Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his fource,
To fee the Mincio draw his watry store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful fhore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of fmoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures I furvey
Eridanus through flow'ry meadows stray,
The king of floods! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,
Diftributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for ftreams immortaliz'd in song,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the mufe's skill,
And in the fmooth defcription murmur ftill.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That deftitute of strength derives its course
From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;
Yet fung fo often in poetic lays,

With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys;
So high the deathlefs muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyn, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obfcurely stray'd,
And unobferv'd in wild Meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Naffau's sword renown'd;
Its rifing billows through the world refound.
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verfe.

Oh cou'd the mufe my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy fhould yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That fhun the coafts of Britain's ftormy ifle, Or when transplanted and preferv'd with care, Curfe the cold clime, and ftarve in northern air. Here kindly warinth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:

Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feafons lavish all their pride:
Bloffoms, and fruits, and flowers together rife,
And the whole year in gay confusion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my foul a thousand paffions ftrive,
When Rome's exalted beauties 1 defcry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with fculpture pierce the fkies:
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans deathless acts difplay'd,
Their bafe degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,

And wond'ring at their heighth through airy channels flow. Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires

[ocr errors]

And the dumb fhow of breathing rocks admires ;
Where the smooth chifel all its force has fhown,
And foften'd into flesh the rugged stone,
In folemn filence, a majestic band,

Heroes, and gods, and Roman confuls stand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,

And emperors in Parian marble frown;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly fu'd,
Still fhow the charms that their proud hearts fubdu'd.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show th' immortal labours in my verse,
Where from the mingled ftrength of fhade and light,
A new creation rifes to my fight,

Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the foft variety I'm loft :

Here pleafing airs my ravish'd foul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found;

Here domes and temples rife in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my mufe.

How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd bleffings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhaufted stores,

Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores,
With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart,
The fmiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppreffion in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny ufurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The red'ning Orange and the swelling grain :
Joylefs he fees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant fhade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curft,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright,
Profufe of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign,
And fmiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eas'd of her load fubjection grows more light,
And poverty looks chearful in thy fight;
Thou mak'it the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'ft beauty to the fun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddefs, thee, Britannia's ifle adores;
How has the oft exhaufted all her ftores,
How oft in fields of death thy prefence fought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought i
On foreign mountains may the fun refine
The grapes foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive fwell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent fkies,
Nor at the coarfenefs of our heav'n repine,
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen pleiads shine :

'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains fimile. Others with tow'riug piles may please the fight,

And in their proud afpiring domes delight;

A nicer touch to the ftretcht canvas give,
Or teach their animated rocks to live:

'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold prefumptuous kings with war,
And answer her afflicted neighbour's Pray'r.
The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
Bless the wife conduct of her pious arms :
Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
And all the northern world lies huth'd in peace.
Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his afpiring head,
And fain her godlike fons wou'd disunite
By foreign gold, or by domestic spite;
But ftrives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Naau's arms defend and counsels guide.
Fir'd with the name, which I fo oft have found
The distant climes and diff'rent tongues resound,
I bridle in my struggling mufe with pain,
That longs to lanch into a bolder strain,
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous fong,
My humble verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling ftream;
Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays,
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, thou'd praise.

There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, difplay'd in the following letter from lord Lyttleton to Mr. Pope; and the meffage from the fhade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and justly preceptive, may prove an useful leffon to future bards.

A Letter from the Right Honourable the Lord LYTTLETON to Mr. POPE.

From Rome, 1730.

Immortal bard for whom each mufe has wove

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken d ages laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient wit;

G

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft;
From tyrants, and from priefts, the mufes fly,
Daughters of reafon and of liberty.

Nor Baia now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincia rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breaft the Roman fire.
So in the fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd ftate
Has felt the worft feverity of fate :

Not that barbarian hands her fafces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities defert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,

That facred wifdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of fcience flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.
Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd !
Oft I the traces you have left explore,

Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore ;
Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'er-grown ;
Thofe hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee,
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd, While with th' infpiring mufe my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes, Beheld the poet's awful form arife:

Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid
Thefe grateful rit to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his mafter bear.

« ZurückWeiter »