Poems (1786), Volume I. — Story, Setting & Ideas

Each thought for ever gives; When on another, leans for rest. And in another lives!

Quick, as the trembling metal flies, When heat or cold impels, Her anxious heart to joy can rise, Or sink where anguish dwells!

Yet tho' her soul must griefs sustain Which she alone, can know; And feel that keener sense of pain Which sharpens every woe;

Tho' she the mourner's grief to calm, Still shares each pang they feel, And, like the tree distilling balm, Bleeds, others wounds to heal;

While she, whose bosom fondly true, Has never wish'd to range; One alter'd look will trembling view, And scarce can bear the change;

Tho' she, if death the bands should tear, She vainly thought secure; Thro' life must languish in despair That never hopes a cure;

Tho' wounded by some vulgar mind, Unconscious of the deed, Who never seeks those wounds to bind But wonders why they bleed;--

She oft will heave a secret sigh, Will shed a lonely tear, O'er feelings nature wrought so high, And gave on terms so dear;

Yet who would hard INDIFFERENCE choose, Whose breast no tears can steep? Who, for her apathy, would lose The sacred power to weep?

Tho' in a thousand objects, pain, And pleasure tremble nigh, Those objects strive to reach, in vain, The circle of her eye.

Cold, as the fabled god appears To the poor suppliant's grief, Who bathes the marble form in tears, And vainly hopes relief.

Ah _Greville!_ why the gifts refuse To souls like thine allied? No more thy nature seem to lose No more thy softness hide.

No more invoke the playful sprite To chill, with magic spell, The tender feelings of delight, And anguish sung so well;

That envied ease thy heart would prove Were sure too dearly bought With friendship, sympathy, and love, And every finer thought.

No riches from his scanty store My lover could impart; He gave a boon I valued more-- He gave me all his heart!

His soul sincere, his gen'rous worth, Might well this bosom move; And when I ask'd for bliss on earth, I only meant his love.

But now for me, in search of gain From shore to shore he flies: Why wander riches to obtain, When love is all I prize?

The frugal meal, the lowly cot If blest my love with thee! That simple fare, that humble lot, Were more than wealth to me.

While he the dang'rous ocean braves, My tears but vainly flow: Is pity in the faithless waves To which I pour my woe?

The night is dark, the waters deep, Yet soft the billows roll; Alas! at every breeze I weep-- The storm is in my soul.

As wand'ring late on Albion's shore That chains the rude tempestuous deep, I heard the hollow surges roar And vainly beat her guardian steep; I heard the rising sounds of woe Loud on the storm's wild pinion flow; And still they vibrate on the mournful lyre, That tunes to grief its sympathetic wire.

From shores the wide Atlantic laves, The spirit of the ocean bears In moans, along his western waves, Afflicted nature's hopeless cares: Enchanting scenes of young delight, How chang'd since first ye rose to sight; Since first ye rose in infant glories drest Fresh from the wave, and rear'd your ample breast.

Her crested serpents, discord throws O'er scenes which love with roses grac'd; The flow'ry chain his hands compose, She wildly scatters o'er the waste: Her glance his playful smile deforms, Her frantic voice awakes the storms, From land to land, her torches spread their fires, While love's pure flame in streams of blood expires.

Now burns the savage soul of war, While terror flashes from his eyes, Lo! waving o'er his fiery car Aloft his bloody banner flies: The battle wakes--with awful sound He thunders o'er the echoing ground, He grasps his reeking blade, while streams of blood Tinge the vast plain, and swell the purple flood.

But softer sounds of sorrow flow; On drooping wing the murm'ring gales Have borne the deep complaints of woe That rose along the lonely vales-- Those breezes waft the orphan's cries, They tremble to parental sighs, And drink a tear for keener anguish shed, The tear of faithful love when hope is fled.

The object of her anxious fear Lies pale on earth, expiring, cold, Ere, wing'd by happy love, one year Too rapid in its course, has roll'd; In vain the dying hand she grasps, Hangs on the quiv'ring lip, and clasps The fainting form, that slowly sinks in death, To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.

Pale as the livid corse her cheek, Her tresses torn, her glances wild,-- How fearful was her frantic shriek! She wept--and then in horrors smil'd: She gazes now with wild affright, Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight-- Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls, Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.

And see! o'er gentle André's tomb, The victim of his own despair, Who fell in life's exulting bloom, Nor deem'd that life deserv'd a care; O'er the cold earth his relicks prest, Lo! Britain's drooping legions rest; For him the swords they sternly grasp, appear Dim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.

While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings, While pensive round his sable shrine, A radiant zone she graceful flings, Where full emblaz'd his virtues shine; The mournful loves that tremble nigh Shall catch her warm melodious sigh; The mournful loves shall drink the tears that flow From Pity's hov'ring soul, dissolv'd in woe.

