Poetry

Ανθρωπος· ἰκανὴ πρόφασις εἰς τὸ δυστνχεῖν.

Menander

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat’ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry’s holy Shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor’s heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way.

Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade, Ah fields beloved in vain, Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side, Where China’s gayest art had dyed The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream; Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw; A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every wat’ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A fav’rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

In Britain’s Isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of building stands; The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employed the power of Fairy hands

To raise the ceiling’s fretted height, Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o’er him, My grave Lord-keeper led the brawls; The seal, and maces, danced before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crowned hat, and satin-doublet, Moved the stout heart of England’s Queen, Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning? Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is, (and that’s enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pie from France, Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye askance, And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind Heaven Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire; But Cobham had the polish given And tipped her arrows with good-nature.