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The Pleasures of Memory.


-Hoc est
Vivere bis, vità posse priore frui.--Marh

On could my mind, unfolded in my page, regularity. They are sometimes excited by sensible Enlighten climes and mould a future age;

objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the There as it glow'd, with noblest frenzy fraught, mind. Of the former species is most probably the memDispense the treasures of exalted thought; ory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasure to them, To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart,

as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The And bid the tear of emulation start!

latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms Oh could it still, through each succeeding year, the subject of the second. My life, my manners, and my name endear; When ideas have any relation whatever, they are atAnd, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,

tractive of each other in the mind; and the perception Still hold communion with the wise and just ! of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource, which was connected with it either in time or place, or When through the world it steals its secret course, which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence Revive but once a generous wish supprest, arises our attachment to inanimale objects; hence also, Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest;

in some degree, the love of our country, and the emoIn one good deed a fleeting hour employ,

tion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy;

of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to Blest were my lines, though limited their sphere, the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly Though short their date, as his who traced them here. the ideas of heat and light, he, who feels the infirmities

1793. of age, dwells most on whatever reminds him of the

vigor and vivacity of his youth.

The associating principle, as here employed, is no less PART I.

conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such,

it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous Dolce sentier,

scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives Colle, che mi piacesti,

exercise to every mild and generous propensity. Ov' ancor per usanza Amor mi mena; Ben riconosco in voi l' usate forme,

Not confined to man, it extends through all animated Non, lasso, in me.

nature; and its effects are peculiarly striking in the Petrarch.

domestic tribes.


Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, THE Poern begins with the description of an obscure With magic tints to harmonize the scene : village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites Stillid is the hum that through the hamlet broke, on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed When round the ruins of their ancient oak sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, we naturally ascend to the cause ; and the subject And games and carols closed the busy day. proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more the nature and leading principles of this faculty. With treasured talcs, and legendary lore.

It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succes- All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows, sion, and introduce each other with a certain degree of To chase the dreams of innocent repose.

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15:28. at every sep, to claim a tear, (1)
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And to the lighter leaf, but trembling teems
With poiden visions, and romantic dreams!

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Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,

Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; with water is in Himme the lowly lower; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er;

The drowny brood that on her back she bore, Awww cultium lamele smiling in its sleep. Impm in the barn with mousing owlet bred,

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When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd :-
And heroes fled the Sibyl's multer'd call,

Whose oltin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. to it wahve the feelings at a friend, An o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, t'has de 40 anni all foud delight,

Ind traced the line of life with searching view, With what a britent harm the wilderd sight; How throbbid my fluttering pulse with hopes and

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The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast; Dit ss be turn'd the greensward with his spade, Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, Ee lectured every youth that round him play'd ; And fairy-forests fringed the evening sky. Aad, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,

So Scotia's Queen, (5) as slowly dawn'd the day, ased us to rival each, the hero of his day. Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height I search the records of each mouldering stone. That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light; Guides of my life! instructors of my youth! But now the morn with orient hues portray'd Wo first unveild the hallow'd form of Truth; Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade: Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring, la age beloved, in poverty revered ;

And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing! Es Friendship's silent register ye live,

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, (6) a ssk the vain memorial Art can give.

As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. -But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. What spells entrance my visionary mind

Hence home-felt pleasure (7) prompts the Patriot's With aglis so sweet, with transports so refined !

Ethereal Power! who at the noon of night This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
Recall's: the far-fled spirit of delight;

For this young Foscari, (8) whose hapless fate
Pruto whom that musing, melancholy mood Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate,
Wich charms the wise, and elevates the good; When exile wore his blooming years away,
Best Maory, hail! Oh grant the grateful Muse, To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues,

When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
Add trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more, Lalid in the countless chambers of the brain, And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore. Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. And hence the charm historic scenes impart : (9) Arate but one, and lo, what myriads rise! (2) Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Each stamps its image as the other flies!

Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale Lach, as the various avenues of sense

Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the gale; Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,

In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, Enghters or fades; yet all, with magic art, And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. (10) Control the latent fibres of the heart.

'T was ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb (11) As studious PROSPERO's mysterious spell

We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom : Drew every subject-spirit to his cell;

So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time, (12) Each, at thy call, advances or retires,

On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
As jodgment dictates, or the scene inspires.

When at his feet, in honor'd dust disclosed,
Each thrilis the seat of sense, that sacred source The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed.
Dence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And as he long in sweet delusion hung,
And through the frame invisibly convey

Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.

Who now but meets him musing, when he roves Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; His ruir'd Tusculan's romantic groves ? Fra Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll What ditierent spheres to human bliss assign'd! His moral thunders o'er the subject soul? What slow gradations in the scale of mind !

And hence that calm delight the portrait gives :
Yet mark in eech these mystic wonders wrought; We gaze on every feature till it lives!
Ca mark the sleepless energies of thought! Still the fond lover sees the absent maid;

The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, (13)
Toms on the neighboring hill, once more to see When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep:
The dear abode of peace and privacy;

Tremblingly still, she lists his veil to trace
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The father's features in his infant face.
The stoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
The village-common spotted white with sheep, Won by the raptures of a game at play ;
The church-yard yews round which his fathers He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
sleep; (3)

Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.
All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train,

What though the iron school of War erase
Ard oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. Each milder virtue, and each softer grace;
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore

What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest
Asts yet antaught, and worlds unknown before, Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast;
And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale Still shall this active principle preside,
That nising, swelld their strange expanse of sail ; And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.
So, wben be breathed his firm yet fond adieu, (4) The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore,
Bortie from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,

Condemn'd to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, And all his soul best loved—such tears he shed, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild (14) Wmle each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled,

Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, Want with her babes round generous Valor clung, And unks a martyr to repentant sighs.

To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: 'T was thine to animate her closing eye; Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ; (15) Alas! 't was thine perchance the first to die, Why great Navarre, (16) when France and freedom Crush'd by her meagre hand, when welcomed from bled,

the sky. Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed.

Hark! the bee (21) winds her small but mellow When Diocletian's sell.corrected mind (17)

horn, The imperial tastes of a world resign'd,

Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.
Say why we trace the labors of lus spade, O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
In calm Salona's philosoptric shade.

And many a stream allures her to its source.
Nay, u hen contentious Charles renounced a throne, (18) T is noon, 't is night. That eye so finely wrought,
To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought,
What the lus soul the parting tribute drew! Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind;
What claim the surrous of a last adieu!

Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! "The stall recruits that suothed his tranquil breast Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ! Are grandeur dawled, and its cares oppressid. Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell!

l'inlamp d by time the grnenus Instinct glows With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue her as Angula's stints as Zembla's snons; of vaned scents, that charmd her as she few! Glons in the river's den, the serpent's mest Hail, MEMORT, hail! thy univenl reign Cherry a dvanced he imprese

Guaris the least link of Being's glorious chain The stai tries is concret intiuence hail And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, The ** annor canys si the sound, Awal mer pengaw's the pastur rund.

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