The Pleasures of Memory, a Poem, in tron Parts. By the Author of "Ar. Ode to Superftition."

(Continued from Page 65)

PART H.

Degli anni e de l'obblio nemica,

Delle cofe cuftode, e dispensiera.

TASSO.

Analyfis of the fecond Part.

THE
HE Memory has hitherto acted only in fub-

not eminently diftinguished from other animals: but, with refpect to man, the has a higher province; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external caufe whatever. She preferves, for his ufe, the treasures of art and fcience, history and philofophy. She colours all the profpects of life: for we can only anticipate the future, by concluding what is poffible from what is paft.'

On her agency depends every effufion of the Fancy, whofe boldest effort can only compound or tranfpofe, augment or diminish the materials the has collected and retained.

When the first emotions of defpair have fubfided, and forrow has foftened into melancholy, the amufes with a retrospect of innocent pleafures, and infpires that roble c nfidence which refults from the confcioufnefs of having acted well.

When fleep has fufpended the organs of fenfe from their office, the not only fupplies the mind with images, but affifts in their combination. And even in madnefs itself, when the foul is refigned over to the tyranny of a diftempered imagination, the revives paft perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar.

Nor are we pleafed only with a review of the brighter paffages of life; events, the moft diftreffing in their immediate confequences, are often cherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm.

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulfe to the paffions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is moft perfect; and folitude is her best Sphere of action.

February, 1793.

Ages and climes remote to thee impart What charms in genius, and refines in art; Thee, in whofe hand the keys of fcience dwell, The penfive portress of her holy cell; Whole conftant vigils chafe the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.

The friends of reafon, and the guides of youth, Whofe language breath'd the eloquence of truth; Whofe life, beyond preceptive wifdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; Thefe ftill exift, by Thee to Fame confign'd, Still speak and act, the models of mankind.

From Thee fweet Hope her airy colouring draws;

And Fancy's flights are fubject to thy laws. From Thee that bofom-fpring of rapture flows, Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.

When Joy's bright fun has shed his evening

And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper bell
Burfts thro' the cyprefs-walk, the convent-cell,
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive,
To love and joy ftill tremblingly alive;
The whifper'd vow, the chafte caress prolong,
Weave the light dance, and fwell the choral fong;
With rapt ear drink th' enchanting serenade;
And, as it melts along the moonlight glade,
To each fcft note return as foft a figh,
And Hefs the youth that bids her flumbers fly.

But not till time has calmed the ruffled breaft, Are thefe fond dreams of happiness consest. Not till the ruling winds forget to rave, Is heaven's sweet fmile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea's coaft purfue the leffening fail, And catch the founds that fadden every gale. Tell, if thou canft, the fum of forrows there; Mark the fixt gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The wracks of thought, and freezings of defpair! But paufe not then--beyond the western wave, Go, view the captive, barter'd as a flave! Crufh'd till his high heroic fpirit bleeds, And from his nervelefs frame indignantly recedes.

Yet here, ev'n here, with pleafures long refign'd,

Lo! MEMORY burfts the twilight of the mind:
Her dear delufions footh his finking foul,
When the rude fcourge prefumes its bafe con-
troul;

And o'er futurity's blank page diffuse
The full reflection of their vivid hues.
'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more,
Then will he wake on Congo's diftant fhore;
Beneath his plantain's ancient fhade, renew
The fimple transports that with freedom flew;
Catch the cold 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 verfe;
With thofe, the lov'd companions of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.

Ah! why fhould virtue dread the frown of fate?

Hers what no wealth can win, no power create!
A little world of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wreck'd by ftorms, nor moulder'd by de-
cay;

A world, with MEMORY'S ceafelefs fun-fhine bleft,

The home of happiness, an honest breaft.

But most we mark the wonders of her reign, When fleep has lock'd the fenfes in her chain, When fober judgment has her throne refign'd, She fmiles away the chaos of the mind; And as warm fancy's bright Elyfium glows, From her cach image fprings, each colour flows She is the facred gueft! th' immortal friend! Oft feen o'er fleeping nocence to bend, In that dead hour of night to filence giv'n, Whispering feraphic vifions of her heav'n.

