Book 6 — TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. (continued 2)

Unwin, I should but ill repay The kindness of a friend, Whose worth deserves as warm a lay As ever friendship penn'd, Thy name omitted in a page That would reclaim a vicious age. A union form'd, as mine with thee, Not rashly, or in sport, May be as fervent in degree And faithful in its sort, And may as rich in comfort prove, As that of true fraternal love. The bud inserted in the rind, The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though differing in its kind, The stock whereon it grows, With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, As if produced by nature there. Not rich, I render what I may, I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay, Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be—in a plan That holds in view the good of man. The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, Should be the poet's heart; Affection lights a brighter flame Than ever blazed by art. No muses on these lines attend, I sink the poet in the friend.

The swallows in their torpid state Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait The call of early Spring. The keenest frost that binds the stream, The wildest wind that blows, Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, Secure of their repose. But man, all feeling and awake, The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache, And pant for brighter days. Old Winter, halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your return. Then April, with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours. And if a tear that speaks regret Of happier times, appear, A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine, and dry the tear.

She came—she is gone—we have met— And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set, And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream— (So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem That will not so suddenly pass. The last evening ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delay'd By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree, And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witnessed her own. My numbers that day she had sung, And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede, Would feel herself happier here; For the close-woven arches of limes On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times Than aught that the city can show. So it is when the mind is endued With a well-judging taste from above, Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse, May even our wonder excite; But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight. Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home; And with scenes that new rapture inspire, As oft as it suits her to roam; She will have just the life she prefers, With little to hope or to fear, And ours would be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it here.

A hermit, (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old,) A man, once young, who lived retired As hermit could have well desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finish'd his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book, Within its customary nook, And, staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at evening-tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees, that fringed his hill, Shades slanting at the close of day, Chill'd more his else delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet, Just reach'd it when the sun was set. Your hermit, young and jovial sirs! Learns something from whate'er occurs— And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game, Imagination to his view Presents it deck'd with every hue, That can seduce him not to spare His powers of best exertion there, But youth, health, vigour to expend On so desirable an end. Ere long approach life's evening shades The glow that fancy gave it fades; And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace That first engaged him in the chase. True, answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the senior's side— But whether all the time it cost, To urge the fruitless chase be lost, Must be decided by the worth Of that which call'd his ardour forth. Trifles pursued, whate'er the event, Must cause him shame or discontent; A vicious object still is worse, Successful there, he wins a curse; But he, whom e'en in life's last stage Endeavours laudable engage, Is paid at least in peace of mind, And sense of having well design'd; And if, ere he attain his end, His sun precipitate descend, A brighter prize than that he meant Shall recompense his mere intent. No virtuous wish can bear a date Either too early or too late.

The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long, Lived happy prisoners there. They sang as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd. But nature works in every breast, With force not easily suppress'd; And Dick felt some desires, That, after many an effort vain, Instructed him at length to gain A pass between his wires. The open windows seem'd to invite The freeman to a farewell flight; But Tom was still confined; And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too generous and sincere To leave his friend behind. So settling on his cage, by play, And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say, You must not live alone— Nor would he quit that chosen stand Till I, with slow and cautious hand, Return'd him to his own. O ye, who never taste the joys Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, Fandango, ball, and rout! Blush when I tell you how a bird A prison with a friend preferr'd To liberty without.

There is a field, through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes, For which, alas! my destiny severe, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch, When, exercise and air my only aim, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang All Kilwick[824] and all Dinglederry[824] rang. Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest; Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd, To me their peace by kind contagion spread. But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd, The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed, All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again; But recollecting, with a sudden thought, That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, They gathered close around the old pit's brink, And thought again—but knew not what to think. The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long drought, when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they catch the largess of the skies; But, with precision nicer still, the mind He scans of every locomotive kind; Birds of all feather, beasts of every name; That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Have all articulation in his ears; He spells them true by intuition's light, And needs no glossary to set him right. This truth premised was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next. Awhile they mused; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind, That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt, Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; Or academic tutors, teaching youths, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd. Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prison-house below arise, With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much composed, nor should appear, For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd All night, me resting quiet in the fold. Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, I could expound the melancholy tone; Should deem it by our old companion made, The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd, And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear? Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad; I hold it therefore wisest and most fit That, life to save, we leap into the pit. Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe. How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave? For can we find it less? Contemplate first The depth how awful! falling there, we burst: Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall In part abate, that happiness were small; For with a race like theirs no chance I see Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Or be it not, or be it whose it may, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs, Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear, We have at least commodious standing here. Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, close attended at his heels By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a different course. The flock grew calm again, and I, the road Following, that led me to my own abode, Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found Such cause of terror in an empty sound, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish—write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow: Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you.

