Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, With old achievement charms the wildered sight; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, Childhood's loved group revisits every scene; The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know ; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke !-to thee belong The sage's precept, and the poet's song. What softened views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, [steals! Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. [grey, Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams! Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The Gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed; 、 Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him played; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth! Whose every word enlightened and endeared; In age beloved, in poverty revered; In Friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined? Ethereal Power! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Blest MEMORY, hail! Oh grant the grateful Muse, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul. Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Controul the latent fibres of the heart. As studious PROSPERO'S mysterious spell Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy.; And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, So, when the mild TUPIA dared explore So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day, That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light; This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. 'Twas ever thus. Young AMMON when he sought Where Ilium stood, and where PELIDES fought, [land, Sate at the helm himself. No meaner hand And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: What tho' the iron school of War erase The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. [bled, Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Say why VESPASIAN loved his Sabine farm ; Why great NAVARRE, when France and freedom Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. When DIOCLETIAN'S self-corrected mind The imperial fasces of a world resigned, Say why we trace the labours of his spade In calm Salona's philosophic shade. Say, when contentious CHARLES renounced a throne, To muse with monks unlettered and unknown, What from his soul the parting tribute drew? What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu ? The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed. Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows; Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, On every form of varied life imprest. The social tribes its choicest influence hail :And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, The war-worn courser charges at the sound, And with young vigour wheels the pasture round. Oft has the aged tenant of the vale Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale ; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind; When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way; When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, Led by what chart, transports the timid dove Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest, And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. When, with the silent energy of grief, With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief, Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye; Alas! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, Crushed by her meagre hand when welcomed from the sky." Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. O'er thymy downs-she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. 'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? With conscious truth, retrace the mazy clue Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew ? Hail, MEMORY, hail thy universal reign Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. PART II. Delle cose custode e despensiera.-TASSO. ANALYSIS OF THE SECOND PART. THE Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distinguished from other animals: but, with respect to man, she has a higher province; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external cause whatever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colours all the prospects of life; for we can only anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible from what is past. On her agency depends every effusion of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only com pound or transpose, augment or diminish the materials which she has collected and still retains. When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble confidence which results from the consciousness of having acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar. Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences, are often cherished in remem. brance with a degree of enthusiasm. But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and wellregulated mind that the Memory is most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a Tale illustrative of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture that superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty. SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, They in their glorious course the guides of Youth, From Thee gay Hope her airy colouring draws; And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows: Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light. The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review ; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face: And ere, with iron-tongue, the vesper-bell Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song; With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fixed gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair! But pause not then-beyond the western' wave, Go, see the captive bartered as a slave! Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, Lo! MEMORY bursts the twilight of the mind. Her dear delusions sooth his sinking soul, When the rude scourge assumes its base controul; And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse The full reflection of her vivid hues. "Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore; Beneath his plantain's ancient shade renew The simple transports that with freedom flew ; Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows, And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows; The oral tale of elder time rehearse, And chant the rude, traditionary verse With those, the loved companions of his youth, When life was luxury, and friendship truth. Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create! A little world of clear and cloudless day, Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay; A world, with MEMORY'S ceaseless sunshine blest, The home of Happiness, an honest breast. But most we mark the wonders of her reign, . And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore; Awake, arise! with grateful fervour fraught, So rich the culture, tho' so small the space, Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile, And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile? Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich-Go, And own what raptures from Reflection flow. Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave! A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail! That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. Long have ye heard the narratives of age, The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage; Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray Gild the calm close of Valour's various day. Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, Which still records beyond the pencil's power, Still to the musing pilgrim points the place Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, MARIA'S urn still breathes the voice of love. As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, But these pure joys the world can never know; Once, and domestic annals tell the time, (Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue, A blithe and blooming Forester explored Those loftier scenes SALVATOR's soul adored; The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood; Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread, That downward to the night of caverns led; Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows; Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore; And thro' the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, Thro' morn's grey mist its melting colours gave; And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew, From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew ; And day's last sunshine slept along the shore, When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. Imbowering shrubs with verdure veiled the sky, And on the musk-rose shed a deeper die; Save when a bright and momentary gleam Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream. O'er the still lake the bell of evening tolled, And on the moor the shepherd penned his fold; And on the green hill's side the meteor played; Hence away, nor dare intrude! Far from the busy world she flies, FLORIO had gained a rude and rocky seat, When lo, the Genius of this still retreat! Fair was her form-but who can hope to trace The pensive softness of her angel-face? Can VIRGIL'S verse, can RAPHAEL'S touch impart Those finer features of the feeling heart, Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye And in the world's contagious climate die? She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul! In every nerve he felt her blest controul! What pure and white-winged agents of the sky, Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, Inform congenial spirits when they meet? Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet! FLORIO, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power! Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind: And each, with glowing energy pourtrayed, The far-famed triumphs of the field displayed; Usurped the canvass of the crowded hall, And chased a line of heroes from the wall. There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, And many a smile and many a story drew! High o'er the hearth his forest-trophies hung, And their fantastic branches wildly flung. How would he dwell on the vast antlers there! These dashed the wave, those fanned the mountain-air. |