When the blithe son of Savoy, roving round With humble wares and pipe of merry found, From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies, And fcales the Alps to vifit foreign skies; Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, And at 15 feet the thunder dies away; Oft, in the faddle rudely rock'd to fleep, While his mule browfes on the dizzy steep, With MEMORY's aid, he fits at home, and fees His children fport 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 fmile with gloomy madness dwell?
Say, can fhe chafe the horrors of his cell?
Each fiery flight on frenzy's wing restrain,
And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?
Pafs but that grate, which fcarce a gleam fup-
plies,

There in the duft the wreck of genius lies!
He whofe arrefting hand fublimely wrought
Each bold conception in the fphere of thought;
Who from the qua ried mafs, like PHIDIAS,
drew

Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

But, as he fondly fnatch'd the wreath of fame,
The fpectre poverty unnerv'd his frame.
Cold was her grafp, a withering fcowl she wore ;
And hope's foft energics were felt no more.
Yet ftill how fweet the foothings of his art (17)
From the rude ftone what bright ideas ftart!
Ev'n now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With fcenes that glow, with images that breathe!
And whence thefe fcenes, thefe images, declare.
Whence but from her who triumphs o'er def-
pair?

Awake, arife! with grateful fervour fraught, Go, fpring the mine of elevated thought. He who, thro' nature's various walk, furveys The good and fair her faultlefs line pourtrays; Whofe mind, prophaned by no unhallow'd gueft, Culls from the crowd the pureft and the best; May range, at will, bright fancy's golden clime, Or, mufing, mount where science fits fublime, Or wake the spirit of departed time. Who acts thus wifely, mark the moral mufe, A blooming Eder in his life reviews! So richly cultur'd every native grace, Its fcanty limits he forgets to trace: But the fond fool, when evening fhades the sky, Turns but to ftart, and gazes but to figh! The weary wafte, that lengthen'd as he ran, Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span!

Ah who can tell the triumphs of the mind, By truth illumin'd, and by tafte refin'd?

NOTE.

(17) The aftronomer chalking his figures on the wall, in Hogarth's view of Bedlam, is an admirable exemplification of this idea.

See the RAKE'S PROGRESS, plate 8.

When

When age has quench'd the eye and clos'd the ear,

Still nerv'd for action in her native sphere,
Oft will the rife-with fearching glance purfue
Some long lov'd image vanish'd from her view;
Dart thro' the deep receffes of the past,
O'er dusky forms in chains of flumber caft';
With giant-grafp fling back the folds of night,
And fnatch the faithlefs fugitive to light.

So thro' the grove th' impatient mother flies,
Each funlef's glade, each fecret pathway tries;
Till the light leaves the truant-boy disclose, -
Long on the wood-mofs ftretch'd in sweet re-
pose.

Nor yet to pleafing objects are confin'd The filent feafts of the reflective mind. Danger and death a dread delight inspire; And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, When, richly bronz'd with many a fummer fun, He counts his fears, and tells what deeds were done.

To mark the sweet fimplicity of life,
Far from the dine folly's idle ftrife;
Nor, with attention's lifted eye, rever'd
That modeft ftone which pious PEMBROKE
rear'd ;

Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The filent forrows of a parting hour;
Still to the paufing pilgrim points the place,
Her fainted fpirit moft delights to trace ?

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, (19)

O'er his dead fon old ORMOND nobly figh'd. Thus, thro' the gloom of SHENSTONE'S fairy grove,

MARIA'S urn still breathes the voice of love.

pile;

And ask the shatter'd hero, whence his smile? Go, view the fplendid comes of Greenwich, go; And own what rapture from reflection flow.

Hail, nobleft structures imag'd in the wave!
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave.
Hail, bleft retreats from war and fhipwreck,
hail!

That oft arreft the wondering ftranger's fail.
Long have you heard the narratives of age,
The battle's havoc, and the tempeft's rage;
Long have you known reflection's genial ray
Gild the calm clofe of valour's various day.

Time's fombrous touches foon correct the piece,

Mellow each tint, and bid each difcord cease: .
A fofter tone of light pervades the whole,
And breathes a penfive languor o'er the soul.

Haft thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales purfued (18)

Each mountain-fcene, magnificently rude;

NOTE,

(18) On the road-fide, between Penrith and Appelby, ftands a fmall pillar with this infcription: "This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial, of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countefs Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616: in memory whereof the hath left an annuity of 41. to be diftributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every second day of April for ever, upon the ftone-table placed hard by. Laus Deo!"

The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, and has its fource in the wildeft part of Westmoreland.

And with a brother's warmth, a brother's fmile,
The ftranger greets each native of his ifle;
So fcenes of life, when prefent and confeft,
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast;
Yet not an image, when remotely view'd,
However trivial, and however rude,
But wins the heart, and wakes the focial figh,
With every claim of close affinity!