There was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doom, A conflagration labouring in her womb, She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies, While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along? Havoc and devastation in the van, It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, And all the charms of a Sicilian year. Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninformed and idle mass; Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?) Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of shortlived sweets! The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound: Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below. Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore. Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence; Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where you have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbour's and their own, Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her firstborn son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again: And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below. Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again. Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are. O place me in some heaven-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where Power secures what Industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here: Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.— But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay: So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"[825] And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft— Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

What virtue, or what mental grace But men unqualified and base Will boast it their possession? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart, And dullness of discretion. If every polish'd gem we find, Illuminating heart or mind, Provoke to imitation; No wonder friendship does the same, That jewel of the purest flame, Or rather constellation. No knave but boldly will pretend The requisites that form a friend, A real and a sound one; Nor any fool, he would deceive, But prove as ready to believe, And dream that he had found one. Candid, and generous, and just, Boys care but little whom they trust, An error soon corrected— For who but learns in riper years That man, when smoothest he appears, Is most to be suspected? But here again a danger lies, Lest, having misapplied our eyes, And taken trash for treasure, We should unwarily conclude Friendship a false ideal good, A mere Utopian pleasure. An acquisition rather rare Is yet no subject of despair; Nor is it wise complaining, If, either on forbidden ground, Or where it was not to be found, We sought without attaining. No friendship will abide the test, That stands on sordid interest, Or mean self-love erected; Nor such as may awhile subsist Between the sot and sensualist, For vicious ends connected. Who seek a friend should come disposed To exhibit, in full bloom disclosed, The graces and the beauties That form the character he seeks, For 'tis a union that bespeaks Reciprocated duties. Mutual attention is implied, And equal truth on either side, And constantly supported; 'Tis senseless arrogance to accuse Another of sinister views, Our own as much distorted. But will sincerity suffice? It is indeed above all price, And must be made the basis; But every virtue of the soul Must constitute the charming whole, All shining in their places. A fretful temper will divide The closest knot that may be tied, By ceaseless sharp corrosion; A temper passionate and fierce May suddenly your joys disperse At one immense explosion. In vain the talkative unite In hopes of permanent delight— The secret just committed, Forgetting its important weight, They drop through mere desire to prate, And by themselves outwitted. How bright soe'er the prospect seems, All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, If envy chance to creep in; An envious man, if you succeed, May prove a dangerous foe indeed, But not a friend worth keeping. As envy pines at good possess'd, So jealousy looks forth distress'd On good that seems approaching; And, if success his steps attend, Discerns a rival in a friend, And hates him for encroaching. Hence authors of illustrious name, Unless belied by common fame, Are sadly prone to quarrel, To deem the wit a friend displays A tax upon their own just praise, And pluck each other's laurel. A man renown'd for repartee Will seldom scruple to make free With friendship's finest feeling, Will thrust a dagger at your breast, And say he wounded you in jest, By way of balm for healing. Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention; Aspersion is the babbler's trade, To listen is to lend him aid, And rush into dissension. A friendship that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation, Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, Most unavoidably creates The thought of conflagration. Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as a needle to the pole, Their humour yet so various— They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too, Their love is so precarious. The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete; Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour. Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green) They sleep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares Unmoved and without quaking. Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their heterogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Like that of salts with lemon juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence. Religion should extinguish strife, And make a calm of human life; But friends that chance to differ On points which God has left at large, How freely will they meet and charge No combatants are stiffer. To prove at last my main intent Needs no expense of argument, No cutting and contriving— Seeking a real friend, we seem To adopt the chemist's golden dream, With still less hope of thriving. Sometimes the fault is all our own, Some blemish in due time made known By trespass or omission; Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defect, long hid from sight, And even from suspicion. Then judge yourself, and prove your man As circumspectly as you can, And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection. That secrets are a sacred trust, That friends should be sincere and just, That constancy befits them, Are observations on the case, That savour much of common place, And all the world admits them. But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone To finish a fine building— The palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget The carving and the gilding. The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend, that one had need Be very much his friend indeed To pardon or to bear it. As similarity of mind, Or something not to be defined, First fixes our attention; So manners decent and polite, The same we practised at first sight, Must save it from declension. Some act upon this prudent plan, "Say little, and hear all you can." Safe policy, but hateful— So barren sands imbibe the shower, But render neither fruit nor flower, Unpleasant and ungrateful. The man I trust, if shy to me, Shall find me as reserved as he, No subterfuge or pleading Shall win my confidence again; I will by no means entertain A spy on my proceeding. These samples—for alas! at last These are but samples, and a taste Of evils yet unmention'd— May prove the task a task indeed, In which 'tis much if we succeed, However well intention'd. Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense and knowledge of mankind To be at least expedient, And, after summing all the rest, Religion ruling in the breast A principal ingredient. The noblest Friendship ever shown The Saviour's history makes known, Though some have turn'd and turn'd it; And, whether being crazed or blind, Or seeking with a biass'd mind, Have not, it seems, discern'd it. O Friendship! if my soul forego Thy dear delights while here below, To mortify and grieve me, May I myself at last appear Unworthy, base, and insincere, Or may my friend deceive me!

Go—thou art all unfit to share The pleasures of this place With such as its old tenants are, Creatures of gentler race. The squirrel here his hoard provides, Aware of wintry storms, And woodpeckers explore the sides Of rugged oaks for worms. The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn, Like her, a friend to peace. Ah!—I could pity thee exiled From this secure retreat— I would not lose it to be styled The happiest of the great. But thou canst taste no calm delight; Thy pleasure is to show Thy magnanimity in fight, Thy prowess—therefore, go— I care not whether east or north, So I no more may find thee; The angry muse thus sings thee forth, And claps the gate behind thee.

