Part 9 (1/2)
To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent Her magic wand, potent to conjure up Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd, Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.
The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane, Majestic as the canopy of heaven, Embracing all created things, a fane His superhuman genius has upraised, To Nature consecrate? The G.o.ddess there For ever dwells, and from her sanctuary, By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest, Reveals her awful mysteries to man, And with her power divine rules every heart.
At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sons Of learning, and of art! ye men, endow'd With talent, taste! ye n.o.bler few who feel The genuine glow of genius! bow down all In admiration! with deep feeling own Your littleness, your insignificance; And with one general voice due homage pay To Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!
LINES ON MILTON.
(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
Milton!-- the name of that divinest Bard Acts on Imagination like a charm Of holiest power;--with deep, religious awe She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd The relics that enshrined his G.o.dlike soul.
O! with what heartfelt interest and delight, With what astonishment, will all the sons Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride Will England ever boast her Milton's name, The Poet matchless in sublimity!
E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre; Inspiring virtuous, heart-enn.o.bling thought, They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power No longer treads the guilt-polluted world, But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air: Rapt Faith antic.i.p.ates the judgment-hour, When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake With frames resuscitated, glorified: Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard, Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs, Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir, And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.
ANACREONTIC.
Still, as the fleeting seasons change, From joy to joy poor mortals range, And as the year pursues its round, One pleasure's lost, another found; Time, urging on his envious course, Still drives them from their last resource.
So b.u.t.terflies, when children chase The gaudy prize with eager pace, On each fresh flower but just alight, And, ere they taste, renew their flight.
Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess A constant source of happiness, And am not poorly forced to live On what the seasons please to give.
Let clouds or suns.h.i.+ne vest the pole, What care I, while I quaff the bowl?
In that secure, I can defy The changeful temper of the sky.
No weathergla.s.s, or if I be, Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.
ANACREONTIC.
Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear, While yonder Censor mounts the chair: His form erect, his stately pace, His huge, white wig, his solemn face, His scowling brows, his ken severe, His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer, Some high Philosopher declare:-- Hus.h.!.+ let us hear him from the chair:
'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth; How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow, Suns.h.i.+ne to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice, That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'
Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine, Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
Since mortals must die, Since life's but a span, 'Tis wisdom, say I, To live while we can, And fill up with pleasure The poor little measure.
Of fate to complain How simple and vain!
Long faces I hate; They shorten the date.
My Friends! while ye may, Be jovial to-day; The things that will be Ne'er wish to foresee; Or, should ye employ Your thoughts on to-morrow, Let Hope sing of joy, Not Fear croak of sorrow.
But see! the Sage flies, so no more.
Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.
ANACREONTIC.
Why must Poets, when they sing, Drink of the Castalian spring?
Sure 'tis chilling to the brain; Witness many a modern strain: Poets! would ye sing with fire, Wine, not water, must inspire.