And hark, in Albion's flow'ry vale A parent's deep complaint I hear! A sister calls the western gale To waft her soul-expressive tear; 'Tis Asgill claims that piercing sigh, That drop which dims the beauteous eye, While on the rack of Doubt Affection proves How strong the force which binds the ties she loves.

How oft in every dawning grace That blossom'd in his early hours, Her soul some comfort lov'd to trace, And deck'd futurity in flowers! But lo! in Fancy's troubled sight The dear illusions sink in night; She views the murder'd form--the quiv'ring breath, The rising virtues chill'd in shades of death.

Cease, cease ye throbs of hopeless woe; He lives the future hours to bless, He lives, the purest joy to know, Parental transports fond excess; His sight a father's eye shall chear, A sister's drooping charms endear:-- The private pang was Albion's gen'rous care, For him she breath'd a warm accepted prayer.

And lo! a radiant stream of light Defending, gilds the murky cloud, Where Desolation's gloomy night Retiring, folds her sable shroud; It flashes o'er the bright'ning deep, It softens Britain's frowning steep-- 'Tis mild benignant Peace, enchanting form! That gilds the black abyss, that lulls the storm.

So thro' the dark, impending sky, Where clouds, and fallen vapours roll'd, Their curling wreaths dissolving fly As the faint hues of light unfold-- The air with spreading azure streams, The sun now darts his orient beams-- And now the mountains glow--the woods are bright-- While nature hails the season of delight.

Mild Peace! from Albion's fairest bowers Pure spirit! cull with snowy hands, The buds that drink the morning showers, And bind the realms in flow'ry bands: Thy smiles the angry passions chase, Thy glance is pleasure's native grace; Around thy form th' exulting virtues move, And thy soft call awakes the strain of love.

Bless, all ye powers! the patriot name That courts fair Peace, thy gentle stay; Ah! gild with glory's light, his fame, And glad his life with pleasure's ray! While, like th' affrighted dove, thy form Still shrinks, and fears some latent storm, His cares shall sooth thy panting soul to rest, And spread thy vernal couch on Albion's breast.

Ye, who have mourn'd the parting hour, Which love in darker horrors drew, Ye, who have vainly tried to pour With falt'ring voice the last adieu! When the pale cheek, the bursting sigh, The soul that hov'ring in the eye, Express'd the pains it felt, the pains it fear'd-- Ah! paint the youth's return, by grief endear'd.

Yon hoary form, with aspect mild, Deserted kneels by anguish prest, And seeks from Heav'n his long-lost child, To smooth the path that leads to rest!-- He comes!--to close the sinking eye, To catch the faint, expiring sigh; A moment's transport stays the fleeting breath, And sooths the soul on the pale verge of death.

No more the sanguine wreath shall twine On the lost hero's early tomb, But hung around thy simple shrine Fair Peace! shall milder glories bloom. Lo! commerce lifts her drooping head Triumphal, Thames! from thy deep bed; And bears to Albion, on her sail sublime, The riches Nature gives each happier clime.

She fearless prints the polar snows, Mid' horrors that reject the day; Along the burning line she glows, Nor shrinks beneath the torrid ray: She opens India's glitt'ring mine, Where streams of light reflected shine; Wafts the bright gems to Britain's temp'rate vale, And breathes her odours on the northern gale.

While from the far-divided shore Where liberty unconquer'd roves, Her ardent glance shall oft' explore The parent isle her spirit loves; Shall spread upon the western main --Harmonious concord's golden chain, While stern on Gallia's ever hostile strand From Albion's cliff she pours her daring band.

Yet hide the sabre's hideous glare Whose edge is bath'd in streams of blood, The lance that quivers high in air, And falling drinks a purple flood; For Britain! fear shall seize thy foes, While freedom in thy senate glows, While peace shall smile upon thy cultur'd plain, With grace and beauty her attendant train.

Enchanting visions sooth my sight-- The finer arts no more oppress'd, Benignant source of pure delight! On her soft bosom love to rest. While each discordant sound expires, Strike harmony! strike all thy wires; The fine vibrations of the spirit move And touch the springs of rapture and of love.

Bright painting's living forms shall rise; And wrapt in Ugolino's woe[A], Shall Reynolds wake unbidden sighs; And Romney's graceful pencil flow, That Nature's look benign pourtrays[B], When to her infant Shakspeare's gaze The partial nymph "unveil'd her awful face," And bade his "colours clear" her features trace.

[A] "Ugolino's woe"--a celebrated picture by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, taken from DANTE. [B] "Nature's look benign pourtrays"--a subject Mr. ROMNEY has taken from GRAY'S Progress of Poesy.