I ransack'd for a theme of song, Much ancient chronicle, and long; I read of bright embattled fields, Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast Prowess to dissipate a host; Through tomes of fable and of dream I sought an eligible theme, But none I found, or found them shared Already by some happier bard. To modern times, with truth to guide My busy search, I next applied; Here cities won, and fleets dispersed, Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, Deeds of unperishing renown, Our fathers' triumphs and our own. Thus as the bee, from bank to bower, Assiduous sips at every flower, But rests on none till that be found Where most nectareous sweets abound, So I, from theme to theme display'd In many a page historic, stray'd, Siege after siege, fight after fight, Contemplating with small delight, (For feats of sanguinary hue Not always glitter in my view,) Till, settling on the current year, I found the far-sought treasure near. A theme for poetry divine, A theme to ennoble even mine, In memorable eighty-nine. The spring of eighty-nine shall be An æra cherish'd long by me, Which joyful I will oft record, And thankful at my frugal board; For then the clouds of eighty-eight, That threaten'd England's trembling state With loss of what she least could spare, Her sovereign's tutelary care, One breath of heaven, that cried—Restore! Chased, never to assemble more: And for the richest crown on earth, If valued by its wearer's worth, The symbol of a righteous reign Sat fast on George's brows again. Then peace and joy again possess'd Our Queen's long-agitated breast; Such joy and peace as can be known By sufferers like herself alone, Who losing, or supposing lost, The good on earth they valued most, For that dear sorrow's sake forego All hope of happiness below, Then suddenly regain the prize, And flash thanksgivings to the skies! O Queen of Albion, queen of isles! Since all thy tears were changed to smiles, The eyes, that never saw thee, shine With joy not unallied to thine; Transports not chargeable with art Illume the land's remotest part, And strangers to the air of courts, Both in their toils and at their sports, The happiness of answer'd prayers, That gilds thy features, show in theirs. If they who on thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 'Tis but the natural effect Of grandeur that ensures respect; But she is something more than queen Who is beloved where never seen.

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care, And taught to seek thy face. Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy sabbaths more. Thanks that we hear,—but O impart To each desires sincere, That we may listen with our heart, And learn as well as hear. For if vain thoughts the minds engage Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age, Our minds should e'er be free? Much hope, if thou our spirits take Under thy gracious sway, Who canst the wisest wiser make, And babes as wise as they. Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies shower'd on those Who placed us where it shines.

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.—Horace. Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door Of royal halls and hovels of the poor. While thirteen moons saw smoothly run The Nen's barge-laden wave, All these, life's rambling journey done, Have found their home, the grave. Was man (frail always) made more frail Than in foregoing years? Did famine or did plague prevail, That so much death appears? No; these were vigorous as their sires, Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute Death requires, And never waves his claim. Like crowded forest trees we stand, And some are mark'd to fall; The axe will smite at God's command, And soon shall smite us all. Green as the bay tree, ever green, With its new foliage on, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, I pass'd—and they were gone. Read, ye that run, the awful truth With which I charge my page; A worm is in the bud of youth, And at the root of age. No present health can health ensure For yet an hour to come; No medicine, though it oft can cure, Can always balk the tomb. And O! that humble as my lot, And scorn'd as is my strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot, I may not teach in vain. So prays your clerk with all his heart, And, ere he quits the pen, Begs you for once to take his part, And answer all—Amen!

Quod adest, memento Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis Ritu feruntur.—

Improve the present hour, for all beside Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide. . . . . . . . Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage To whom the rising year shall prove his last, As I can number in my punctual page, And item down the victims of the past; How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die; And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye! Time then would seem more precious than the joys In which he sports away the treasure now; And prayer more seasonable than the noise Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow. Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, Told that his setting sun must rise no more. Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say Who next is fated, and who next to fall, The rest might then seem privileged to play; But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to All. Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade— One falls—the rest, wide scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade. Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, Still need repeated warnings, and at last, A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, Die self-accused of life run all to waste! Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones. The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin; Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones, But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon or late, death also is your lot, And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

"O most delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his span, His folly and his woe! "Worlds should not bribe me back to tread Again life's dreary waste, To see again my day o'erspread With all the gloomy past. "My home henceforth is in the skies, Earth, seas, and sun, adieu! All heaven unfolded to my eyes, I have no sight for you." So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd Of faith's supporting rod, Then breathed his soul into its rest, The bosom of his God. He was a man among the few Sincere on virtue's side; And all his strength from Scripture drew, To hourly use applied. That rule he prized, by that he fear'd, He hated, hoped, and loved; Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd, But when his heart had roved. For he was frail as thou or I, And evil felt within; But when he felt it, heaved a sigh, And loathed the thought of sin. Such lived Aspasio; and at last Call'd up from earth to heaven, The gulf of death triumphant pass'd, By gales of blessing driven. His joys be mine, each reader cries, When my last hour arrives: They shall be yours, my verse replies, Such only be your lives.

