In thy blest days no tyrant shall be seen,
Thy gracious king shall rule contented men;
In thy blest days shall not a rebel be,
But patriots all and well-approved of thee.
Such powers are thine, that man by thee shall wrest
The gainful secret from the cautious breast;
Nor then, with all his care, the good retain,
But yield to thee the secret and the gain;
In vain shall much experience guard the heart
Against the charm of thy prevailing art;
Admitted once, so soothing is thy strain
It comes the sweeter, when it comes again;
And when confess'd as thine, what mind so strong
Forbears the pleasure it indulged so long?
Soft'ner of every ill! of all our woes
The balmy solace! friend of fiercest foes!
Begin thy reign, and like the morning rise!
Bring joy, bring beauty, to our eager eyes;
Break on the drowsy world like opening day,
While grace and gladness join thy flowery way;
While every voice is praise, while every heart is gay
From thee all prospects shall new beauties take,
'Tis thine to seek them and 't is thine to make;
On the cold fen I see the turn thy eyes,
Its mists recede, its chilling vapour flies;
Th' enraptured lord th' improving ground surveys,
And for his Eden asks the traveller's praise,
Which yet, unview'd of thee, a bog had been,
While spungy rushes hide the plashy green.
I see thee breathing on the barren moor,
That seems to bloom although so bleak before;
There, if beneath the gorse the prinrose spring,
Or the pied daisy smile below the ling,
They shall new charms, at thy command disclose,
And none shall miss the myrtle or the rose.
The wiry moss, that whitens all the hill,
Shall live a beauty by thy matchless skill;
Gale from the bog shall yield Arabian balm,
And the grey willow wave a golden palm.
I see thee smiling in the pictured room,
Now breathing beauty, now reviving bloom;
There, each immortal name 'tis thine to give,
To graceless forms, and bid the lumber live.
Should'st thou coarse boors or gloomy martyrs see,
These shall thy Guidos, those thy Teniers be;
There shalt thou Raphael's saints and angels trace,
There make for Rubens and for Reynolds place,
And all the pride of art shall find in her disgrace.
Delight of either sex! thy reign commence;
With balmy sweetness soothe the weary sense,
And to the sickening soul thy cheering aid dispensa
Queen of the mind! thy golden age begin;
In mortal bosoms varnish shame and sin;
Let all be fair without, let all be calm within."
The vision fled, the happy mother rose,
Kiss'd the fair infant, smiled at all her foes,
And FLATTERY made her name:-her reign began:
Her own dear sex she ruled, then vanquish'd man;
A smiling friend, to every class she spoke,
Assumed their manners, and their habits took;
Her, for her humble mein, the modest loved;
Her cheerful looks the light and gay approved;
The just beheld her, firm; the valiant, brave,
Her mirth the free, her silence pleased the grave;
Zeal heard her voice, and, as he preach'd aloud,
Well-pleased he caught her whispers from the crowd
(Those whispers, soothing-sweet to every ear,
Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear)·
Shame fled her presence; at her gentle strain,
Care softly smiled, and guilt forgot its pain;
The wretched thought, the happy found, her true,
The learn'd confess'd that she their merits knew;
The rich-could they a constant friend condemu?
The poor believed-for who should flatter thein?
Thus on her name though all disgrace attend,
In every creature she beholds a friend
WHEN all the fiercer passions cease
(The glory and disgrace of youth);
When the deluded soul in peace,
Can listen to the voice of truth;
When we are taught in whom to trust,
And how to spare, to spend, to give,
(Our prudence kind, our pity just,)
'T is then we rightly learn to live.
Its weakness when the body feels;
Nor danger in contempt defies;
To reason when desire appeals,
When on experience, hope relies;
When every passing hour we prize,
Nor rashly on our follies spend;
But use it, as it quickly flies,
With sober aim to serious end; When prudence bounds our utmost views, And bids us wrath and wrong forgive; When we can calmly gain or lose,'T is then we rightly learn to live. Yet thus, when we our way discern, And can upon our care depend, To travel safely, when we learn,
Behold! we're near our journey's end;
We've trod the maze of error round,
Long wand'ring in the winding glade;
And, now the torch of truth is found,
It only shows us where we stray'd:
Light for ourselves, what is it worth,
When we no more our way can choose?
For others, when we hold it forth,
They, in their pride, the boon refuse.
By long experience taught, we now
Can rightly judge of friends and foes,
Can all the worth of these allow,
And all their faults discern in those;
Relentless hatred, erring love,
We can for sacred truth forego;
We can the warmest friend reprove,
And bear to praise the fiercest foe.
To what effect? Our friends are gone
Beyond reproof, regard, or care;
And of our foes remains there one,
The mild relenting thoughts to share?
Now 'tis our boast that we can quell
The wildest passions in their rage;
Can their destructive force repel,
And their impetuous wrath assuage:
Ah! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now
This bold rebellious race are fled;
When all these tyrants rest, and thou
Art warring with the mighty dead? Revenge, ambition, scorn and pride,
And strong desire, and fierce disdain, The giant-brood by thee defied,
Lo! Time's resistless strokes have slain.
Yet Time, who could that race subdue,
(O'rpowering strength, appeasing rage,)
Leaves yet a persevering crew,
To try the failing powers of age.
Vex'd by the constant call of these,
Virtue awhile for conquest tries;
But weary grown, and fond of ease,
She makes with them a compromise:
Av'rice himself she gives to rest,
But rules him with her strict commands,
Bids Pity touch his torpid breast,
And Justice hold his eager hands.
Yet is there nothing men can do,
When chilling age comes creeping on?
Cannot we yet some good pursue?
Are talents buried? genius gone?
If passions slumber in the breast,
If follies from the heart be fled;
If laurels let us go in quest,
And place them on the poet's head.
Yes, we'll redeem the wasted time,
And to neglected studies flee;
We'll build again the lofty rhyme,
Or live, Philosophy, with thee:
For reasoning clear, for flight sublime,
Eternal fame reward shall be;
And to what glorious heights we'll climb,
The admiring crowd shall envying see.
Begin the song! begin the theme!-
Alas! and is Invention dead?
Dream we no more the golden dream?
Is Mem'ry with her treasures fled?
Yes, 't is too late,-now Reason guides
The mind, sole judge in all debate;
And thus the important point decides,
For laurels, 't is, alas! too late.
What is possess'd we may retain,
But for new conquests strive in vain.
Beware then, Age, that what was won,
If life's past labours, studies, views,
Be lost not, now the labour's done,
When all thy part is,—not to lose:
When thou canst toil or gain no more,
Destroy not what was gain'd before.
For, all that's gain'd of all that's good,
When time shall his weak frame destroy
(Their use then rightly understood),
Shall man in happier state enjoy.
Oh! argument for truth divine,
For study's cares, for virtue's strife;
To know the enjoyment will be thine,
In that renew'd, that endless life!
PERSONS.—VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT,
I'LL know no more; the heart is torn
By views of woe, we cannot heal;
Long shall I see these things forlorn
And oft again their griefs shall feel,
As each upon the mind shall steal;
That wan projector's mystic style,
That lumpish idiot leering by,
That peevish idler's ceaseless wile,
And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile,
While struggling for the fu'l-drawn sigh!--
I'll know no more.
|