The Union: Or, Select Scots And English Poems Part 4

G.o.ddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh; Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels, and the house of woe; To gothic churches, vaults and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek.

Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs, Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles, lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire; I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat; The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear: Give me another horse I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage?----what spirit, say, To battle hurries me away?

'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war; There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Where tumult and destruction reign; Where mad with pain, the wounded steed, Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield.

O guide me from this horrid scene To high-archt walks, and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun The fervors of the mid-day sun.

The pangs of absence, O remove, For thou can'st place me near my love.

Can'st fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss; While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence.

When young-eyed spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks, When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season, let my ear Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear.

O warm enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane, To utter an unhallow'd strain; Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.

O hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave.

O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who fill'd with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new, unequall'd song, May rise above the rhyming throng.

O'er all our list'ning pa.s.sions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain: With terror shake, and pity move, Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.

O deign t' attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottos talk; Teach him to scorn, with frigid art, Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart; Like light'ning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause, Beyond cold critic's studied laws: O let each Muse's fame encrease, O bid Britannia rival Greece!

ODE

TO

EVENING.

BY THE SAME.

I.

Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey, Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves; As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes, Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.

II.

When Phaebus sinks behind the gilded hills; You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk; The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews, And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk.

III.

The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat To inmost bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran; Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance, Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.

IV.

To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair, Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene; And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field, Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.

V.

The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock, His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies; Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour, And with hoa.r.s.e humming of unnumber'd flies.

VI.

Now ev'ry Pa.s.sion sleeps: desponding Love, And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride; An holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul, Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.

VII.

O modest EVENING! oft let me appear A wandering votary in thy pensive train; Listening to every wildly-warbling note, That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.

ODE

TO

EVENING.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear; Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales, O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, Maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with it's stillness suit, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding star arising shews His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in flowers the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, The Pensive Pleasure's sweet Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or up-land fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill bl.u.s.tering winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut, That from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.

While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport, Beneath thy ling'ring light: While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure-found beneath thy sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name!

ISIS.

AN

ELEGY.

WRITTEN BY MR. MASON OF CAMBRIDGE, 1748.

Far from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright, The pointed crystals shot their trembling light, From dripping moss where sparkling dew-drops fell, Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed sh.e.l.l, Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shade Spread its thin foliage o'er the sleeping maid; Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast In careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless vest; While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow, In all the awful negligence of woe; Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all its grace; Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science seen, Known by the laurel wreath, and musing mien: There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace sedate and bland, Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand; While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas green, At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene.

On this the G.o.ddess cast an anxious look, Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke: Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace The mimic charms of this prophetic vase; Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes View on yon plain the real glories rise.

Yes, ISIS! oft hast thou rejoic'd to lead Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead; Oft hast thou stopt thy pearly car to gaze, While ev'ry Science nurs'd it's growing bays; While ev'ry Youth with fame's strong impulse fir'd, Prest to the goal, and at the goal untir'd, s.n.a.t.c.h'd each celestial wreath, to bind his brow, The Muses, Graces, Virtues could bestow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train, And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain; See! the firm leaders of my patriot line, See! SIDNEY, RALEIGH, HAMDEN, SOMERS shine.

See HOUGH superior to a tyrant's doom Smile at the menace of the slave of Rome, Each soul whom truth could fire, or virtue move, Each breast, strong panting with it's country's love, All that to Albion gave the heart or head, That wisely counsel'd, or that bravely bled, All, all appear; on me they grateful smile, The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil To me with filial reverence they bring, And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd spring.

Ah! I remember well yon beachen spray, There ADDISON first tun'd his polish'd lay; 'Twas there great CATO'S form first met his eye, In all the pomp of free-born majesty; "My son, he cry'd, observe this mein with awe, "In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw; "The piercing notes shall strike each British ear; "Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear!

"And rous'd to Glory by the nervous strain, "Each Youth shall spurn at slav'ry's abject reign, "Shall guard with CATO'S zeal Britannia's laws, "And speak, and act, and bleed in freedom's cause."

The Hero spoke; the bard a.s.senting bow'd The lay to liberty and CATO flow'd; While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along, Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song.

But ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground, How mute Attention check'd each rising sound; Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray, Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay, When LOCKE walk'd musing forth; e'en now I view Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow, View Candor smile upon his modest cheek, And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.