THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS.

Though youth may boast the curls that flow In sunny waves of auburn glow; As graceful on thy hoary head Has Time the robe of honour spread, And there, oh! softly, softly shed His wreath of snow! As frost-work on the trees display’d When weeping Flora leaves the shade, E’en more than Flora, charms the sight; E’en so thy locks of purest white Survive, in age’s frost-work bright, Youth’s vernal rose decay’d! To grace the nymph whose tresses play Light on the sportive breeze of May, Let other bards the garland twine, Where sweets of every hue combine; Those locks revered, that silvery shine, Invite my lay! Less white the summer-cloud sublime, Less white the winter’s fringing rime; Nor do Belinda’s lovelier seem (A Poet’s blest immortal theme) Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam Of reverend Time! Long may the graceful honours smile, Like moss on some declining pile; O much revered! may filial care Around thee, duteous, long repair, Thy joys with tender bliss to share, Thy pains beguile! Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave! Long, long, your much-loved beauty save! May bliss your latest evening crown, Disarm life’s winter of its frown, And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down In gladness to the grave! And as the parting beams of day On mountain-snows reflected play, And tints of roseate lustre shed; Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head, May joy, with evening planet, shed His mildest ray! August 18, 1809.

If e’er from human bliss or woe I feel the sympathetic glow; If e’er my heart has learn’d to know The generous wish or prayer; Who sow’d the germ with tender hand? Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?— My mother’s fostering care. And if one flower of charms refined May grace the garden of my mind, ’Twas she who nursed it there: She loved to cherish and adorn Each blossom of the soil; To banish every weed and thorn That oft opposed her toil! And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim The palm, the living palm of fame, The glowing wreath of praise; If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores That Fortune on her favourite pours; ’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine, Round thee with streaming rays might shine, And gild thy sun-bright days! Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power Might then irradiate every hour; For these, my mother! well I know, On thee no raptures could bestow;— But could thy bounty, warm and kind, Be, like thy wishes, unconfined, And fall as manna from the skies, And bid a train of blessings rise, Diffusing joy and peace; The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright, For thee would beam with softer light Than all the diamond’s crystal rays, Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze; And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart To bid one bosom-grief depart, One tear, one sorrow cease! Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless, Bestow the power to cheer distress; Make thee its minister below, To light the cloudy path of woe; To visit the deserted cell, Where indigence is doom’d to dwell; To raise, when drooping to the earth, The blossoms of neglected worth; And round, with liberal hand, dispense The sunshine of beneficence! But ah! if Fate should still deny Delights like these, too rich and high; If grief and pain thy steps assail, In life’s remote and wintry vale; Then, as the wild Æolian lyre Complains with soft entrancing number, When the lone storm awakes the wire, And bids enchantment cease to slumber; So filial love, with soothing voice, E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice; E’en then shall sweeter, milder sound, When sorrow’s tempest raves around; While dark misfortune’s gales destroy, The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way; Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers, Whose fragrance shall never decay! And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies, With artless delight, that no words can bespeak; With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, With a smile and a glow on her cheek! From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield, From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest; Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field, To the vale of retirement and rest. Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice, Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain; For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice To meet thee, my Brother! again. When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true, Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d, How often would fancy present to my view The horrors that waited thee round! How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer, That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm; That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, In the heat of the combat’s alarm! How sad and how often descended the tear, (Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!) How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear I might never behold thee again! But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er, And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose; Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more, And my bosom with tenderness glows. And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth, Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away; My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, Shall never, oh! never decay! No time can impair it, no change can destroy, Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share; It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy, And beam through the cloud of despair!

How many a day, in various hues array’d, Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade, How many an hour, on silent wing is past, O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last! Since then has childhood ripen’d into youth, And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth; Her splendid fabrics melting into air, As sage experience waved the wand of care! Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, And the tear trembles in affection’s eye! When shall we meet again?—with glowing ray Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day; Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear, And sings benignly still—that day is near! She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice; Tells that the hour approaches, to restore Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more; Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, To faith still true, affection still sincere! Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot, In that blest meeting shall be all forgot! And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour, Though all around th’ impending storm should lower. Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host, Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast, (That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,) Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away? Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam, And paint the greeting that awaits at home? Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue, Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; In softer tints delighting to retrace Each tender image and each well-known face? Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows. Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours, Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers! Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast, No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest! But though our tenderness can but bestow The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe, Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame, In storms, in sunshine, far and near—the same! Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart, And, firm and vital, but with life depart! Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811.