And poesy! thy deep-ton'd shell The heart shall sooth, the spirit fire, And all the passion sink, or swell, In true accordance to the lyre. Oh! ever wake its heav'nly sound, Oh! call thy lovely visions round; Strew the soft path of peace with fancy's flowers, With raptures bless the soul that feels thy powers.

While Hayley wakes thy magic string, His shades shall no rude sound profane, But stillness on her folded wing, Enamour'd catch his soothing strain: Tho' genius breathe its purest flame --Around his lyre's enchanting frame; Tho' music there in every period roll, More warm his friendship, and more pure his soul.

While taste refines a polish'd age, While her own _Hurd_ shall bid us trace The lustre of the finish'd page Where symmetry sheds perfect grace; With sober and collected ray To fancy, judgment shall display The faultless model, where accomplish'd art From nature draws a charm that leads the heart.

Th' historic Muse illumes the maze For ages veil'd in gloomy night, Where empire with meridian blaze Once trod ambition's giddy height: Tho' headlong from the dang'rous steep Its pageants roll'd with wasteful sweep, Her tablet still records the deeds of fame And wakes the patriot's, and the hero's flame.

While meek philosophy explores Creation's vast stupendous round; Sublime her piercing vision soars, And bursts the system's distant bound. Lo! mid' the dark deep void of space A rushing world[A] her eye can trace!-- It moves majestic in its ample sphere, Sheds its long light, and rolls its ling'ring year.

[A] Alluding to Mr. Herschel's wonderful discoveries, and particularly to his discovery of a new planet called the Georgium Sidus.

Ah! still diffuse thy genial ray, Fair Science, on my Albion's plain! And still thy grateful homage pay Where Montagu has rear'd her fane; Where eloquence and wit entwine Their attic wreath around her shrine; And still, while Learning shall unfold her store, With their bright signet stamp the classic ore.

Enlight'ning Peace! for thine the hours That wisdom decks in moral grace, And thine invention's fairy powers, The charm improv'd of nature's face; Propitious come! in silence laid Beneath thy olive's grateful shade, Pour the mild bliss that sooths the tuneful mind, And in thy zone the hostile spirit bind.

While Albion on her parent deep Shall rest, may glory light her shore, May honour there his vigils keep Till time shall wing its course no more; Till angels wrap the spheres in fire, Till earth and yon fair orbs expire, While chaos mounted on the wasting flame, Shall spread eternal shade o'er nature's frame.

_Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it. It is silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age._ SHAKSPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.

Where the pure Derwent's waters glide Along their mossy bed, Close by the river's verdant side, A castle rear'd its head.

The ancient pile by time is raz'd, Where Gothic trophies frown'd; Where once the gilded armour blaz'd, And banners wav'd around.

There liv'd a chief, well known to fame, A bold advent'rous knight; Renown'd for victory; his name In glory's annals bright.

What time in martial pomp he led His gallant, chosen train; The foe, who oft had conquer'd, fled, Indignant fled, the plain.

Yet milder virtues he possest, And gentler passions felt; For in his calm and yielding breast The soft affections dwelt.

No rugged toils the heart could steel, By nature form'd to prove Whate'er the tender mind can feel, In friendship, or in love.

He lost the partner of his breast, Who sooth'd each rising care; And ever charm'd the pains to rest She ever lov'd to share.

From solitude he hop'd relief. And this lone mansion sought, To cherish there his faithful grief, To nurse the tender thought.

There, to his bosom fondly dear, An infant daughter smil'd, And oft the mourner's falling tear Bedew'd his Emma's child.

The tear, as o'er the babe he hung, Would tremble in his eye; While blessings, falt'ring on his tongue, Were breath'd but in a sigh.

Tho' time could never heal the wound, It sooth'd the hopeless pain; And in his child he thought he found His Emma liv'd again.

Soft, as the dews of morn arise, And on the pale flower gleam; So soft Eltruda's melting eyes With love and pity beam.

As drest in charms, the lonely flower Smiles in the desert vale; With beauty gilds the morning hour, And scents the evening gale;

So liv'd in solitude, unseen, This lovely, peerless maid; So grac'd the wild, sequester'd scene, And blossom'd in the shade.

Yet love could pierce the lone recess, For there he likes to dwell; To leave the noisy crowd, and bless With happiness the cell.

To wing his sure resistless dart, Where all its force is known; And rule the undivided heart Despotic, and alone.

Young Edwin charm'd her gentle breast, Tho' scanty all his store; No hoarded treasures he possest, Yet he could boast of more.

For he could boast the lib'ral heart; And honour, sense, and truth, Unwarp'd by vanity or art, Adorn'd the gen'rous youth.