But thefe pure joys the world can never
know;

In gentler climes their filver currents flow.
Oft at the filent fhadowy clofe of day,
When the hush'd grove has fung its parting lay;
When penfive twilight, in her dusky car,
Slowly afcends to meet the evening-ftar;
Above, below, aërial murmurs (well, (20)
From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy
dell!

A thousand nameless rills, that fhun the light,
Stealing foft mufic on the ear of night.
So oft the finer movements of the foul,
That thun the fphere of pleafure's gay controul,
In the ftill fhades of calm feclufion rife,
And breathe their fweet feraphic'harmonies!

Once, and domeftic annals tell the time, (Preferv'd in Cumbria's rude romantic clime) When nature mil'd, and o'er the landscape threw

Her richest fragrance, and her brightest huc,
A bright and blooming forefter explored
Thofe nobler scenes SALVATOR's foul ador'd;
The rocky pafs half hung with fhaggy wood,
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood;
Eager to bid the mountain-echoes wake,
And shoot the wild-fowl of the fiver lake.

High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, And blew his thrill blaft o'er perennial fnows; When the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, Gaz'd on the tumbling tide or dread Lodoar; And thro' the rifted cliffs, that scal'd'the fky, Derwent's clear mirror charm'd his dazzled eye. (21)

Each ofier ifle, inverted on the wave,
'Thro' morn's gay mift its melting colours gave;
And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove
Its emerald arch with wild lux dance wove.

Light as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew, From rock to rock the young adventurer flew; And day's last sunshine slept along the shore, When, lo! an ambush'd path the dadle of wel

came wore.

Imbowering fhrubs with verdure veil'd the sky,
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye;
Save when a mild and momentary gleam
Glanc'd from the white foam of fome fhelter'd
stream.

O'er the fhrill lake the bell of evening toll'd; And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold; And on the green hill's fide the meteor play'd, When, hark! a voice fung fweetly tho' the thade.

It ceas'd-yet fill in FLORIO's fancy fung,
Still on each note bis captive spirit hung;
'Till o'er the mead a cool fequenter'd grot
From its rich roof a sparry luftre shot.
A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor,
And on the front thefe fimple lines it bore:

Hence away, nor dare intrude!
In this fecret fhadowy cell
Maling MEMORY loves to dwell,
With her fifter Solitude.

Far from the bufy world the flies,
To tafte that peace the world denies.
Entranc'd fhe fits; from youth to age,
Reviewing life's eventful page;
And noting, ere they fade away,
The little lines of yesterday.

FLORIO had gain'd a rude and rocky feat, When lo, the genius of this ftill retreat! Fair was her form--but who can hope to trace The pensive softness of her angel-face ?

Those tend'rer tints that fhun the careless eye, And in the world's contagious circle die?

She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there;

Her paftoral beauty, and her artless air,

Had breath'd a soft enchantment o'er his foul!
In every nerve he felt her bleft controul !
What pure and white-wing'd agents of the sky,
Who rule the fprings of facred fympathy,
Inform congenial (pirits when they meet?
Sweet is their office, as their nature sweet!

FLORIO, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, Till thro' a vifta's moonlight-checquer'd fhade, Where the bat circled, and the rooks repos'd, (Their wars fufpended, and their courfels ciosd) An antique mantion burst in awful state, A rich vine cluttering round its gothic gate. Nor paus'd he here. The mafter of the scene Mark'd his light step imprint the dewy green; And, flow-advancing, hail'd him as his gueft, Won by the honeft warmth his looks exprefs'd. He wore the ruftic manners of a 'Squire; Age had not quench'd one spark of manly fire; But giant gout had bound him in her chain, And his heart panted for the chase in vain.

Yet here remembrance, fweetly-foothing power! Wing'd with delight confinement's lingering hour.

The fox's brush ftill emulous to wear,
He fcour'd the county in his elbow-chair;
And, with view-halloo, rous'd the dreaming
hound,

That rung, by ftarts, his deep-ton'd mufic 1ound.

Long by the paddock's humble pale confin'd,
His aged hunters cours'd the viewless wind:
And each, with glowing energy pourtray'd,
The far-fam'd triumphs of the field display'd;
Ufurp'd the canvas of the crowded hall,
And chas'd a line of heroes from the wall.
There flept the horn each jocund echo knew,
And many a fmile, 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 each vaft antler there!
This dafh'd the wave, that fann'd the mountain-
air.

Each, as it frown'd, unwritten records bore,
Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.

But why the tale prolong ?-His only child,
His darling JULIA on the stranger fmil'd.
Her little arts a fretful fire to pleate,
Her gentle gaiety, and native ease,

Had won his foul-but ah! few days had pafs'd, Ere his fond vifions prov'd too fweet to last.