the Power That made them: to the awful thought of HIM Who, when the morning stars shouted for joy, Bade the great sun from tenfold darkness burst, The green earth roll in light, and solitude First hear the voice of man, whilst hills and woods Stood eminent, in orient hues arrayed, 50 His dwelling; and all living Nature smiled, As in this pictured semblance, beaming full Before us!

Mark again the various view: Some city's far-off spires and domes appear, Breaking the long horizon, where the morn Sits blue and soft: what glowing imagery Is spread beneath!--Towns, villages, light smoke, And scarce-seen windmill-sails, and devious woods, Chequering 'mid sunshine the gra.s.s-level land, 60 That stretches from the sight.

Now nearer trace The forms of trees distinct--the broad brown oak; The poplars, that, with silvery trunks, incline, Shading the lonely castle; flakes of light Are flung behind the ma.s.sy groups, that, now Enlarging and enlarging still, unfold Their separate beauties. But awhile delay; Pa.s.s the foot-bridge, and listen (for we hear, Or think we hear her), listen to the song 70 Of yonder milkmaid, as she brims her pail; Whilst, in the yellow pasture, pensive near, The red cows ruminate.

Break off, break off, for lo! where, all alarmed, The small birds,[89] from the late resounding perch, Fly various, hushed their early song; and mark, Beneath the darkness of the bramble-bank That overhangs the half-seen brook, where nod The flowing rushes, dew-besprent, with breast Ruddy, and emerald wing, the kingfisher 80 Steals through the dripping sedge away. What shape Of terrors scares the woodland habitants, Marring the music of the dawn? Look round; See, where he creeps, beneath the willowy stump, Cowering and low, step silent after step, The booted fowler: keen his look, and fixed Upon the adverse bank, while, with firm hand, He grasps the deadly tube; his dog, with ears Hung back, and still and steady eye of fire, Points to the prey; the boor, intent, moves on 90 Panting, and creeping close beneath the leaves, And fears lest ev'n the rustling reeds betray His footfall; nearer yet, and yet more near, He stalks. Who now shall save the heedless group, The speckled partridges, that in the sun, On yonder hillock green, across the stream, Bask unalarmed beneath the hawthorn bush, Whose aged boughs the crawling blackberry Entwines!

And thus, upon the sweetest scenes 100 Of human loveliness, and social peace Domestic, when the full fond heart reclines Upon its hopes, and almost mingles tears Of joy, to think that in this hollow world Such bliss should be its portion; then (alas, The bitter change!), then, with his unheard step, In darkness shrouded, yet approaching fast, Death, from amidst the sunny flowers, lifts up His giant dread anatomy, and smites, Smites the fair prospect once, whilst every bloom 110 Hangs shrivelled, and a sound of mourning fills The lone and blasted valley: but no sound Is here of sorrow or of death, though she, The country Kate, with shining morning cheek (Who, in the tumbril, with her market-gear, Sits seated high), seems to expect the flash Exploding, that shall lay the innocent And feathered tenants of the landscape low.

Not so the clown, who, heedless whether life Or death betide, across the plashy ford 120 Drives slow; the beasts plod on, foot following foot, Aged and grave, with half-erected ears, As now his whip above their matted manes Hangs tremulous, while the dark and shallow stream Flashes beneath their fetlock: he, astride On harness saddle, not a sidelong look Deigns at the breathing landscape, or the maid Smiling behind; the cold and lifeless calf Her sole companion: and so mated oft Is some sweet maid, whose thrilling heart was formed 130 For dearer fellowship. But lift the eye, And hail the abode of rural ease. The man Walks forth, from yonder antique hall, that looks The mistress of the scene; its turrets gleam Amid the trees, and cheerful smoke is seen, As if no spectred shape (though most retired The spot) there ever wandered, stoled in white, Along the midnight chambers; but quaint Mab Her tiny revels led, till the rare dawn Peeped out, and chanticleer his shrill alarm 140 Beneath the window rang, then, with a wink, The shadowy rout have vanished!

As the morn Jocund ascends, how lovely is the view To him who owns the fair domain! The friend Of his still hours is near, to whom he vowed His truth; her eyes reflect his bliss; his heart Beats high with joy; his little children play, Pleased, in his pathway; one the scattered flowers Straggling collects, the other spreads its arms, 150 In speechless blandishment, upon the neck Of its caressing nurse.