The maxims of a servile age, The mean, the selfish care, The sordid views, that now engage The mercenary pair;

Whom riches can unite, or part, To them were still unknown; For then the sympathetic heart Was join'd by love alone.

They little knew, that wealth had power To make the constant rove; They little knew the weighty dower Could add one bliss to love.

Her virtues every charm improv'd, Or made those charms more dear; For surely virtue to be lov'd Has only to appear.

Domestic bliss, unvex'd by strife, Beguil'd the circling hours; She, who on every path of life Can shed perennial flowers.

Eltruda, o'er the distant mead, Would haste, at closing day, And to the bleating mother lead The lamb, that chanc'd to stray.

For the bruis'd insect on the waste, A sigh would heave her breast; And oft her careful hand replac'd The linnet's falling nest.

To her, sensations calm as these Could sweet delight impart; These simple pleasures most can please The uncorrupted heart.

Full oft with eager step she flies To cheer the roofless cot, Where the lone widow breathes her sighs, And wails her desp'rate lot.

Their weeping mother's trembling knees, Her lisping infants clasp; Their meek, imploring look she sees, She feels their tender grasp.

Wild throbs her aching bosom swell-- They mark the bursting sigh, (Nature has form'd the soul to feel) They weep, unknowing why.

Her hands the lib'ral boon impart, And much her tear avails To raise the mourner's drooping heart, Where feeble utterance fails.

On the pale cheek, where hung the tear Of agonizing woe, She bids the cheerful bloom appear, The tear of rapture flow.

Thus on soft wing the moments flew, (Tho' love implor'd their stay) While some new virtue rose to view, And mark'd each fleeting day.

The youthful poet's soothing dream Of golden ages past; The muse's fond, ideal theme, Was realiz'd at last.

But vainly here we hope, that bliss Unchanging will endure; Ah, in a world so vain as this, What heart can rest secure!

For now arose the fatal day For civil discord fam'd; When _York_, from _Lancaster's_ proud sway, The regal sceptre claim'd.

Each moment now the horrors brought Of desolating rage; The fam'd atchievements now were wrought, That swell th' historic page.

The good old Albert pants, again To dare the hostile field, The cause of Henry to maintain, For him, the launce to wield.

But oh, a thousand gen'rous ties, That bind the hero's soul; A thousand tender claims arise, And Edwin's breast controul.

Tho' passion pleads in Henry's cause, And Edwin's heart would sway; Yet honour's stern, imperious laws, The brave will still obey.

Oppress'd with many an anxious care, Full oft Eltruda sigh'd; Complaining that relentless war Should those she lov'd--divide.

At length the parting morn arose, In gloomy vapours drest; The pensive maiden's sorrow flows, And terror heaves her breast.

A thousand pangs the father feels, A thousand rising fears, While clinging at his feet she kneels, And bathes them with her tears.

A pitying tear bedew'd his cheek,-- From his lov'd child he flew; O'erwhelm'd; the father could not speak, He could not say--"adieu!"

Arm'd for the field, her lover He saw her pallid look, And trembling seize her drooping frame, While fault'ring, thus he spoke:

"This cruel tenderness but wounds "The heart it means to bless; "Those falling tears, those mournful sounds "Increase the vain distress."--

"If fate, she answer'd, has decreed "That on the hostile plain, "My Edwin's faithful heart must bleed, "And swell the heap of slain;

"Trust me, my love, I'll not complain, "I'll shed no fruitless tear; "Not one weak drop my cheek shall stain, "Or tell what passes here!

"Oh, let thy fate of others claim "A tear, a mournful sigh; "I'll only murmur thy dear name-- Call on my love--and die!"

But ah! how vain for words to tell The pang their bosoms prov'd; They only will conceive it well, They only, who have lov'd.

The timid muse forbears to say What laurels Edwin gain'd; How Albert long renown'd, that day His ancient fame maintain'd.

The bard, who feels congenial fire, May sing of martial strife; And with heroic sounds, inspire The gen'rous scorn of life;

But ill the theme would suit her reed, Who, wand'ring thro' the grove, Forgets the conq'ring hero's meed, And gives a tear to love.

Tho' long the closing day was fled, The fight they still maintain; While night a deeper horror shed Along the darken'd plain.

To Albert's breast an arrow flew, He felt a mortal wound; The drops that warm'd his heart, bedew The cold, and flinty ground.

The foe, who aim'd the fatal dart, Now heard his dying sighs; Compassion touch'd his yielding heart, To Albert's aid he flies.

While round the chief his arms he cast, While oft he deeply sigh'd, And seem'd, as if he mourn'd the past, Old Albert faintly cried;

"Tho' nature heaves these parting groans, "Without complaint I die; "Yet one dear care my heart still owns, "Still feels one tender tie,