And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah! tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning infamy ; The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defiled, And moody Madness, laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo! in the vale of years beneath, A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage; Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, To each his sufferings; all are men The unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, And happiness too swiftly flies? 238. THE PROGRESS OF POESY. I. Awake, Æolian lyre! awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings! A thousand rills their mazy progress take; Now the rich stream of music winds along, Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign; Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command: Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye. Thee the voice, the dance obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay; O'er India's velvet green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, On Cytherea's day, With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures Now pursuing, now retreating, To brisk notes in cadence beating, Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare; In gliding state she wins her easy way; II. Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky, Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. In climes beyond the Solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode; Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers, wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. Glory pursue, and generous Shame, The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame. Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. III. Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, To him the mighty Mother did unveil This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy! Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. Nor second He that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy; He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time; Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed and long-resounding pace. Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; But ah! 'tis heard no more. 'Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye afford A tear to grace his obsequies! Is the sable warrior fled?— Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm, That hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. 'Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare! Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way; Twined with her blushing foe, we spread; Wallows beneath the thorny shade; Now, Brothers! bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. III. 'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof, the thread is spun !) Half of thy heart we consecrate; (The web is wove, the work is done!') 'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn, In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. |