O thou! whose pure, exalted mind, Lives in this record, fair and bright; O thou! whose blameless life combined Soft female charms, and grace refined, With science and with light! Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d Beyond this vale of tears— Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored The lore of years! Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en here, The wing of towering thought was thine; If, on this dim and mundane sphere, Fair truth illumed thy bright career, With morning-star divine; How must thy bless’d ethereal soul Now kindle in her noontide ray, And hail, unfetter’d by control, The Fount of Day! E’en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear, Behold a chain of wonders rise— Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies, Transcendant, pure, and clear! E’en now, the fair, the good, the true, From mortal sight conceal’d, Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, In light reveal’d! If here the lore of distant time, And learning’s flowers, were all thine own; How must thy mind ascend sublime, Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime, To light’s unclouded throne! Perhaps e’en now thy kindling glance Each orb of living fire explores, Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse, Admires—adores! Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys This dark and sublunary plain; How must the wreath of human praise Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, So dim, so pale, so vain! How, like a faint and shadowy dream, Must quiver learning’s brightest ray; While on thine eyes, with lucid stream, The sun of glory pours his beam, Perfection’s day!

Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom On this lone tower, this ivied wall, Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall. Though doom’d, remote from careless eye, To smile, to flourish, and to die In solitude sublime, Oh! ever may the spring renew, Your balmy scent and glowing hue, To deck the robe of time! Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air, Though wasted on its wing unknown! Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair, Neglected and alone! These flowers that long withstood the blast, These mossy towers, are mouldering fast, While Flora’s children stay— To mantle o’er the lonely pile, To gild Destruction with a smile, And beautify Decay! Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing, Neglected in luxuriance glowing; From the dark ruins frowning near, Your charms in brighter tints appear, And richer blush assume; You smile with softer beauty crown’d, Whilst all is desolate around, Like sunshine on a tomb! Thou hoary pile, majestic still, Memento of departed fame! While roving o’er the moss-clad hill, I ponder on thine ancient name! Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep, That here, so oft, have shone supreme; While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep That vanish’d is the golden dream! Where are the banners, waving proud, To kiss the summer-gale of even— All purple as the morning-cloud, All streaming to the winds of heaven? Where is the harp, by rapture strung To melting song or martial story? Where are the lays the minstrel sung To loveliness or glory? Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, To thee no festal measure calls; No music through the desert halls, Awakes thee to rejoice! How still thy sleep! as death profound— As if, within this lonely round, A step—a note—a whisper’d sound Had ne’er aroused thy voice! Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying, Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing; But ne’er again shall harp or song, These dark deserted courts along, Disturb thy calm repose. The harp is broke, the song is fled, The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead; And never shall thy tones repeat Or lofty strain or carol sweet With plaintive close! Proud Castle! though the days are flown When once thy towers in glory shone; When music through thy turrets rung, When banners o’er thy ramparts hung, Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone, Stern Desolation rear his throne; And Silence, deep and awful, reign Where echo’d once the choral strain; Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here, The Muse will hail thee with a tear; Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams, And through the fringing ivy streams, And softens every shade sublime, And mellows every tint of Time— Oh! here shall Contemplation love, Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove; And bending o’er some mossy tomb, Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom, Shall weep for Glory’s transient day And Grandeur’s evanescent ray; And listening to the swelling blast, Shall wake the Spirit of the Past— Call up the forms of ages fled, Of warriors and of minstrels dead, Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, With all Ambition’s kindling fire! Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe Soft odours on this desert air; Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath, And fringe these towers with garlands fair! Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom Unheeded on this ivied wall! Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall! Thus round Misfortune’s holy head, Would Pity wreaths of honour spread; Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!

Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime, Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal; And, hailing this auspicious time, Kneel, Adoration! kneel!

For lo! the day, th’ immortal day, When Mercy’s full, benignant ray Chased every gathering cloud away, And pour’d the noon of light! Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing, While from thine eye the tear is flowing, Pure, warm, and bright! ’Twas on this day—oh, love divine!— The Orient Star’s effulgence rose; Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign Shall never, never close!

Messiah! be thy name adored, Eternal, high, redeeming Lord! By grateful worlds be anthems pour’d— Emanuel! Prince of Peace! This day, from heaven’s empyreal dwelling, Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling, Bade discord cease! Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice, Children of heaven and sons of earth! Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice, To bless the Saviour’s birth!