Still let us gaze, And image every form of heartfelt joy Which scenes like these bestow, that charm the sight, Yet soothe the spirit. All is quiet here, Yet cheerful as the green sea, when it shines In some still bay, shines in its loneliness Beneath the breeze, that moves, and hardly moves, The placid surface. 160 On the bal.u.s.trade Of the old bridge, that o'er the moat is thrown, The fisher with his angle leans intent, And turns, from the bright pomp of spreading plains, To watch the nimble fry, that glancing oft Beneath the gray arch shoot! Oh, happiest he Who steals through life, untroubled as unseen!

The distant city, with its crowded spires, That dimly shines upon his view, awakes No thought but that of pleasure more composed, 170 As the winds whisper him to sounder sleep.

He leans upon the faithful arm of her For whom his youthful heart beat, fondly beat, When life was new: time steals away, yet health And exercise are his; and in these shades, Though sometimes he has mourned a proud world's wrong, He feels an independence that all cares b.r.e.a.s.t.s with a carol of content; he hears The green leaves of his old paternal trees Make music, soothing as they stir: the elm, 180 And poplar with its silvery trunk, that shades The green sward of the bank before his porch, Are to him as companions;--whilst he turns With more endearment to the living smile Of those his infants, who, when he is dead, Shall hear the music of the self-same trees Waving, till years roll on, and their gray hairs Go to the dust in peace.

Away, sad thought!

Lo! where the morning light, through the dark wood, 190 Upon the window-pane is flung like fire, Hail, Life and Hope; and thou, great work of art, That 'mid this populous and busy swarm Of men dost smile serene, as with the hues Of fairest, grandest Nature; may'st thou speak Not vainly of the endearments and best joys That Nature yields. The manliest heart that swells With honest English feelings,--while the eye, Saddened, but not cast down, beholds far off The darkness of the onward rolling storm,-- 200 Charmed for a moment by this mantling view, Its anxious tumults shall suspend: and such, The pensive patriot shall exclaim, thy scenes, My own beloved country, such the abode Of rural peace! and while the soul has warmth, And voice has energy, the brave arm strength, England, thou shalt not fall! The day shall come, Yes, and now is, that thou shalt lift thyself; And woe to him who sets upon thy sh.o.r.es His hostile foot! Proud victor though he be, 210 His b.l.o.o.d.y march shall never soil a flower That hangs its sweet head, in the morning dew, On thy green village banks! His mustered hosts Shall be rolled back in thousands, and the surge Bury them! Then, when peace illumes once more, My country, thy green nooks and inmost vales, It will be sweet amidst the forest glens To stray, and think upon the distant storm That howled, but injured not!

At thoughts like these, 220 What heart, what English heart, but shall beat high!

Meantime, its keen flash pa.s.sed, thine eye intent, Beaumont, shall trace the master-strokes of art, And view the a.s.semblage of the finished piece, As with his skill who formed it: ruder views, Savage, with solitary pines, hung high Amid the broken crags (where scowling wait The fierce banditti), stern Salvator's hand Shall aptly shade: o'er Poussin's cl.u.s.tering domes, With ampler umbrage, the black woods shall hang, 230 Beneath whose waving gloom the sudden flash Of broken light upon the brawling stream Is flung below.

Aerial Claude shall paint The gray fane peering o'er the summer woods, The azure lake below, or distant seas, And sails, in the pellucid atmosphere, Soft gleaming to the morn. Dark on the rock, Where the red lightnings burst, shall Wilson stand, Like mighty Shakspeare, whom the imps of fire 240 Await. Nor oh, sweet Gainsborough! shall thee The Muse forget, whose simple landscape smiles Attractive, whether we delight to view The cottage chimney through the high wood peep; Or beggar beauty stretch her little hand, With look most innocent; or homeward kine Wind through the hollow road at eventide, Or browse the straggling branches.

Scenes like these Shall charm all hearts, while truth and beauty live, 250 And Nature's pictured loveliness shall own Each master's varied touch; but chiefly thou, Great Rubens! shalt the willing senses lead, Enamoured of the varied imagery, That fills the vivid canvas, swelling still On the enraptured eye of taste, and still New charms unfolding; though minute, yet grand, Simple, yet most luxuriant; every light And every shade, greatly opposed, and all Subserving to one magical effect 260 Of truth and harmony.

