ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY.
My lids with grief were tumid yet,
And still my sullied cheek was wet With briny dews profusely shed For venerable Winton dead:
When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, Alas! are ever truest found,
The news through all our cities spread Of yet another mitred head By ruthless fate to death consign'd, Ely, the honour of his kind!
At once a storm of passion heaved My boiling bosom, much I grieved;, But more I raged, at every breath Devoting Death himself to death. With less revenge did Naso teem When hated Ibis was his theme; With less Archilochus denied The lovely Greek his promised bride. But lo! while thus I execrate, Incensed, the minister of fate, Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, Wafted on the gale I hear.
66 Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats and anger misapplied! Art not afraid with sounds like these
To offend, where thou canst not appease?
Death is not (wherefore dreamst thou thus }) The son of Night and Erebus:
Nor was of fell Erynnis born
On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn;
But, sent from God, his presence leaves, To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, To call encumber'd souls away From fleshy bonds to boundless day, (As when the winged hours excite, And summon forth the morning light,) And each to convoy to her place Before the Eternal Father's face. But not the wicked-them, severe Yet just, from all their pleasures here He hurries to the realms below, Terrific realms of penal woe! Myself no sooner heard his call, Than, 'scaping through my prison wall, I bade adieu to bolts and bars, And soar'd, with angels, to the stars, Like him of old, to whom 'twas given To mount on fiery wheels to heaven. Boötes' wagon, slow with cold, Appall'd me not; nor to behold The sword that vast Orion draws, Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws.
Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly, And far beneath my feet descry Night's dread goddess, seen with awe, Whom her winged dragons draw. Thus, ever wondering at my speed, Augmented still as I proceed, I pass the planetary sphere, The milky way-and now appear Heaven's crystal battlements, her door Of massy pearl, and emerald floor. "But here I cease. For never can
The tongue of once a mortal man In suitable description trace The pleasures of that happy place; Suffice it, that those joys divine Are all, and all for ever, mine!"
NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME.
AH, how the human mind wearies herself With her own wanderings, and, involved in gloom Impenetrable, speculates amiss!
Measuring in her folly things divine
By human; laws inscribed on adamant
By laws of man's device; and counsels fix'd
For ever, by the hours that pass and die.
How?-shall the face of nature then be plough'd Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last On the great parent fix a sterile curse? Shall even she confess old age, and halt, And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows? Shall foul antiquity with rust, and drought, And famine, vex the radiant worlds above? Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf The very heavens, that regulate his flight? And was the Sire of all able to fence
His works, and to uphold the circling worlds, But, through improvident and heedless haste Let slip the occasion?-so then-all is lost- And in some future evil hour, yon arch
Shall crumble, and come thundering down, the poles Jar in collision, the Olympian king,
Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain, Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd
Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven. Thou also, with precipitated wheels, Phoebus! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, At the extinction of the lamp of day. Then too shall Hamus, cloven to his base, Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills, Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed
In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear.
No. The Almighty Father surer laid His deep foundations, and providing well For the event of all, the scales of fate Suspended in just equipoise, and bade His universal works, from age to age, One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd.
Hence the prime mover wheels itself about Continual, day by day, and with it bears, In social measure swift, the heavens around. Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. Phoebus, his vigour unimpair'd, still shows The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god A downward course, that he may warm the vales; But, ev r rich in influence, runs his road, Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star From odoriferous Ind, whose office is To gather home betimes the ethereal flock, To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, A to discriminate the night and day. Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes Alternate, and with arms extended still
She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. Nor have the elements deserted yet
Their functions; thunder with as loud a stroke As erst smites through the rocks and scatters them. The east still howls; still the relentless north Invades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathes The winter, and still rolls the storms along. The king of ocean, with his wonted force, Beats on Pelorus; o'er the deep is heard The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell; Nor swim the monsters of the Agean sea In shallows, or beneath diminish'd waves. Thou too, thy ancient vegetative power Enjoy'st, O Earth! Narcissus still is sweet; And Phoebus! still thy favourite, and still Thy favourite Cytherea ! both retain Their beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enrich'd For punishment of man, with purer gold Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep. Thus in unbroken series all proceeds;
And shall, till wide involving either polc, And the immensity of yonder heaven, The final flames of destiny absorb
The world, consumed in one enormous pyre!
ON THE PLATONIC IDEA AS IT WAS UNDERSTOOD BY
YE sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all,
Mnemosyne! and thou who, in thy grot Immense, reclined at leisure, hast in charge The archives and the ordinances of Jove, And dost record the festivals of heaven, Eternity!-inform us, who is He, That great original, by nature chosen To be the archetype of human kind, Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles Themselves coeval, one, yet every where, An image of the God who gave him being? Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove, He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though Of common nature with ourselves, exists Apart, and occupies a local home-
Whether, companion of the stars, he spend Eternal ages, roaming at his will
From sphere to sphere, the tenfold heavens, or dwell On the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth, Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit
Among the multitude of souls ordain'd
To flesh and blood; or whether (as may chance) That vast and giant model of our kind In some far distant region of this globe Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high O'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest The stars, terrific even to the gods.
Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved His best illumination, him beheld
In secret vision; never him the son
Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night
Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd; Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles,
And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd;
Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd So deep in mystery, to the worshippers
Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him.
And thou, who hast immortalized the shades
Of Academus, if the schools received
This monster of the fancy first from thee, Either recall at once thy banish'd bards To thy republic, or thyself, evinced
A wilder fabulist, go also forth.
On that Pieria's spring would through my breast Pour its inspiring influence, and rush
No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood;
That, for my venerable father's sake
All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on winge Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain! For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please,
She frames this slender work; nor know I aught
That may thy gifts more suitably requite: Though to requite them suitably would ask Returns much nobler, and surpassing far The meagre stores of verbal gratitude: But, such as I possess, I send thee all. This page presents thee in their full amount With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought; Nought, save the riches that from airy dream In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers, I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired.
Verse is a work divine; despise not thou Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more) Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still Some scintillations of Promethean fire, Bespeaks him animated from above.
The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselves Confess the influence of verse, which stirs The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale Tremulous sybil make the future known; And he who sacrifices, on the shrine
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bull And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide
To scrutinize the fates enveloped there.
We too, ourselves, what time we seek again Our native skies, and one eternal now Shall be the only measure of our being,
Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, And make the starry firmament resound. And, even now, the fiery spirit pure That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself Their mazy dance with melody of verse Unutterable, immortal, hearing which Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd; Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board. Then sat the bard a customary guest To share the banquet, and, his length of locks With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse The characters of heroes and their deeds, To imitation; sang of chaos old,
Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt Not yet produced from Etna's fiery cave. And what avails, at last, tune without voice, Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear,
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