Devotion! light thy purest fire! Transport! on cherub wing aspire! Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre, Strike every thrilling chord! While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling, We own thy grace, reviving, healing, Redeemer! Lord!

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, To light the wilderness with beams of heaven? To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse Their temper’d sunshine and celestial hues? Those pure delights, ordain’d on life to throw Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know? Say, do they grace Ambition’s regal throne, When kneeling myriads call the world his own? Or dwell with Luxury, in th’ enchanted bowers Where taste and wealth exert creative powers? Favour’d of heaven! O Genius! are they thine, When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine; While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day? No! sacred joys! ’tis yours to dwell enshrined, Most fondly cherish’d, in the purest mind; To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties, On earth so sweet—so perfect in the skies! Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade, The violet smiles, embosom’d in the glade There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale! Thus, far retired from life’s tumultuous road, Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode Where hallow’d Innocence and sweet Repose May strew her shadowy path with many a rose. As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky, The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye, And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, While viewless angels wave their pinions near; Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll, Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole, While War’s red lightnings desolate the ball, And thrones and empires in destruction fall; Then calm as evening on the silvery wave, When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave, She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest, Her empire Home!—her throne, Affection’s breast! For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms, And softer sunshine every scene illumes. When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas; When Summer, waving her creative wand, Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand; Or Autumn’s pencil sheds, with magic trace, O’er fading lowliness, a moonlight grace; Oh! still for her, through Nature’s boundless reign, No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain; While mental peace, o’er every prospect bright, Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light! Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime, Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high, The blood-red meteor of the northern sky! And high through darkness rears his giant-form, His throne the billow, and his flag the storm! Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more, And the wild surges foam along the shore, Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene, Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green! Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade— Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade! Clear through the day, her light around thee glows, And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose! —Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection’s hand With flowers of Eden twines her magic band! Where pure and bright the social ardours rise, Concentring all their holiest energies!— When wasting toil has dimm’d the vital flame, And every power deserts the sinking frame, Exhausted nature still from sleep implores The charm that lulls, the manna that restores! Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares, To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs; Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies! Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love, Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove; To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar— Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star! And from the martial field, the troubled sea, Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee! When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh; Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign, And the moon trembles on the sleeping main; At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep! No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound, All heaven—and sea—and solitude—around! Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm, From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm, Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear! Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, And Danger frowns—the monarch of the wave! Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel, And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell! Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge, Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge? Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er, No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more! Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, The struggling agony for death or life, E’en then thy mind, embittering every pain, Retraced the image so beloved—in vain! Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, Life’s parting sigh—the murmur of adieu! Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface, Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase? Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy The loved impression of domestic joy? Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier’s breast, In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest, Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray O’er the long march through Desolation’s way; Oh! still ye bear him from th’ ensanguined plain, Armour’s bright flash, and Victory’s choral strain, To that loved Home where pure affection glows, That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose! When all is hush’d—the rage of combat past, And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast; When the warm throb of many a heart is o’er, And many an eye is closed to wake no more; Lull’d by the night-wind, pillow’d on the ground, (The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round!) While o’er the slain the tears of midnight weep, Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep! E’en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray The cherish’d forms that o’er his bosom sway; He sees fond transport light each beaming face, Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace! While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart, “Hail, weary soldier!—never more to part!” And lo! at last, released from every toil, He comes!—the wanderer views his native soil! Then the bright raptures words can never speak Flash in his eye and mantle o’er his cheek! Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer Implored for him each guardian-spirit’s care; Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year, Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear; In that blest moment, all the past forget— Hours of suspense and vigils of regret! And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms, Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms! How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note For woodland-sounds in summer air that float! Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam, And breathe his native gales, that whisper—‘Home!’ Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, Charms of existence! angel sympathies! Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen! And guide her votaries through a fairy scene, Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers; Though gazing nations hail the fiery car That bears the Son of Conquest from afar, While Fame’s loud pæan bids his heart rejoice, And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice;— Yet from your source alone, in mazes bright, Flows the full current of serene delight! On Freedom’s wing, that every wild explores, Through realms of space, th’ aspiring eagle soars! Darts o’er the clouds, exulting to admire, Meridian glory—on her throne of fire! Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze; But soon, descending from his height sublime. Day’s burning fount, and light’s empyreal clime, Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest, Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest! Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, And proudly waving in his gifted hand, O’er Fancy’s worlds, Invention’s plastic wand, Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys The clearest heaven of intellectual rays! Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, And kindling raptures aid him to ascend, (While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught, Dilate the noblest energies of thought;) Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, At length he flies, to that serene retreat, Where calm and pure the mild affections meet; Embosom’d there, to feel and to impart The softer pleasures of the social heart! Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, From every tie by fate relentless torn; See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle, Mark’d with no step, uncheer’d by human smile, Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck’d wanderer stand, Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand! Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, And weep—and pray—and linger—but in vain! Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade, Where voice ne’er echo’d, footstep never stray’d, He fondly seeks, o’er cliffs and deserts rude, Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude! And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone The wood’s deep sigh, the surge’s distant moan! All else is hush’d! so silent, so profound, As if some viewless power, presiding round, With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, Had spread for ages the repose of death! Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, Lives but to watch—and watches but to weep! He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, His the dread loneliness of sea and skies! Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore, Banish’d from being—to return no more; There must he die!