More wounds than Nature gave he knew,
While Misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.
Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb
The baleful nightshade's lurid bloom
To drop its deadly dew:
Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,
That rudely binds his turf forlorn,
With Spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate
[anew.
What though no marble-piled bust
Adorn his desolated dust,
With speaking sculpture wrought? Pity shall woo the weeping Nine,
To build a visionary shrine,
[brought.
Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions
What though refus'd each chanted rite?
Here viewless mourners shall delight
To touch the shadowy shell:
And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom Of Laura, lost in early bloom, In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring his
[knell.
To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade,
This votive dirge sad duty paid,
Within an ivied nook:
Sudden the half-sunk orb of day More radiant shot its parting ray, And thus a cherub-voice my charm'd attention
[took:
6
Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise;
Nor thus for guilt in specious lays
The wreath of glory twine;
In vain with hue of gorgeous glow
Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow,
Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds con-
[fine.
'Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, Permits through life at large to rove The tribes of hell-born Wo:
Yet the same power that wisely sends
Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends
Religion's golden shield to break the embattled foe.
· Her aid divine had lull'd to rest
Yon foul self-murderer's throbbing breast,
And stay'd the rising storm :
Had bade the sun of hope appear
To gild his darken'd hemisphere,
And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted
[form.
• Vain man! 'tis Heaven's prerogative
To take, what first it deign'd to give,
Thy tributary breath:
In awful expectation plac'd,
Await thy doom, nor impious haste
To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of
death.'
Thomas Warton.
TO FEAR.
THOU, to whom the world unknown,
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown;
Who see'st, appall'd, th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between:
VOL II.
5*
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start; like thee disorder'd fly.
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm;
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep:
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And those, the fiends, who, near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside;
Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom that raving brood of Fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait:
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee!
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last!
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?
Or, in some hollow'd seat
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamen's cries,in tempests brought?
Dark power, with shuddering, meek, submitted
Be mine, to read the visions old
Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
[thought,
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve, abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave;
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke ;
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!
THE PASSIONS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd; his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair-
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail : Still would her touch the strain prolong:
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still, through all her song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden
hair.
And longer had she sung ;-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose :
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo!
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