Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen,
Sheds like an evening star its rays serene,
To hail our coming. Not a step profane
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain;
And while the frugal banquet glows reveal'd,
Pure and unbought-the natives of my field;
While blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves in
vite,
Still clad in bloom, and veil'd in azure light;
With wine as rich in years as Horace sings,
With water clear as his own fountain flings,
The shifting sideboard plays its humbler part,
Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art.
Thus in this calm recess, so richly fraught
With mental light and luxury of thought,
My life steals on; (O, could it blend with thine!)
Careless my course, yet not without design.
So through the vales of Loire the beehives glide,
The light raft dropping with the silent tide;
So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night,
The busy people wing their various flight,
Culling unnumber'd sweets from nameless flowers
That scent the vineyard in its purple hours.
Rise ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught through St. James's groves at blush of day, Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Through trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, Though skill'd alike to dazzle and to please; Though each gay scene be search'd with anxious
Nor thy shut door be pass'd without a sigh.
If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more, Some, form'd like thee, should once, like thee, explore;
Invoke the lares of his loved retreat,
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim feet;
Then be it said (as, vain of better days,
Some gray domestic prompts the partial praise)—
' Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unbless'd;
Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest.
In the clear mirror of his moral page
We trace the manners of a purer age.
His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught,
Scorn'd the false lustre of licentious thought.
-One fair asylum from the world he knew,
One chosen seat that charms with various view!
Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain)
Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain.
Through each he roves, the tenant of a day,
And, with the swallow, wings the year away!'
To Christopher Anstey, Esq.
ON THE ENGLISH POETS, CHIEFLY THOSE WHO
HAVE WRITTEN IN BLANK VERSE.
No, not in rhyme. I hate that iron chain, Forged by the hand of some rude Goth, which Reluctant Genius, and with many a fold [cramps Fast binds him to the ground. Shall the quick
That darts from world to world, and traverses
The realms of time and space all fancy free,
Check'd in his rapid course, obey the call
Of some barbarian, who, by sound enslaved,
And deaf to manly melody, proclaims,
No farther shalt thou go?' Pent in his cage The' imprison'd eagle sits, and beats his bars, His eye is raised to heaven. Though many a moon Has seen him pine in sad captivity,
Still to the thunderer's throne he longs to bear The bolt of vengeance; still he thirsts to dip His daring pinions in the fount of light.
Go, mark the letter'd sons of Gallia's clime, Where critic rules and custom's tyrant law Have fetter'd the free verse. On the pall'd ear The drowsy numbers, regularly dull,
Close in slow tedious unison. Not so
The bard of Eden; to the Grecian lyre
He tuned his verse; he loved the genuine muse,
That from the top of Athos circled all
The clustering islands of the Ægean deep,
Or roam'd o'er fair Ionia's winding shore.
Poet of other times, to thee I bow
With lowliest reverence. Oft thou takest my soul,
And waft'st it by thy potent harmony
To that empyreal mansion where thine ear
Caught the soft warblings of a seraph's harp,
What time the nightly visitant unlock'd
The gates of heaven, and to thy mental sight
Display'd celestial scenes. She from, thy lyre
With indignation tore the tinkling bells,
And tuned it to sublimest argument.
Sooner the bird that, ushering in the spring,
Strikes the same notes with one unvarying pause,
Shall vie with Philomel, when she pursues
Her evening song through every winding maze
Of melody, than rhyme shall soothe the soul
With music sweet as thine. With vigilant eye
And cautious step, as fearing to be left,
Thee Philips watches, and with taste refined,
Each precept culling from the Mantuan page,
Disdains the Gothic bond. Silurian wines,
Ennobled by his song, no more shall yield
To Setin, or the Strong Falernian juice,
Beverage of Latian chiefs. Next Thomson came:
He, curious bard, examined every drop
That glistens on the thorn; each leaf survey'd
Which Autumn from the rustling forest shakes,
And mark'd its shape, and traced in the rude wind
Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand
A pencil, dipp'd in her own colours, placed,
With which the ever faithful copyist drew
Each feature in proportion just. Had art
But soften'd the hard lines, and mellow'd down
The glaring tints, not Mincio's self would roll
A prouder stream than Caledonian Tweed.
Nor boast wild Scotia's hills and pleasant vales One bard of freedom only. While the North Turns his broad canvass, his Siberian van, Winnowing the noxious air; while luxury breathes Delicious odours o'er her treacherous meal; While labour strings the nerves and warms the blood;
While social sympathy dissolves the soul
In pity or in love, shall Armstrong please.
Sweet is the sound when, down the sloping side
Of some green hill, or on the scented herb
Steep'd in Aurora's aromatic dews,
The full-voiced choir their emulative notes
Tune to the jocund horn. Whoe'er thou art
Whom now on downy couch dull sloth detains,
Hark to the poet's song. Chaste Dian's bard,
Avonian Somerville, through many a wood,
Down many a craggy steep, shall hurry on
Thy glowing fancy. He shall show thee where
The amphibious otter, where the wily fox
Hides his proscribed head. Fresh from the chase
Oft shall some hunter o'er full bowls record
His verse, and with the faithful image fired
Exalt his loud-toned voice. The echoing hall,
Where blaze the roots of elm or oak, where round
Hang all the shaggy trophies of the field,
Shall ring responsive to the vocal strain.
As when red lightning cleaves the clouded sky,
Trees, rocks, and verdant fields, and straw-roof'd
At once are open'd on the traveller's view [cots
Wandering at latest eve; but soon again
The pierced cloud closes, and each objects sinks
In darkness as before; so burst thy strains
And cast a transient gleam, O musing Young,
O'er black obscurity. Poet of night,
How shall I style thee? for thy cadence now
Grates discord on mine ear, now sweetly flows
Harmonious: oft with wonder have I sought
What mean thy words ambiguous; oft my soul,
Soothed by thy pensive minstrelsy, forgets
Her peevish censure. Polish what is rude,
Illumine what is dark, whate'er is low
Exalt, and many a muse of fairer fame
To thee shall bend the laurels of her brow.
Come, Akenside, come with thine Attic urn
Fill'd from Ilissus by a Naiad's* hand.
Thy harp was tuned to freedom: strains like thine,
When Asia's lord bored the huge mountain's side
And bridged the sea, to battle roused the tribes
Of ancient Greece. The sons of Cecrops raised
* Alluding to the Hymn to the Naiads.
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