POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun! And in this region flowers delight, And all is lovely to the sight.
Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, When she applies her annual test
To dead and living; when her breath Quickens, as now, the withered heath;- Nor flaunting Summer-when he throws His soul into the briar-rose; Or calls the lily from her sleep Prolonged beneath the bordering deep; Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren Is warbling near the BROWNIE'S Den.
Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot; Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, (High Servant of paternal Love) Young Bacchus was conveyed-to lie Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, Close-crowding round the infant-god; All colours, and the liveliest streak A foil to his celestial cheek!
COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER. "-How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty.'
LORD of the vale! astounding Flood; The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes-conscious of thy power; The caves reply with hollow moan; And vibrates, to its central stone, Yon time-cemented Tower! And yet how fair the rural scene! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee-delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear; And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear! Along thy banks, at dead of night Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A Champion worthy of the stream, Yon grey tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide A Form not doubtfully descried :- Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy? To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn; But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian plain; Or thrid the shadowy gloom That still invests the guardian Pass Where stood, sublime, Leonidas Devoted to the tomb.
And let no Slave his head incline, Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land, Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand That day the Tyrant fell,
IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD.
"The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned We were first, us when we must expect it. however, conducted into a small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look at a picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middle- flying asunder as by the touch of magic- and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apart- ment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls."-Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.
WHAT He-who, mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, The stars dim-twinkling through their forms! What! Ossian here-a painted Thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve-an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen; And, when the moment comes, to part And vanish by mysterious art; Head, harp, and body, split asunder, For ingress to a world of wonder; A gay saloon, with waters dancing' Upon the sight wherever glancing; One loud cascade in front, and lo! A thousand like it, white as snow- Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts! of their terrors Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, That catch the pageant from the flood Thundering adown a rocky wood. What pains to dazzle and confound! What strife of colour, shape and sound In this quaint medley, that might seem Devised out of a sick man's dream! Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!
O Nature-in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime- Ever averse to pantomime,
Thee neither do they know nor us Thy servants, who can trifle thus ;
Else verily the sober powers
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, And Names that moulder not away, Had wakened some redeeming thought More worthy of this favoured Spot; Recalled some feeling-to set free The Bard from such indignity!
*The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once beheld, a Templar Knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On tombs, with palms together prest, But sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull sheath-stern sentinel Intent to guard St Robert's cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say,
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their abbey's sanctity. So had they rushed into the grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved retreat, Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the Living, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim Defeating, put the Monks to shame, There where you see his Image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering NID is proud to show Reflected in the pool below.
Thus, like the men of earliest days, Our sires set forth their grateful praise: Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring artist dare
To seize whate'er, through misty air, A ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament,
And give the phantom an array
That less should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke
An Ossian out of mural rock,
And leave the figurative Man
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!
Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; With local sanctities in trust, More precious than a hermit's dust; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry bused.
What though the Granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain;
On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.
Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,
The wind might force the deep-grooved harp To utter melancholy moans
Not unconnected with the tones
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;
While grove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blend! Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds ; When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder-to discern The freshness, the everlasting youth, Of admiration sprung from truth; From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o'erflowing- To sound the depths of every Art That seeks its wisdom through the heart?
Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced With baubles of theatric taste, O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.
YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER, 1814.
(See page 177).
AND is this-Yarrow?- This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?-a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted:
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection:
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice- And gave his doleful warning.
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in:
For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there- The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own! 'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.
I see-but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee: A ray of fancy still survives- Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure:
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine- Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me-to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrcw.
POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY.
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country!-on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious cres Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies. Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory !-I, with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here.
Post forward all, like creatures of one kind, With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee In France, before the new-born Majesty. 'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, A seemly reverence may be paid to power; But that's a loyal virtue, never sown In haste, nor springing with a transient shower: When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,
What hardship had it been to wait an hour? Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!
Her approbation, and with pomps and games. Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay! Calais is not: and I have bent my way To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames His business as he likes. Far other show My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time; The senselessness of joy was then sublime! Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, Consul, or King, can sound himself to know The destiny of Man, and live in hope.
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
ONCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.
THE Voice of song from distant lands shall call To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, By one example hath set forth to all How they with dignity may stand; or fall, If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend? And what to him and his shall be the end? That thought is one which neither can appal Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done
The thing which ought to be; is raised above All consequences: work he hath begun Of fortitude, and piety, and love, Which all his glorious ancestors approve: The heroes bless him, him their rightful son.
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;- O miserable Chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience?
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and
There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
Among the capricious acts of tyranny that dis- graced those times, was the chasing of all Negroes from France by decree of the government: we had a Fellow-passenger who was one of the expelled. WE had a female Passenger who came From Calais with us, spotless in array,- A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay, Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame; Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim She sate, from notice turning not away, But on all proffered intercourse did lay
A weight of languid speech, or to the same No sign of answer made by word or face: Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire, That, burning independent of the mind, Joined with the lustre of her rich attire To mock the Outcast -O ye Heavens, be kind! And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race!
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore ;- All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent's green vales; but never
Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, Thou art free, Thought for another moment. My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear Companion at my side.
INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France-the coast of France how near !
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, A span of waters; yet what power is there! What mightiness for evil and for good! Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity; Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree Only, the Nations shall be great and free. Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul
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