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Threre Pity's lute arrests his ear,
But human vows, how frail they be!
Fame brought Carlisle unto his view And as from many a cavern'd dell
And all amazed, he thought to see The hollow wind is heard to swell,
The Augustan age anew. He thinks some troubled spirit sighs;
Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, And as upon the turf he lies,
No more he ponders on his woes, Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
Which erst he felt that forward goes, He sees below the gliding sprite,
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, And hears in Fancy's organs sound
And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. Aerial music warbling round.
With ills which in the world he bore,
Again on futile hope to rest, The wondrous work is now complete.
An unsubstantial prop at best,
And not to know one swallow makes no summer The Poet dreams :--The shadow flies,
Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, And fainting fast its image dies.
Which flash'd across the hemisphere, But lo! the Painter's magic force
Illumining the darkness there, Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;
Was but a single solitary beam, It lives it lives—the canvass glows,
While all around remaind in custom'd nigh And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.
Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene, The Bard beholds the work achieved,
In the false court's delusive height, And as he sees the shadow rise,
And only one Carlisle is seen, Sublime before his wondering eyes,
To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady Starts at the image his own mind conceived.
ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF
DESCRIPTION OF A
CARLISLE, K. G.
An humble Poet dwelt serene;
Were manifold, I ween.
He watch'd the swallow skimming round,
And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state,
[date. And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient
II. 1. “Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried,
“There was a time, when Genius claim'd Respect from even towering Pride,
Nor hung her head ashamed :
The titled and the rich alone
On Penury's wretched couch reclines,
[lenown. As overwhelm'd with want and wo, he sinks un
III. 1. " Yet was the muse not always seen In Poverty's dejected mien,
Not always did repining rue,
And misery her steps pursue.
When Sidney sung his melting song,
When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng,
No more our nobles love to grace
But arrogantly deem the muse as base;
DOWN the sultry arc of day
Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
The upland's woody shades among
With solitary song.
Neglect had stung him to the core;
And muse on all his sorrows o'er, (more And vow that he would join the abjured world no
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
COME, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell
I will meet thee on the hill,
But oh! when evening's virgin queen
The distant sounds of pastoral late, Invoking soft the sober suit Of dimmest darknessfitting well With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (Sc erst did music's silver tone Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) And haply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew belt, While in the castle's mouldering tower, The hooting owl is heard to pour Her melancholy song, and scare Dull Silence brooding in the air. Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car Black-suited Night drives on from far, And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, Arrests the waxing darkness drear, And summons to her silent call, Sweeping, in their airy pall, The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, To join her moonshine morrice-dance; While around the mystic ring The shadowy shapes elastic spring, Then with a passing shriek they fly, Wrapp'd in mists, along the sky, And oft are by the shepherd seen, In his lone night-watch on the green. Then, hermit, let us turn our feet To the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where, as we sit upon the tomb, The glow-worm's light may gild the gloorn, And show to Fancy's saddest eye, Where some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night-gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shade Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maidOr call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of wo and Fortune's frown; And bid us cast the eye of hope Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side; Or in the meadow, or the wood, Or by the lone, romantic flood; Let us in the busy town, When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass; And darkly on the trophied wall, Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall; Let us, while the faint winds wail, Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet; While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend, Thus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burn By fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient Icre, Till I can rightly guess of all That Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things, Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shine In night's high philosophic mine; And to thy name shall e'er belong The honours of undying song.
TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.
OH! thou who, in my early youth, When fancy wore the garb of truth, Were wont to win my infant feet, To some retired, deep-fabled seat,
Where, by the brooklet's secret tide,
Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap has rolrd, The midnight ghost was known to glide; And every year with new delight hast told, Or lay me in some lonely glade,
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, In native Sherwood's forest shade,
Has dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,
Thou may'st extol life's calm
untroubled sea, Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;
The storms of misery never burst on thee.
Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, And all thy pictures represent,
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines; Of siege and solemn tournament;
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, Or bear me to the magic scene,
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine,
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, The warrior knight of chivalry
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!
Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled; Or oft would tell the shuddering tale
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye, Of murders, and of goblins pale,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, Haunting the guilty baron's side,
His mattering mouth contorted with despair, (Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) And ask if Genius could inhabit there. Which o'er the vaulted corridore, On stormy nights was heard to roar,
Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleamid, By old domestic, waken'd wide
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd, By the angry winds that chide;
But now neglect has stung him to the core, Or else the mystic tale would tell,
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more; Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.
Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,
Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds ware; OH! yonder is the well-known spot,
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head My dear, my long-lost native home!
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. Oh! welcome is yon little cot,
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!
Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd
Tencourage genius, and to foster worth;
On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend,
'Tis just that every blessing should descend;
'Tis just that life to thee should only show II.
Her fairer side but little mix'd with wo. Of distant climes the false report
It lured me from my native land; It bade me rove-my sole support My cymbals and my saraband.
WRITTEN The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock,
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. And, oh! a thousand more delights,
That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
SAD solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;
Communmg lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie No more my little home I'll leave;
In dim obscurity before him,-thee, And many a tale of what I've seen
Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call Shall while away the winter's eve.
At this still midnight hour, this awful season, Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, O'er many a distant foreign land;
I turn me wearisome; while all around, Each place, each province I have tried,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;
I only wake to watch the sickly taper
Which lights me to my tomb. Yea, 'tis the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
And the last fleeting particle will fall,
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.
Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, Written impromptu, on reading the following pas
While meditate we may.--We have now
But a small portion of what men call time sage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interest. To hold communion; for even now the knife, ing Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
The separating knife, I feel divide just published. “It has a mixture of the spor- Yes, I must die I feel that I must die tive, which deepens the impression of its melan. And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, choly close. I could have wished as I have said
And Disappointment still pursued her blandish in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise.
ments, The sours of life less offend my taste than its
do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, sweets delight it."
The shuddering void, the awful blank--futurity.
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme Go to the raging sea, and say, " Be still !"
of earthly happiness-romantic schemes, Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ;
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard. Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, But well not Misery's son that life is fair.
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurt one's soul untimely to the shades,
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
ODE TO MIDNIGHT
A PASTORAL SONG.
COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies ; Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, And watch the early lark arise ; While Nature, clad in vesture gay,
Hails the loved return of day, Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; And then secure beneath the shade, We'll listen to the throstle's tale;
And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play
SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame,
And sing the gentle honours of her name While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, To lift my soul her fairy vision sends,
And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come, See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom See round yon church-yard elm what spectres
throng! Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, My flagelet-and, as I pensive play,
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors Hears them aghast, (while
still the dull owl pours Her hollow
screams each dreary pause between,) Till in the lonely tower he spies the light Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night.
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.
ODE TO THOUGHT.
Written at Midnight.
WHEN pride and envy, and the scom
Of wealth my heart with gall embued, I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;
To fill life's dusty way;
Or wonder where he stray:
And I will build an osier bower ;
The meditative hour. And when the Autumn's withering hand Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, I'll to the forest caverns hie: And in the dark and stormy nights I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; Or as it drifted soft and slow, Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.
Thy pictures are of pain;
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
Is this thy new delight?
'Tis thine to die,
While o'er the eye
His bárk through lonely seas;
But thou to me
my pillow flee.
Lo! where dejected pale he lies,
Despair depicted in his eyes,
He feels the vital flame decrease, Art thou of pleasure born ?
He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, The rose that gems thy pensive brow,
And cheer the expiring ray.
By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway Ry gentle Otway's magic name, defiles.
By him, the youth, who smiled at death,
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,
Will I thy pangs proclaim;
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, To call the solemn hour;
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, Lulld by the winds he slumbers deep,
And far-resounding Fame. While I in vain, capricious Sleep,
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, Invoke thy tardy power;
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; And restless lie,
Though unto thee the monarch looks with With unclosed eye,
awe, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, by.
Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly
Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,
A melancholy train.
Mocking thy derided state;
Thee chill Adversity will still attend,
And leaves thee all forlorn; [laughe AN ODE.
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and
And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs
With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, MANY there be, who, through the vale of life, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering While jarring Discord's inharmonious strise
in his grave.
Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair;
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE like through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.
MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night, And self-consuming Spleen.
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, And these are Genius' favourites: these
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Know the thought-throned mind to please,
Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beAnd from her fleshy seat to draw
guiled. To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law,
Nocturnal Study's still retreat,
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
And through my lofty casement Weaves,
Dinu through the vine's encircling leaves,
An intermingled beam.
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame: He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,
These the dread signs of many a secret pang, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, These are the meed of him who pants for fame; Pangs that his sensibility uprouse
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul! To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel
My lamp expires ;-beneath thy mild control, The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.
scor; And what o'er all does in his soul preside
Come, kindred mourner, in my breast Predominant, and tempers him to steel, Soothe these discordant tones to rest, His high indignant pride.
And breathe the soul of peace;
Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.
Oh! many a year has pass'd away
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray, For him awaits no balmy sleep,
Attuned my infant reed; He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;
When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,
Those happy moments now no more-
When on the lake's damp marge I lay,
And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there
Your magic sweets on me to shed,
In vain your powers are now essay'd 'Tis for untimely death.
To chase superior pain.