—within that circling wave, That lonely isle—his prison and his grave! Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows, With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes! Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild, Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled; Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign, And bind existence in eternal chain! Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom! Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb! While on thy faded cheek the arctic air Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair! Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day In that stern clime to shed its parting ray; Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight; Ah! not for this—far, far beyond relief, Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; But that no friend of kindred heart is there, Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share; That no mild soother fondly shall assuage The stormy trials of thy lingering age; No smile of tenderness, with angel power, Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour; For this alone, despair, a withering guest, Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast! Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime, Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime; Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, In all his wild magnificence of might; E’en there, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore! And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced, That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced, Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow! The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign, With mystic power could tranquillise the main; Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep, And peace and silence brood upon the deep! And thus, Affection, can thy voice compose The stormy tide of passions and of woes; Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, And lull misfortune in the arms of peace! Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien, Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene! Long ere victorious time had sought to chase The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face, That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care, Those waving locks were silver’d by despair! Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm, Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm! He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home, Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave, Where joy—and hope—and fortune—found a grave! ’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, And roll triumphant on their blasted way, In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay! Unequal combat raged on many a plain, And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain! Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled, Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head! Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye Roused the stern spirit of despair to die! Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d, The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom, Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb! When carnage burst, exulting in the strife, The bosom ties that bound his soul to life, Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile, E’en then could temper, with divine relief, The wild delirium of unbounded grief; And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart! And now, though time, subduing every trace, Has mellow’d all, he never can erase; Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow, Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe! Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone, (Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) With anxious tenderness is ever nigh, To chase the image that awakes the sigh! Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise To brighter visions of celestial days! And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar On eagle-plume—to wonder and adore; And friends, divided here, shall meet at last, Unite their kindred souls—and smile on all the past! Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties, Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies! Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours, Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom, Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb! And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze; Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, Life’s closing lesson—in its dawning day; Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime, Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time; There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye, There, from her child, the mother learns to die; Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace Of lingering sickness in the faded face; Through the sad night, when every hope is fled, Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed; And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare The spoiler’s hand—the blight of death is there! He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame, Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame; From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray— Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away! Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart; Yet fond existence lingers ere she part! ’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er, And life shall throb with agony no more; While o’er the wasted form, the features pale, Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil. Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career, Still could maternal love beguile thy woes, And hush thy sighs—an angel of repose! But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest, Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast? And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier, Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear? Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d, Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d! And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile, With flattering promise, to enchant awhile? And are ye vanish’d, never to return, Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn? Will no bright hour departed joys restore? Shall the sad parent meet her child no more? Behold no more the soul-illumined face, The expressive smile, the animated grace! Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb, Revive no more in loveliness and bloom? Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care, And chase the gathering phantoms of despair; Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn, Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn; Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, The full perfection of immortal hues; Tell, that when mounting to her native skies, By death released, the parent spirit flies; There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long, With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, And guide her pinion on exulting flight, Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light. Ye gentle spirits of departed friends! If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends; If, with benignant care, ye linger near, To guard the objects in existence dear; If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view The tender sorrows, to your memory true; Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep, While for your loss affection wakes to weep; While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies, But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs; Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near, Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear; With secret spells her wounded mind compose, And chase the faithful tear—for you that flows: Be near—when moonlight spreads the charm you loved O’er scenes where once your earthly footstep roved. Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew, Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you, And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers, And pauses oft, recalling former hours; Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale, Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale; Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell, Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell; And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul With soft enchantments and divine control! Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest, When Slumber folds her in his magic vest; Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes; Efface the memory of your last farewell— Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell; The sweet communion of the past renew, Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue. Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour, Calls up each pang, and summons all his power; Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream, Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam; Then waft the vision of unclouded light, A burst of glory, on her closing sight; Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain, To hush the final agonies of pain; With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume, And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom! Oh! still be near, when, darting into day, Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay; Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high O’er many a world, ascending to the sky; There let your presence, once her earthly joy, Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy, Now form her bliss on that celestial shore Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more. Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime, Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time; Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire, Shall beam on glories never to expire; Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust, More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust, Those mild affections, whose consoling light Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow, Exalting rapture—not assuaging woe!