He who sits from day to day Where the prison'd lark is hung, Heedless of his loudest lay, Hardly knows that he has sung. Where the watchman in his round Nightly lifts his voice on high, None, accustom'd to the sound, Wakes the sooner for his cry. So your verse-man I, and clerk, Yearly in my song proclaim Death at hand—yourselves his mark— And the foe's unerring aim. Duly at my time I come, Publishing to all aloud— Soon the grave must be your home, And your only suit, a shroud, But the monitory strain, Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to sound too much in vain, Wins no notice, wakes no fears. Can a truth, by all confess'd Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft impress'd, Trivial as a parrot's prate? Pleasure's call attention wins, Hear it often as we may; New as ever seem our sins, Though committed every day. Death and judgment, heaven and hell— These alone, so often heard, No more move us than the bell When some stranger is interr'd. O then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from every eye, Spirit of instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

Happy the mortal who has traced effects To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, And death and roaring hell's voracious fires!

Thankless for favours from on high, Man thinks he fades too soon; Though 'tis his privilege to die, Would he improve the boon. But he, not wise enough to scan His blest concerns aright, Would gladly stretch life's little span To ages, if he might. To ages in a world of pain, To ages, where he goes Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain, And hopeless of repose. Strange fondness of the human heart, Enamour'd of its harm! Strange world, that costs it so much smart, And still has power to charm. Whence has the world her magic power? Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's best hour, And covet longer woe? The cause is Conscience—Conscience oft Her tale of guilt renews: Her voice is terrible though soft, And dread of death ensues. Then anxious to be longer spared Man mourns his fleeting breath: All evils then seem light, compared With the approach of death. 'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fear That prompts the wish to stay: He has incurr'd a long arrear, And must despair to pay. Pay!—follow Christ, and all is paid; is death your peace ensures; Think on the grave where he was laid, And calm descend to yours.

He lives who lives to God alone, And all are dead beside; For other source than God is none Whence life can be supplied To live to God is to requite His love as best we may: To make his precepts our delight, His promises our stay. But life, within a narrow ring Of giddy joys comprised, Is falsely named, and no such thing, But rather death disguised. Can life in them deserve the name, Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim An endless life above? Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; Much menaced, nothing dread; Have wounds, which only God can heal, Yet never ask his aid? Who deem his house a useless place, Faith, want of common sense; And ardour in the Christian race, A hypocrite's pretence? Who trample order; and the day Which God asserts his own Dishonour with unhallow'd play, And worship chance alone? If scorn of God's commands, impress'd On word and deed, imply The better part of man unbless'd With life that cannot die; Such want it, and that want uncured Till man resigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, assured Of everlasting death. Sad period to a pleasant course! Yet so will God repay Sabbaths profaned without remorse, And mercy cast away.

Time was when I was free as air, The thistle's downy seed my fare, My drink the morning dew; I perch'd at will on every spray, My form genteel, my plumage gay, My strains for ever new. But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, And form genteel were all in vain, And of a transient date; For, caught and caged, and starved to death, In dying sighs my little breath Soon pass'd the wiry grate. Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, And thanks for this effectual close And cure of every ill! More cruelty could none express; And I, if you had shown me less, Had been your prisoner still.

The pine-apples, in triple row, Were basking hot, and all in blow; A bee of most discerning taste Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd, On eager wing the spoiler came, And search'd for crannies in the frame, Urged his attempt on every side, To every pane his trunk applied; But still in vain, the frame was tight, And only pervious to the light: Thus having wasted half the day, He trimm'd his flight another way. Methinks, I said, in thee I find The sin and madness of mankind. To joys forbidden man aspires, Consumes his soul with vain desires; Folly the spring of his pursuit, And disappointment all the fruit. While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, The nymph between two chariot glasses, She is the pineapple, and he The silly unsuccessful bee. The maid who views with pensive air The show-glass fraught with glittering ware, Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets, But sighs at thought of empty pockets; Like thine, her appetite is keen, But ah, the cruel glass between! Our dear delights are often such, Exposed to view, but not to touch; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pine-apples in frames; With hopeless wish one looks and lingers; One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers; But they whom truth and wisdom lead Can gather honey from a weed.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks! Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou cast A treasure in her way; for neither meed Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast, Hopes she from this—presumptuous, though, perhaps The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might. Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon, Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock, Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found, Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah! Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!) Conferr'dst thou, goddess! Thou art blind thou say'st: Enough!—thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Nor does my muse no benefit exhale From this thy scant indulgence!—even here Hints worthy sage philosophy are found; Illustrious hints, to moralize my song! This ponderous heel of perforated hide Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore: on this, supported oft, he stretch'd, With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time (What will not cruel time?) on a wry step Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas! He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, Pursue his destined way with symmetry, And some proportion form'd, now on one side Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. Thus fares it oft with other than the feet Of humble villager—the statesman thus, Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds His prosperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul, While policy prevails, and friends prove true; But, that support soon failing, by him left On whom he most depended, basely left, Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height Headlong he falls; and through the rest of life Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

Say, ye apostate and profane, Wretches, who blush not to disdain Allegiance to your God,— Did e'er your idly wasted love Of virtue for her sake remove And lift you from the crowd? Would you the race of glory run, Know, the devout, and they alone, Are equal to the task: The labours of the illustrious course Far other than the unaided force Of human vigour ask. To arm against reputed ill The patient heart too brave to feel The tortures of despair: Nor safer yet high-crested pride, When wealth flows in with every tide To gain admittance there. To rescue from the tyrant's sword The oppress'd; unseen and unimplored, To cheer the face of woe; From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right—a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe; These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, O with what matchless speed they leave The multitude behind! Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth? Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favour'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join To call the blessing down. Such is that heart:—but while the muse Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, Her feeble spirits faint: She cannot reach, and would not wrong, The subject for an angel's song, The hero, and the saint!

