Part 12 (1/2)
'Twas this that raised the ill.u.s.trious line, To match the first in fame; A thousand years have seen it s.h.i.+ne With unabated flame: Have seen thy mighty sires appear Foremost in Glory's high career, The pride and pattern of the brave.
Yet, pure from l.u.s.t of blood their fire, And from Ambition's wild desire, They triumphed but to save.
The Muse with joy attends their way The vales of peace along; There, to its Lord the village gay Renews the grateful song.
Yon castle's glittering towers contain No pit of woe, nor clanking chain, Nor to the suppliant's wail resound: The open doors the needy bless.
The unfriended hail their calm recess, And gladness smiles around.
There, to the sympathetic heart Life's best delights belong, To mitigate the mourner's smart, To guard the weak from wrong.
Ye sons of luxury, be wise; Know, happiness for ever flies The cold and solitary breast; Then let the social instinct glow, And learn to feel another's woe, And in his joy be blessed.
O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare For unsuspecting youth; Ere Flattery her song prepare To check the voice of Truth; O may his country's guardian power Attend the slumbering Infant's bower, And bright, inspiring dreams impart; To rouse the hereditary fire, To kindle each sublime desire, Exalt, and warm the heart.
Swift to reward a parent's fears, A parent's hopes to crown, Roll on in peace, ye blooming years, That rear him to renown; When, in his finished form and face, Admiring mult.i.tudes shall trace Each patrimonial charm combined; The courteous yet majestic mien, The liberal smile, the look serene, The great and gentle mind.
Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes, And win a nation's love, Let not thy towering mind despise The village and the grove.
No slander there shall wound thy fame, No ruffian take his deadly aim, No rival weave the secret snare: For Innocence, with angel smile, Simplicity, that knows not guile, And Love and Peace are there.
When winds the mountain oak a.s.sail, And lay its glories waste, Content may slumber in the vale, Unconscious of the blast.
Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home; It hopes in time to roam no more: The mariner, not vainly brave, Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest, at last, on sh.o.r.e.
Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, How vain your mask of state!
The good alone have joy sincere, The good alone are great: Great, when, amid the vale of peace, They bid the plaint of sorrow cease, And hear the voice of artless praise; As, when along the trophied plain, Sublime they lead the victor train, While shouting nations gaze.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY CHARLOTTE GORDON, DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET, WITH FEATHERS, &c.
Why, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow, With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's antient realm?
Thou knowest that virtue is of power the source, And all her magic to thy eyes is given; We own their empire, while we feel their force, Beaming with the benignity of heaven.
The plumy helmet, and the martial mien, Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far the Idalian queen-- Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.
THE HERMIT.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, A Hermit his song of the night thus began; No more with himself, or with nature, at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man:
”Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?
”Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
”For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, ”And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
”Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, ”Mourn, sweetest complainer! man calls thee to mourn: ”O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pa.s.s away-- ”Full quickly they pa.s.s--but they never return.
”Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, ”The moon, half-extinguished, her crescent displays: ”But lately I marked, when majestic on high, ”She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
”Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue ”The path that conducts thee to splendour again: ”But man's faded glory no change shall renew-- ”Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
”Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: ”I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; ”For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, ”Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.