Let others court thy transient smile, But come to grace thy western isle, By warlike Honor led;
And, while around her ports rejoice, While all her sons adore thy choice, With him forever wed!
FAREWELL, for clearer ken designed, The dim-discovered tracts of mind; Truths which, from action's paths retired, My silent search in vain required! No more my sail that deep explores ; No more I search those magic shores; What regions part the world of soul, Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll: If e'er I round such fairy field, Some power impart the spear and shield, At which the wizard Passions fly; By which the giant Follies die!
Farewell the porch whose roof is seen Arched with the enlivening olive's green: Where Science, pranked in tissued vest, By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest, Comes, like a bride, so trim arrayed, To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!
Youth of the quick uncheated sight, Thy walks, Observance, more invite !
O thou who lovest that ampler range,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change, And, with her mingling sons allied,
Throwest the prattling page aside,
me, in converse sweet, impart To read in man the native heart; To learn, where Science sure is found, From Nature as she lives around; And, gazing oft her mirror true, By turns each shifting image view! Till meddling Art's officious lore Reverse the lessons taught before; Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school: Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast, Hast blest this social science most.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the charmful task, In pageant quaint, in motley mask; Behold, before her musing eyes, The countless Manners round her rise While, ever varying as they pass, To some Contempt applies her glass: With these the white-robed maids combine; And those the laughing Satyrs join! But who is he whom now she views, In robe of wild contending hues? Thou by the Passions nursed, I greet The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humor, thou whose name is known To Britain's favored isle alone : Me too amidst thy band admit;
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit (Whose jewels in his crispéd hair
Are placed each other's beams to share; Whom no delights from thee divide), In laughter loosed, attends thy side.
By old Miletus, who so long Has ceased his love-inwoven song; By all you taught the Tuscan maids, In changed Italia's modern shades; By him whose knight's distinguished name Refined a nation's lust of fame;
Whose tales e'en now, with echo sweet, Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;
Or him whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore, In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore;
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betrayed.
O Nature boon, from whom proceed Each forceful thought, each prompted deed; If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating cynic find
Those oft-turned scrolls I leave behind:
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting: By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled,
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still, through all the song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung; but, with a frown,
He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down; And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
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