'Tis not that I design to rob Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, For thou art born sole heir, and single, Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle; Not that I mean, while thus I knit My threadbare sentiments together, To show my genius or my wit, When God and you know I have neither; Or such as might be better shown By letting poetry alone. 'Tis not with either of these views That I presumed to address the muse: But to divert a fierce banditti, (Sworn foes to every thing that's witty!) That, with a black, infernal train, Make cruel inroads in my brain, And daily threaten to drive thence My little garrison of sense; The fierce banditti which I mean Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen. Then there's another reason yet, Which is, that I may fairly quit The debt, which justly became due The moment when I heard from you; And you might grumble, crony mine, If paid in any other coin; Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, (I would say twenty sheets of prose,) Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much As one of gold, and yours was such. Thus, the preliminaries settled, I fairly find myself pitchkettled,[827] And cannot see, though few see better, How I shall hammer out a letter. First, for a thought—since all agree— A thought—I have it—let me see— 'Tis gone again—plague on't! I thought I had it—but I have it not. Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, That useful thing, her needle, gone! Rake well the cinders—sweep the floor, And sift the dust behind the door; While eager Hodge beholds the prize In old grimalkin's glaring eyes; And Gammer finds it, on her knees, In every shining straw she sees. This simile were apt enough; But I've another, critic-proof! The virtuoso thus, at noon, Broiling beneath a July sun, The gilded butterfly pursues, O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews; And, after many a vain essay, To captivate the tempting prey, Gives him at length the lucky pat, And has him safe beneath his hat: Then lifts it gently from the ground; But, ah! 'tis lost as soon as found; Culprit his liberty regains, Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. The sense was dark; 'twas therefore fit With simile to illustrate it; But as too much obscures the sight, As often as too little light, We have our similes cut short, For matters of more grave import. That Matthew's numbers run with ease, Each man of common sense agrees! All men of common sense allow That Robert's lines are easy too: Where then the preference shall we place, Or how do justice in this case? Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains Smoothed and refined the meanest strains; Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rhyme To escape him at the idlest time; And thus o'er all a lustre cast, That, while the language lives shall last. A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,) For 'tis my business to reply; Sure so much labour, so much toil, Bespeak at least a stubborn soil: Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, Who both write well, and write full speed! Who throw their Helicon about As freely as a conduit spout! Friend Robert, thus like chien savant Lets fall a poem en passant, Nor needs his genuine ore refine— 'Tis ready polish'd from the mine.

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme; In subterraneous caves his life he led, Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. When on a day, emerging from the deep, A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!) The wages of his weekly toil he bore To buy a cock—whose blood might win him more; As if the noblest of the feather'd kind Were but for battle and for death design'd; As if the consecrated hours were meant For sport, to minds on cruelty intent; It chanced (such chances Providence obey) He met a fellow labourer on the way, Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed; But now the savage temper was reclaim'd, Persuasion on his lips had taken place; For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. His iron heart with scripture he assail'd, Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew, Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew. He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around, To find a worse than he; but none he found. He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal. Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies! He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine Learn'd, by his altered speech, the change divine! Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they. "No," said the penitent, "such words shall share This breath no more; devoted now to prayer. O! if Thou seest (thine eye the future sees) That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these; Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel, Ere yet this heart relapses into steel; Now take me to that heaven I once defied, Thy presence, thy embrace!"—He spoke, and died!

That ocean you have late survey'd, Those rocks I too have seen; But I, afflicted and dismay'd, You, tranquil and serene. You from the flood-controlling steep Saw stretch'd before your view, With conscious joy, the threatening deep, No longer such to you. To me the waves, that ceaseless broke Upon the dangerous coast, Hoarsely and ominously spoke Of all my treasure lost. Your sea of troubles you have past, And found the peaceful shore; I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last, Come home to port no more.

What is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, When friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine? The stream of pure and genuine love Derives its current from above; And earth a second Eden shows, Where'er the healing water flows: But ah, if from the dykes and drains Of sensual nature's feverish veins, Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, Impregnated with ooze and mud, Descending fast on every side, Once mingles with the sacred tide, Farewell the soul-enlivening scene! The banks that wore a smiling green, With rank defilement overspread, Bewail their flowery beauties dead. The stream polluted, dark, and dull, Diffused into a Stygian pool, Through life's last melancholy years Is fed with overflowing tears: Complaints supply the zephyr's part, And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

