Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew
The simple transports that with freedom flew ;-
Catch the cool breeze that mufky 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 lov'd companion: of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.
Ah! why should Virtue dread the frowns of Fate? Hers what no wealth can win, no power create! A little world of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wrek'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay; A world, with MEMORY'S ceaseless sun shine blest, The home of Happiness, an honest breast.
But most we mark the wonders of her reign,.
When Sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain,
When sober Judgment has his throne resign'd,
She smiles away the chaos of the mind ;
And, as warm Fancy's brigh: Elysium glows,
From Hr each image springs, each colour flows..
She is the sacred guest! th' immortal friend!
Ot seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend,
In that dead hour of night to Silence giv'n
Whispering seraphic visions of her heav'n.
When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round:
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound,
From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies,
And scales the Alps to visit foreign fkies;
Tho' far below the forked lightnings play,.
And at his feet the thunder dies away;
Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to fleep,,
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,
With MEMORY's aid, he sits at home, and sees
His children sport beneath their native trees,
And bends, to hear their cherub voices call,
O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.
But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell?
Say, can she chace the horrors of his cell?
Each fiery fli ht on Phrensy's wing restrain,
And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?
Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies,
There in the dust the wreck of Geniu lies!
He, whose arrefting hand sublimely wrought
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;
Who from the quarried mass, like PHIDIAS, drew
Forms ever fair, creations ever new !
But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of Fame,
The spectre Poverty unnerv'd his frame.
Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore 3:
And Hope's soft energies were felt no more.
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art! (x).
From the rude stone what bright ideas start !!
Ev'n now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe!1
And whence these scenes, these images, declare?
Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair?
Awake, arise with grateful fervour fraught,
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought.
He who, thro' Natare's various walk, surveys
The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays;
Whose mind, profan'd by no unhallow'd guest,
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best;
May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime,
Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime,
Or wake the spirit of departed Time.
Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral muse,
A blooming Eden in his life reviews!
So rich the culture, tho' so small the space,
Its scanty limits he forgets to trace :
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky,
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh! (y).
The weary waste, that lengthen'd as he ran,
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to
Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind,
By truth illumin'd, and by taste refin'd?
When age has quen h'd the eye and clos'd the ear,
Still nerv'd for action in her native sphere,
Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue
Some long lov'd image vanish'd from her view;
Durt thro' the deep recesses of the
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;
With giant grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.
So thro' the grove th' impatient mother flies,
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries;
Till the light leaves the truant boy disclose,
Long on the wood-moss stretch'd in sweet repose.
Nor yet to pleasing objects are confin'd The silent feasts of the reflective mind. Dinger and death a dread delight inspire; And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, When, richly bronz'd by many a summer sun, He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done.
Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile; And ask the shatter'd hero, whence his smile? Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich,-go; And own what raptures from Reflexion flow.
Hail, noblest structures imag'd in the wave ?
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave.
Hail, blest retreats from war and fhipwreck, hail !
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail.
Long have ye heard the narrative of age,
The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage;
Long have ye known Reflexion's genial ray
Gild the calm close of Valour's various day.
Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece,
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease:
A softer tone of light prevades the whole,
And steals a pensive langour o'er the soul.
Hast thou thro' Eden's wild wood vales pursued (<); Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude;
To mark the sweet simplicity of life,
Far from the din of Folly's idle strife:
Nor, with Attention's lifted eye, rever'd
That modest stone which pious PEMBROKE rear'd;
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ;
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place,
Her fainted spirit most delights to trace ? ·
Thus with the manly glow of honest pride, (a) O'er his dead son old ORMOND nobly sigh'd. Thus, thro' the gloom of SHENSTONE's fairy grove, MARIA'S urn still breathes the voice of love.
As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower. Awes us less deeply in its morning hour,,
|