“The minstrel was infirm and old;”

Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring Life, rapture, soul, from every string; And wake, like bards of former time, The spirit of the harp sublime;— Oh! still prolong the varying strain! Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again! Thine is the charm, suspending care, The heavenly swell, the dying close, The cadence melting into air, That lulls each passion to repose; While transport, lost in silence near, Breathes all her language in a tear. Exult, O Cambria!—now no more With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore: What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow And Mona’s woods be silent now, Yet can thy Conway boast a strain Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign. For Genius, with divine control, Wakes the bold chord neglected long, And pours Expression’s glowing soul O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song; And Inspiration, hovering round, Swells the full energies of sound. Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone, Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire, And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan, That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre: As if some sylph, with viewless wing, Were sighing o’er the magic string. Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill That soothes, inspires, commands, at will! And oh! while rapture hails the lay, Far distant be the closing day, When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep!

Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list— Here lies a famous Mineralogist. Famous indeed! such traces of his power, He’s left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr, Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks, His works resemble those of earthquake shocks; And future ages very much may wonder What mighty giant rent the hills asunder, Or whether Lucifer himself had ne’er Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there. His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue, With him, good reader, here lie buried too— Sweet specimens! which, toiling to obtain, He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain. We knew, so great the fuss he made about them, Alive or dead, he ne’er would rest without them; So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, We paved his grave with all his favourite stones. His much-loved hammer’s resting by his side; Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified: His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses, And at his feet a lump of coal reposes: Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet!— His very coffin-plate is made of granite. Weep not, good reader! he is truly blest Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest: Weep not for him! but envied be his doom, Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room: And, O ye rocks!—schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be, Ye varied strata!—names too hard for me— Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low. Ne’er on your spoils again shall W—— riot. Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet— He sleeps—no longer planning hostile actions, As cold as any of his petrifactions; Enshrined in specimens of every hue, Too tranquil e’en to dream, ye rocks, of you.

Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er, A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before. Released from toil, it slumbers by the side Of one who oft its temper sorely tried; No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life: Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize; But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies, And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, I’m sure they almost would have made—a penny! Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, What fearful risks this hammer must have run. And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine In lays more lofty and more famed than mine: Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot, Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott! Then should its name with his be closely link’d, And live till every mineral were extinct. Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field— Bid W——’s hammer match Achilles’ shield: As for my muse, the chaos of her brain, I search for specimens of wit in vain; Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer; Remembering well, “what perils do environ” Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.”

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, Stands “The Poor Gentleman,” with many a fear; Since well he knows, whoe’er may judge his cause, That Poverty’s no title to applause. Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote, If all their drapery be a threadbare coat? Who, in a world where all is bought and sold, Minds a man’s worth—except his worth in gold? Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner! Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner! Away with Poverty! let none receive her, She bears contagion as a plague or fever; “Bony, and gaunt, and grim”—like jaundiced eyes, Discolouring all within her sphere that lies. “Poor Gentleman!” and by poor soldiers, too! Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous! In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is, With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses, How shall they dare at such a bar appear? What are their tactics and manœuvres here? While thoughts like these come rushing o’er our mind, Oh! may we still indulgence hope to find! Brave sons of Erin! whose distinguish’d name Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle! View our weak efforts with approving smile! School’d in rough camps, and still disdaining art, Ill can the soldier act a borrow’d part; The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage; His theatre is found in every land, Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band: Place him in danger’s front—he recks not where— Be your own Wellington his prompter there, And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, He’ll act his part in glory’s tragic scene. Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall’d round, And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound, Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter’s wile Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty’s smile; Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear, Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies, No stage effect of glittering pageantries: No, to your kindness he must look alone To realise the hope he dares not own; And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye, His wish to please may claim indemnity. And why despair, indulgence when we crave From Erin’s sons, the generous and the brave? Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught; Still has the stranger, in their social isle, Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, And well their hearts can share, though unexpress’d, Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier’s breast.

“Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza, ond’ hai Funesta dote d’infiniti guai, Che’n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte; Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.” Filicaja.

Land of departed fame! whose classic plains Have proudly echo’d to immortal strains; Whose hallow’d soil hath given the great and brave, Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave; Home of the Arts! where glory’s faded smile Sheds lingering light o’er many a mouldering pile; Proud wreck of vanish’d power, of splendour fled, Majestic temple of the mighty dead! Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day; Though dimm’d thy brightness, riveted thy chain, Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again! Lost, lovely realm! once more ’tis thine to gaze On the rich relics of sublimer days. Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, Or sacred Tivoli’s romantic glades; Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb; Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave, Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave, Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high— Those magic strains of love and chivalry! If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove, Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song, Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, Hallow’d by time, by absence more endear’d. And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might Each danger stemm’d, prevail’d in every fight— Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind; Whose banners track’d the vanquish’d Eagle’s flight O’er many a plain, and dark sierra’s height; Who bade once more the wild heroic lay Record the deeds of Roncesvalles’ day; Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe; Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales, And ’midst those scenes renew’d th’ achievements high Bequeath’d to fame by England’s ancestry. Yet, when the storm seem’d hush’d, the conflict past, One strife remain’d—the mightest and the last! Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour Untamed Ambition summon’d all his power: Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, And the stern might of resolute Despair. Isle of the free! ’twas then thy champions stood, Breasting unmoved the combat’s wildest flood; Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone, Glow’d in each breast, and sunk with life alone. O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; Shrined, not entomb’d, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow’d by deeds of more than mortal worth. What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, Yours, on the scene where valour’s race was run, A prouder sepulchre—the field ye won! There every mead, each cabin’s lowly name, Shall live a watchword blended with your fame; And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown That ask no urn to blazon their renown! There shall the bard in future ages tread, And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead; Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave! Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear In every breeze some name to glory dear; And as the shades of twilight close around, With martial pageants people all the ground. Thither unborn descendants of the slain Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, While as they trace each spot, whose records tell Where fought their fathers, and prevail’d, and fell, Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! And many an age shall see the brave repair To learn the Hero’s bright devotion there. And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre! ’twas there th’ avenging sword Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; Those precious trophies o’er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought, Embodied visions of ascending thought! Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced In tints that vindicate adoring taste! Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory’s throne; Models of art, to deathless fame consign’d, Stamp’d with the high-born majesty of mind; Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero’s tomb. Oh! ne’er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy— Ne’er was it yours to bid the soul expand With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, As in that realm, where each faint breeze’s moan Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone; Where midst the ruin’d shrines of many a vale, E’en Desolation tells a haughty tale, And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, But its proud name with song eternal blends! Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords; And the deep tones of inspiration swell From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell; Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot; There was your home, and there your power imprest, With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast; And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, Thus at your influence, starting from repose, Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. Fair Florence! queen of Arno’s lovely vale! Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, And sternly smiled, in retribution’s hour, To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler’s power. Too long the spirits of thy noble dead Mourn’d o’er the domes they rear’d in ages fled. Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, Temples of genius, palaces of taste, Too long, with sad and desolated mien, Reveal’d where Conquest’s lawless track had been; Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, Lonely they frown’d, a desert solitude. Florence! th’ Oppressor’s noon of pride is o’er, Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more! As one who, starting at the dawn of day From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, With transport heighten’d by those ills of night, Hails the rich glories of expanding light; E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow, With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace; More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored— Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed By fond affection bending o’er the dead. Athens of Italy! once more are thine Those matchless gems of Art’s exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o’er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majesty— So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand. Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance— Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, And daring Intellect his bondage break— Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, And snatch’d the Tuscan lyre from long repose, And bade its pealing energies resound With power electric through the realms around; O high in thought, magnificent in soul! Born to inspire, enlighten, and control; Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more, The shrine where nations mingle to adore! Again th’ enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, Shall hail the mighty of departed days: Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind Seems in the marble’s breathing mould enshrined; Still with ascendant power the world to awe, Still the deep homage of the heart to draw; To breathe some spell of holiness around, Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind! Love’s radiant goddess, idol of mankind! Once the bright object of Devotion’s vow, Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light Flash’d o’er the sculptor’s intellectual sight, How many a glimpse, reveal’d to him alone, Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own; Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness! Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye On forms instinct with bright divinity, While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, Embrace the full magnificence of Art; From scenes by Raphael’s gifted hand array’d, From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray’d; From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, Seal’d with perfection, “sanctified by time;” Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel His spirit burn with emulative zeal: Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, Imbued at once with nobler energies; O’er life’s dim scenes on rapid pinions soar, And worlds of visionary grace explore, Till his bold hand give glory’s daydream birth, And with new wonders charm admiring earth. Venice exult! and o’er thy moonlight seas Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze! What though long fled those years of martial fame That shed romantic lustre o’er thy name; Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, And the wild waves another Queen obey; Though quench’d the spirit of thine ancient race, And power and freedom scarce have left a trace; Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, And gild the wreck of years for ever past. Again thy fanes may boast a Titian’s dyes, Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies, And scenes that glow in colouring’s richest bloom With life’s warm flush Palladian halls illume. From thy rich dome again th’ unrivall’d steed Starts to existence, rushes into speed, Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, No mortal birth ye seem—but form’d to bear Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air; To range uncurb’d the pathless fields of space, The winds your rivals in the glorious race; Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet; And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, The flame that wakes creations into day. Creatures of fire and ether! wing’d with light, To track the regions of the Infinite! From purer elements whose life was drawn, Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn What years, on years in silence gliding by, Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry! Moulded by Art to dignify alone Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne, Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow’d Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, How many a race, whose tales of glory seem An echo’s voice—the music of a dream, Whose records feebly from oblivion save A few bright traces of the wise and brave; How many a state, whose pillar’d strength sublime Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, Towering o’er earth majestic and alone, Fortress of power—has flourish’d and is gone! And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne, Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, Consummate still in every grace remain, As o’er their heads had ages roll’d in vain! Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight O’er countless monuments of earthly might! While she, from fair Byzantium’s lost domain, Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign. ’Midst the blue deep, who rear’d her island throne, And called th’ infinitude of waves her own; Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea, Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free! And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl’d Once cast its shadow o’er a vassal world, Eternal city! round whose Curule throne The lords of nations knelt in ages flown; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time Immortal records of their glorious prime; When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, Swell’d the high raptures of heroic song; Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head From the cold altars of th’ illustrious dead, And once again with fond delight survey The proud memorials of thy noblest day. Lo! where thy sons, O Rome! a godlike train, In imaged majesty return again! Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august O’er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, Still o’er thy children seem to claim control; With awful grace arrest the pilgrim’s glance, Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, And bid the past, to fancy’s ardent eyes, From time’s dim sepulchre in glory rise. Souls of the lofty! whose undying names Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims; Oh! with your images could fate restore Your own high spirit to your sons once more; Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return That bade your hearts with freedom’s ardours burn; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phœnix grandeur burst! With one bright glance dispel th’ horizon’s gloom, With one loud call wake empire from the tomb; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, Lift her dread ægis with majestic frown, Unchain her eagle’s wing, and guide his flight To bathe his plumage in the fount of light! Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o’er; Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, Who fix’d on thee the world’s adoring gaze; Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, More blest, ere darkness quench’d its beam, to die! Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay! Oh! what can realms in fame’s full zenith boast To match the relics of thy splendour lost! By Tiber’s waves, on each illustrious hill, Genius and Taste shall love to wander still; For there has Art survived an empire’s doom, And rear’d her throne o’er Latium’s trophied tomb: She from the dust recalls the brave and free, Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee! Oh! ne’er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter’d oak! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th’ immortal Archer’s form Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm! Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame A living temple of ethereal flame? Lord of the daystar! how may words portray Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray? Whate’er the soul could dream, the hand could trace, Of regal dignity and heavenly grace; Each purer effluence of the fair and bright, Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight Each bold idea, borrow’d from the sky, To vest th’ embodied form of Deity; All, all in thee, ennobled and refined, Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined! Son of Elysium! years and ages gone Have bow’d in speechless homage at thy throne, And days unborn, and nations yet to be, Shall gaze, absorb’d in ecstasy, on thee! And thou, triumphant wreck,[6] e’en yet sublime, Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time: Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught From thee its fervours of diviner thought! Where He, th’ inspired One, whose gigantic mind Lived in some sphere to him alone assign’d; Who from the past, the future, and th’ unseen Could call up forms of more than earthly mien: Unrivall’d Angelo on thee would gaze, Till his full soul imbibed perfection’s blaze! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? Emblem of Rome! from power’s meridian hurl’d, Yet claiming still the homage of the world. What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced The work of wonder, idolised by taste? Oh! worthy still of some divine abode, Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God![7] Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, ’Tis thine, by fate unconquer’d, to dispense From every part some ray of excellence! E’en yet, inform’d with essence from on high, Thine is no trace of frail mortality! Within that frame a purer being glows, Through viewless veins a brighter current flows; Fill’d with immortal life each muscle swells, In every line supernal grandeur dwells, Consummate work! the noblest and the last Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past:[8] Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, Her mantle flow’d o’er many a classic hill, Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, A hero’s image to the world bequeathed; Enshrined in thee th’ imperishable ray Of high-soul’d Genius, foster’d by her sway, And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, What lofty dreams were hers—who never shall return! And mark yon group, transfix’d with many a throe, Seal’d with the image of eternal woe: With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, And the stern combat picture to mankind Of suffering nature and enduring mind. Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense; Though fix’d on him, his children’s suppliant eyes Implore the aid avenging fate denies; Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife, Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, And in each limb existence writhes, enroll’d Midst the dread circles of the venom’d fold; Yet the strong spirit lives—and not a cry Shall own the might of Nature’s agony! That furrow’d brow unconquer’d soul reveals, That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, Nor yields one moan to torture or to death![9] Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! With speechless horror to congeal the heart, To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain; Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power May brave the pangs of fate’s severest hour. Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where painting all her skill displays: Landscapes, by colouring dress’d in richer dyes, More mellow’d sunshine, more unclouded skies, Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil’s might, Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light; Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy! who stand alone And unapproach’d, midst regions all your own; What scenes, what beings bless’d your favour’d sight, Severely grand, unutterably bright! Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye Could meet the noontide of eternity, And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll’d, On all that Fancy trembles to behold. Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled: Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare, Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair; These o’er the walls your magic skill array’d, Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade, Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, And breathe and move, the records of your power. Inspired of heaven! what heighten’d pomp ye cast O’er all the deathless trophies of the past! Round many a marble fane and classic dome, Asserting still the majesty of Rome— Round many a work that bids the world believe What Grecian Art could image and achieve, Again, creative minds, your visions throw Life’s chasten’d warmth and Beauty’s mellowest glow. And when the Morn’s bright beams and mantling dyes Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, Or evening suns illume with purple smile The Parian altar and the pillar’d aisle, Then, as the full or soften’d radiance falls On angel-groups that hover o’er the walls, Well may those temples, where your hand has shed Light o’er the tomb, existence round the dead, Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, That nought of earth should find admittance there, Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown, Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone! Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy’s erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign’d Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind! From brighter streams her vast ideas flow’d, With purer fire her ardent spirit glow’d. To her ’twas given in fancy to explore The land of miracles, the holiest shore; That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, The loved, the punish’d, of th’ Omnipotent! O’er Judah’s hills her thoughts inspired would stray, Through Jordan’s valleys trace their lonely way; By Siloa’s brook, or Almotana’s deep,[10] Chain’d in dead silence, and unbroken sleep; Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell Where pass’d th’ Eternal, where his anger fell! Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal’d, Swell’d in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal’d, Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, “Breathed still small” whispers on the midnight gale. There dwelt her spirit—there her hand portray’d, Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, Or patriarch-seers absorb’d in sacred thought, Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, Who lived to guide us, and who died to save; Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, And soul return’d to animate the dead; Whom the waves own’d—and sunk beneath his eye, Awed by one accent of Divinity; To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallow’d her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. O’er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, As all around the Godhead’s presence knew, And robed the Holy One’s benignant mien In beaming mercy, majesty serene. Oh! mark where Raphael’s pure and perfect line Portrays that form ineffably divine! Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour’s head;[11] Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued With all the fulness of beatitude, And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight Sinks overpower’d by that excess of light! Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, By truth inspired, to elevate the heart! To bid the soul exultingly possess, Of all her powers, a heighten’d consciousness; And, strong in hope, anticipate the day, The last of life, the first of freedom’s ray; To realise, in some unclouded sphere, Those pictured glories feebly imaged here! Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, Faint effluence of “the Dayspring from on high!”