Dear Anna—between friend and friend Prose answers every common end; Serves, in a plain and homely way, To express the occurrence of the day; Our health, the weather, and the news; What walks we take, what books we choose; And all the floating thoughts we find Upon the surface of the mind. But when a poet takes the pen, Far more alive than other men, He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Derived from nature's noblest part, The centre of a glowing heart: And this is what the world, who knows No flights above the pitch of prose, His more sublime vagaries slighting, Denominates an itch for writing. No wonder I, who scribble rhyme To catch the triflers of the time, And tell them truths divine and clear, Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear; Who labour hard to allure and draw The loiterers I never saw, Should feel that itching and that tingling, With all my purpose intermingling, To your intrinsic merit true, When call'd to address myself to you. Mysterious are His ways whose power Brings forth that unexpected hour, When minds, that never met before, Shall meet, unite, and part no more: It is the allotment of the skies, The hand of the Supremely Wise, That guides and governs our affections, And plans and orders our connexions: Directs us in our distant road, And marks the bounds of our abode. Thus we were settled when you found us, Peasants and children all around us, Not dreaming of so dear a friend, Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.[828] Thus Martha, e'en against her will, Perch'd on the top of yonder hill; And you, though you must needs prefer The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,[829] Are come from distant Loire, to choose A cottage on the banks of Ouse. This page of Providence quite new, And now just opening to our view, Employs our present thoughts and pains To guess and spell what it contains: But day by day, and year by year, Will make the dark enigma clear; And furnish us, perhaps, at last, Like other scenes already past, With proof, that we, and our affairs, Are part of a Jehovah's cares; For God unfolds by slow degrees The purport of his deep decrees; Sheds every hour a clearer light In aid of our defective sight; And spreads, at length, before the soul, A beautiful and perfect whole, Which busy man's inventive brain Toils to anticipate in vain. Say, Anna, had you never known The beauties of a rose full blown, Could you, though luminous your eye, By looking on the bud descry, Or guess with a prophetic power, The future splendour of the flower? Just so the Omnipotent, who turns The system of a world's concerns, From mere minutiæ can educe Events of most important use; And bid a dawning sky display The blaze of a meridian day. The works of man tend, one and all, As needs they must, from great to small; And vanity absorbs at length The monuments of human strength. But who can tell how vast the plan Which this day's incident began? Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion For our dim-sighted observation; It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird That cleaves the yielding air unheard, And yet may prove, when understood, A harbinger of endless good. Not that I deem, or mean to call Friendship a blessing cheap or small: But merely to remark, that ours, Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, Rose from a seed of tiny size That seem'd to promise no such prize; A transient visit intervening, And made almost without a meaning, (Hardly the effect of inclination, Much less of pleasing expectation,) Produced a friendship, then begun, That has cemented us in one; And placed it in our power to prove, By long fidelity and love, That Solomon has wisely spoken; "A threefold cord is not soon broken."

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concern'd to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?" When lo! upon the threshold met my view With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting, with attention due, Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?" On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, To find the viper, but I found him not. And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not be found. But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. "I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:" For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat, His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat; With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come there no more.

No longer I follow a sound; No longer a dream I pursue; O happiness! not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu! I have sought thee in splendour and dress, In the regions of pleasure and taste; I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, But have proved thee a vision at last. An humble ambition and hope The voice of true wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope, And the summit of all our desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined To the glorified spirits above.

When all within is peace, How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve With open hand she showers Fresh blessings, to deceive And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart Gives Nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees; Can make a wintry sky Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye As peep of early day. The vast majestic globe, So beauteously array'd In Nature's various robe, With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart, And longs to be at rest.

Oh Friendship! cordial of the human breast! So little felt, so fervently profess'd! Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years; The promise of delicious fruit appears: We hug the hopes of constancy and truth, Such is the folly of our dreaming youth; But soon, alas! detect the rash mistake That sanguine inexperience loves to make; And view with tears the expected harvest lost, Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. Whoever undertakes a friend's great part Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart, Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove A thousand ways the force of genuine love. He may be call'd to give up health and gain, To exchange content for trouble, ease for pain, To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan, And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. The heart of man, for such a task too frail, When most relied on is most sure to fail; And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe, Starts from its office like a broken bow. Votaries of business and of pleasure prove Faithless alike in friendship and in love. Retired from all the circles of the gay, And all the crowds that bustle life away, To scenes where competition, envy, strife, Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life, Let me, the charge of some good angel, find One who has known, and has escaped mankind; Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away The manners, not the morals, of the day: With him, perhaps with her (for men have known No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,) Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, All former friends forgiven and forgot, Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, Union of hearts without a flaw between. 'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, If God give health, that sunshine of our days! And if he add, a blessing shared by few, Content of heart, more praises still are due— But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest; And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, Born from above and made divinely wise, He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew, A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true.

Here Johnson lies—a sage by all allow'd, Whom to have bred may well make England proud, Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; Whose verse may claim—grave, masculine, and strong— Superior praise to the mere poet's song; Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd, And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. O man, immortal by a double prize, By fame on earth—by glory in the skies!

How many between east and west Disgrace their parent earth, Whose deeds constrain us to detest The day that gave them birth! Not so when Stella's natal morn Revolving months restore, We can rejoice that she was born, And wish her born once more!