So glows the scene; And to the pensive thought refined displays The richest rural poem. Oh, may views So pictured animate thy cla.s.sic mind, Beaumont, to wander 'mid Sicilian scenes, And catch the beauties of the pastoral bard,[90]

Shadowing his wildest landscapes! aetna's fires, Bebrycian rocks, Anapus' holy stream, And woods of ancient Pan; the broken crag 270 And the old fisher here; the purple vines There bending; and the smiling boy set down To guard, who, innocent and happy, weaves, Intent, his rushy basket, to ensnare The chirping gra.s.shoppers, nor sees the while The lean fox meditate her morning meal, Eyeing his scrip askance; whilst further on Another treads the purple grapes--he sits, Nor aught regards, but the green rush he weaves.

O Beaumont! let this pomp of light and shade 280 Wake thee, to paint the woods that the sweet Muse Has consecrated: then the summer scenes Of Phasidamus, clad in richer light, Shall glow, the glancing poplars, and clear fount; While distant times admire (as now we trace This summer-mantling view) h.o.a.r aetna's pines, The vine-hung grotts, and branching planes, that shade The silver Arethusa's stealing wave.

[89] The landscape is on so large a scale, that all these circ.u.mstances are most accurately delineated.

[90] Theocritus. Alluding to a design of ill.u.s.trating the _picturesque character_ of the venerable Sicilian, by paintings of Sir George, from new translations of Messrs Sotheby, Rogers, Howley, W. Spencer, and the author.

THE HARP, AND DESPAIR, OF COWPER.

Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve, And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere, Turning to the sound his ear, Bend down a look of sympathy and love; Oh, swell the lyre again, As if in full accord it poured an angel's strain!

But oh! what means that look aghast, Ev'n whilst it seemed in holy trance, On scenes of bliss above to glance!

Was it a fiend of darkness pa.s.sed!

Oh, speak-- Paleness is upon his cheek-- On his brow the big drops stand, To airy vacancy Points the dread silence of his eye, And the loved lyre it falls, falls from his nerveless hand!

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!

Oh, come, and make thy downy nest Once more on his sad heart!

Meek Faith, a drop of comfort shed; Sweet Hope, support his aged head; And Charity, avert the burning dart!

Fruitless the prayer--the night of deeper woes Seems o'er the head even now to close; In vain the path of purity he trod, In vain, in vain, He poured from Fancy's sh.e.l.l his sweetest hermit strain-- He has no hope on earth: forsake him not, O G.o.d!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I trust the happy hour will come, 1 That shall to peace thy breast restore; And that we two, beloved friend, Shall one day meet to part no more.

It grieves me most, that parting thus, 2 All my soul feels I dare not speak; And when I turn me from thy sight, The tears in silence wet my cheek.

Yet I look forward to the time, 3 That shall each wound of sorrow heal; When I may press thee to my heart, And tell thee all that now I feel.{e}

MUSIC.

O Music! if thou hast a charm That may the sense of pain disarm, Be all thy tender tones addressed To soothe to peace my Harriet's breast; And bid the magic of thy strain So still the wakeful throb of pain, That, rapt in the delightful measure, Sweet Hope again may whisper pleasure, And seem the notes of Spring to hear, Prelusive to a happier year!

And if thy magic can restore The shade of days that smile no more, And softer, sweeter colours give To scenes that in remembrance live; Be to her pensive heart a friend, And, whilst the tender shadows blend, Recall, ere the brief trace be lost, Each moment that she prized the most.

Perhaps, when many a cheerful day Hereafter shall have stolen away, If then some old and favourite strain Should bring back to her thoughts again The hours when, silent by her side, I listened to her song and sighed; Perhaps a long-forgotten name, A thought, if not a tear may claim; And when in distant plains away, Alone I count each lingering day, She may a silent prayer prefer For him whose heart once bled for her.

ABSENCE.

OCTOBER 26, 1791.

How shall I cheat the heavy hours, of thee Deprived, of thy kind looks and converse sweet, Now that the waving grove the dark storms beat, And wintry winds sad sounding o'er the lea,[91]

Scatter the sallow leaf! I would believe, Thou, at this hour, with tearful tenderness Dost muse on absent images, and press In thought my hand, and say: Oh do not grieve, Friend of my heart! at wayward fortune's power; One day we shall be happy, and each hour Of pain forget, cheered by the summer ray.

These thoughts beguile my sorrow for thy loss, And, as the aged pines their dark heads toss, Oft steal the sense of solitude away.