This cap, that so stately appears, With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears Ambitious of brushing the sky: This cap to my cousin I owe, She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreath'd into an elegant bow, The ribbon with which it is tied. This wheel-footed studying chair, Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair, In which I both scribble and dose, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, And rival in lustre of that In which, or astronomy lies, Fair Cassiopeia sat: These carpets so soft to the foot, Caledonia's traffic and pride! Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot, Escaped from a cross-country ride! This table, and mirror within, Secure from collision and dust, At which I oft shave cheek and chin And periwig nicely adjust: This moveable structure of shelves, For its beauty admired and its use, And charged with octavos and twelves, The gayest I had to produce; Where, flaming in scarlet and gold, My poems enchanted I view, And hope in due time, to behold My Iliad and Odyssey too: This china, that decks the alcove, Which here people call a buffet, But what the gods call it above Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet: These curtains that keep the room warm Or cool, as the season demands, Those stoves that for pattern and form Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands: All these are not half that I owe To one, from our earliest youth, To me ever ready to show Benignity, friendship, and truth; For Time, the destroyer declared And foe of our perishing kind, If even her face he has spared, Much less could he alter her mind. Thus compass'd about with the goods And chattels of leisure and ease, I indulge my poetical moods In many such fancies as these; And fancies I fear they will seem— Poets' goods are not often so fine; The poets will swear that I dream When I sing of the splendour of mine.

Farewell! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age! In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old; In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!) Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd; Through every period of this changeful state Unchanged thyself—wise, good, affectionate! Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half supprest, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

When, long sequester'd from his throne, George took his seat again, By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign, Then loyalty, with all his lamps New trimm'd, a gallant show! Chasing the darkness and the damps, Set London in a glow. 'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares Which form'd the chief display, These most resembling cluster'd stars, Those the long milky way. Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, And rockets flew, self-driven, To hang their momentary fires Amid the vault of heaven. So, fire with water to compare, The ocean serves, on high Up-spouted by a whale in air, To express unwieldy joy. Had all the pageants of the world In one procession join'd, And all the banners been unfurl'd That heralds e'er design'd, For no such sight had England's queen Forsaken her retreat, Where George, recover'd, made a scene Sweet always, doubly sweet. Yet glad she came that night to prove, A witness undescried, How much the object of her love Was loved by all beside. Darkness the skies had mantled o'er In aid of her design— Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before To veil a deed of thine! On borrow'd wheels away she flies, Resolved to be unknown, And gratify no curious eyes That night except her own. Arrived, a night like noon she sees, And hears the million hum; As all by instinct, like the bees, Had known their sovereign come. Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd On many a splendid wall, Emblems of health and heavenly aid, And George the theme of all. Unlike the enigmatic line, So difficult to spell, Which shook Belshazzar at his wine The night his city fell. Soon watery grew her eyes and dim, But with a joyful tear, None else, except in prayer for him, George ever drew from her. It was a scene in every part Like those in fable feign'd, And seem'd by some magician's art Created and sustain'd. But other magic there, she knew, Had been exerted none, To raise such wonders in her view, Save love of George alone. That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd, And, through the cumbrous throng, Not else unworthy to be fear'd, Convey'd her calm along. So, ancient poets say, serene The sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes She view'd the sparkling show; One Georgian star adorns the skies, She myriads found below. Yet let the glories of a night Like that, once seen, suffice, Heaven grant us no such future sight, Such previous woe the price!

Muse—hide his name of whom I sing, Lest his surviving house thou bring For his sake into scorn, Nor speak the school from which he drew The much or little that he knew, Nor place where he was born. That such a man once was, may seem Worthy of record (if the theme Perchance may credit win) For proof to man, what man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move The source of guilt within. This man (for since the howling wild Disclaims him, man he must be styled) Wanted no good below, Gentle he was, if gentle birth Could make him such, and he had worth, If wealth can worth bestow. In social talk and ready jest, He shone superior at the feast, And qualities of mind, Illustrious in the eyes of those Whose gay society he chose, Possess'd of every kind. Methinks I see him powder'd red, With bushy locks his well-dress'd head Wing'd broad on either side, The mossy rosebud not so sweet; His steeds superb, his carriage neat, As luxury could provide. Can such be cruel? Such can be Cruel as hell, and so was he; A tyrant entertain'd With barbarous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight 'Twixt birds to battle train'd. One feathered champion he possess'd, His darling far beyond the rest, Which never knew disgrace, Nor e'er had fought but he made flow The life-blood of his fiercest foe, The Cæsar of his race. It chanced at last, when, on a day, He push'd him to the desperate fray, His courage droop'd, he fled. The master storm'd, the prize was lost, And, instant, frantic at the cost, He doom'd his favourite dead. He seized him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, And, Bring me cord, he cried; The cord was brought, and, at his word, To that dire implement the bird, Alive and struggling, tied. The horrid sequel asks a veil; And all the terrors of the tale That can be shall be sunk— Led by the sufferer's screams aright His shock'd companions view the sight, And him with fury drunk. All, suppliant, beg a milder fate For the old warrior at the grate: He, deaf to pity's call, Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel His culinary club of steel, Death menacing on all. But vengeance hung not far remote, For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat, And heaven and earth defied, Big with a curse too closely pent, That struggled vainly for a vent, He totter'd, reel'd, and died. 'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, To point the judgment of the skies; But judgments plain as this, That, sent for man's instruction, bring A written label on their wing, 'Tis hard to read amiss.

Hastings! I knew thee young, and of a mind, While young, humane, conversable, and kind, Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, Now grown a villain, and the worst of men. But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd And worried thee, as not themselves the best.

Maria, could Horace have guess'd What honour awaited his ode To his own little volume address'd, The honour which you have bestow'd; Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat, He had laugh'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer, if you please, he had said, A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies; Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well.

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd, Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste? Roar as they might, the overbearing winds That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe— And in thy minikin and embryo state, Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. Indebted to no magnet and no chart, Nor under guidance of the polar fire, Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, Grazing at large in meadows submarine, Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps Above the brine—where Caledonia's rocks Beat back the surge—and where Hibernia shoots Her wondrous causeway far into the main. —Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thoughtst, And I not more, that I should feed on thee. Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish, To him who sent thee! and success, as oft As it descends into the billowy gulf, To the same drag that caught thee!—Fare thee well! Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.

Other stones the era tell When some feeble mortal fell; I stand here to date the birth Of these hardy sons of earth. Which shall longest brave the sky, Storm and frost—these oaks or I? Pass an age or two away, I must moulder and decay, But the years that crumble me Shall invigorate the tree, Spread its branch, dilate its size, Lift its summit to the skies. Cherish honour, virtue, truth, So shalt thou prolong thy youth. Wanting these, however fast Man be fix'd and form'd to last, He is lifeless even now, Stone at heart, and cannot grow.

Reader! behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here.

The bard, if e'er he feel at all, Must sure be quicken'd by a call Both on his heart and head, To pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a lady fair, Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, On Ida's barren top sublime, (As Homer's epic shows) Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Without the aid of sun or showers, For Jove and Juno rose. Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which in the scorching day Receives the weary swain, Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, Till roused to toil again. What labours of the loom I see! Looms numberless have groan'd for me! Should every maiden come To scramble for the patch that bears The impress of the robe she wears, The bell would toll for some. And oh, what havoc would ensue! This bright display of every hue All in a moment fled! As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers— Each pocketing a shred. Thanks then to every gentle fair Who will not come to peck me bare As bird of borrow'd feather, And thanks to one above them all, The gentle fair of Pertenhall, Who put the whole together.

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man, And, next, commemorating worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most. Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore, Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine, I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, Sweet as the privilege of healing woe By virtue suffer'd combating below? That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Thou hadst an industry in doing good, Restless as his who toils and sweats for food; Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable or by stealth, And if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end, Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. And, though God made thee of a nature prone To distribution boundless of thy own, And still by motives of religious force Impell'd thee more to that heroic course, Yet was thy liberality discreet, Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat; And, though in act unwearied, secret still, As in some solitude the summer rill Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. Such was thy charity: no sudden start, After long sleep, of passion in the heart, But stedfast principle, and, in its kind, Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, Traced easily to its true source above, To him whose works bespeak his nature, love. Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake; That the incredulous themselves may see Its use and power exemplified in thee.

"I could be well content, allowed the use Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such, To recommence life's trial, in the hope Of fewer errors, on a second proof!" Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side, Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused, And held accustom'd conference with my heart; When from within it thus a voice replied: "Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length This wisdom, and but this, from all the past? Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, Time wasted, violated laws, abuse Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far Than opportunity vouchsafed to err With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect?" I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind I pass'd, and next consider'd—what is man. Knows he his origin? can he ascend By reminiscence to his earliest date? Slept he in Adam? And in those from him Through numerous generations, till he found At length his destined moment to be born? Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb? Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toil'd To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still. It is an evil incident to man, And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves Truths useful and attainable with ease, To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies Not to be solved, and useless if it might. Mysteries are food for angels; they digest With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean His manna from the ground, or starve and die.

A poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick— Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique, Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonnair, An apple tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering pot: There, wanting nothing save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan Apparell'd in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court. But love of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wish'd instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode. A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use, A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Survey'd the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lull'd by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast; By no malignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) "Was ever cat attended thus? The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed, How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet! O what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out." The evening came, the sun descended, And Puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away, (With her indeed 'twas never day,) The sprightly morn her course renew'd, The evening grey again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entomb'd the day before. With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room, She now presaged approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd, Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. That night, by chance, the poet watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said—"What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him and dispell'd his fears: He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence: The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around, in all that's done, Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possess'd, A warm dispute once chanced to wage, Whose temper was the best. The worth of each had been complete Had both alike been mild: But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown'd oftener than she smiled. And in her humour, when she frown'd, Would raise her voice, and roar, And shake with fury to the ground The garland that she wore. The other was of gentler cast, From all such frenzy clear, Her frowns were seldom known to last, And never proved severe. To poets of renown in song The nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, And gave misplaced applause. They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, The flippant and the scold, And though she changed her mood so oft, That failing left untold. No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, Or so resolved to err— In short the charms her sister had They lavish'd all on her. Then thus the god, whom fondly they Their great inspirer call, Was heard, one genial summer's day, To reprimand them all. "Since thus ye have combined," he said, "My favourite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid, With June's undoubted right, "The minx shall, for your folly's sake, Still prove herself a shrew, Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, And pinch your noses blue."

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past,) A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away! Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, could'st thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right— Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And time hath made thee what thou art—a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose—till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all That we account most durable below? Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last, Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds— Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live, plant, animal, and man, And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates not unimpair'd; But worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root—and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load![833] But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest waged For senatorial honours. Thus to time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour which had, far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverized of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white; And some memorial none where once they grew. Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. But since, although well-qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme....