Poetry Part 7

ON HEARING THE NIGHTINGALE.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song!

O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost As in a blissful dream! how has my soul Been wafted in a sea of melody!

Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself: Still with the enchanting music's dying breath The air is kept in motion, and conveys Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear; Or is it but an echo from the cell Of memory that deludes my doating sense?

Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway, And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web; But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature, More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd With the departed soul of harmony.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves All my heart's grat.i.tude; for it has still'd Its anxious throbbings, and removed the load Of sadness that oppress'd the springs of life: More lightly now it beats, and welcomes back The glowing tide of health, and conscious feels The blessing of existence. It imparts To all my frame reanimating force; My nerves partake of its elastic spring; No longer falsely sentient, they receive The just impression from external things, Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch, And in her general concert bear a part.

Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale!

How by the magic influence of thy song, How am I changed from what, of late, I was!

And every object, too, how seems it changed!

This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'd To Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy, Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood, The G.o.ddess loved to dwell;--'twas lonesome gloom, And awful stillness all: I felt her power; The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'd With a mysterious load of shapeless feeling: Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart; Upon the ground I sank,--scarce sensible, And buried, as it were, in conscious death.

With what soft influence, what resistless power, Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel!

Insinuate itself into my ear, Melting its dull unwillingness to listen, And opening soon a pa.s.sage to my heart!

But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul!

O wondrous power of heavenly harmony!

See, Philomel! the G.o.ddess of the night, Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws, And pays thee with a smile of grat.i.tude; A smile that to her beauty adds new charms, Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy, Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head, And, gazing on her tutelary Power With eyes reflecting soft her dewy light, Feels her divinest inspiration steal Into her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven.

My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows.

Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song!

Long on this night shall grateful memory doat; And oft to this loved wood will I return.

TO PAGANINI.

Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame, O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name; Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise, And swell the general chorus of thy praise.

Though not so loud, more dear the applause to thee Of all the favour'd sons of harmony, Who, with one full consent, admiring own } Thee as their master--monarch--thee alone; } And humbly bow before thee on thy throne. }

O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart; Thou hast created for thyself an art.

As, in the natural world, around the sun The planets their career of brightness run, Each moving in an orbit of its own, And all obeying laws to science known.

Musicians thus, each blest with his degree Of talent by the G.o.d of harmony, s.h.i.+ne forth distinguish'd in their several ways, While every one the rules of art obeys.

We calculate the merits of their name, And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.

Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st; Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st, Like comet, blazing in its bold career, That leaves behind the planetary sphere, And rushes towards the centre of the sun Till with Apollo's self it seems but one.

A Genius, an Original, art thou, Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.

When thou dost take thy magic bow in hand What mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?

Transported, we admire thy peerless skill; Thou movest our feelings, pa.s.sions, at thy will; With fear we tremble, we with anger glow, Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow; Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain, From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?

Such is thy music's power to rule the heart, Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.

TO FANCY.

O! what a nameless feeling of delight Stole o'er my wondering spirit, like a gleam From opening heaven!--dost thou, then, Fancy, deign Once more to visit me? thou dost! thou dost!

That breath of extacy, that heavenly light, Flow'd from the wafture of thy angel wings, And from thy smiling eyes: divinest Power!

Welcome, thrice welcome! O vouchsafe to make My breast thy temple, and my heart thy shrine!

Still will I wors.h.i.+p thee, and thou shalt keep, In peace, thy new abode, nor fear the approach Of aught profane or hostile, to disturb Thy holy mysteries; for I will chase Far from the hallow'd precincts where thou dwell'st Each worldly pa.s.sion, every grovelling thought, And all the train of Vice; striving to make The shrine well-worthy its celestial guest.

Still will I wors.h.i.+p thee, and oft invoke Thine inspirations, and with transport yield To thy sweet, magic influence all my soul: The slightest breath of thine inspiring voice Shall wake my nerves, most feelingly alive, And bid them tremble with poetic bliss.

The frown of Reason thou no more shalt fear; Did I say Reason's frown?--no!--'twas the frown Of false Philosophy, her foolish pride.

Reason and Thou are sisters, born to rule Unitedly, in happiest harmony, The mind of man; and in the heaven-sent hour Of inspiration, from the self-same source Ye pour the stream of mingled light and flame That animates, illumes, and warms the soul.

How could I e'er desert thee, loveliest Nymph!

To court thy rival, false Philosophy?

How could I quit thy verdant, flowery walks, To tread with painful toil the briary maze Of metaphysic lore? Indulgent Power!

The offence forgive. Lured by the specious name, Philosophy, and by her meteor rays Misled, with fond presumptuousness I strove To penetrate the dark, unfathom'd depth Where Truth in awful mystery resides.

Not deigning in thy mirror to behold Her image, though in loveliest beauty clad, With lawless curiosity I sought To view the G.o.ddess in her naked form.

But heaven to man, nor angel gives to scan Truth's very self; she lives for ever hid, Shrined in the bosom of Divinity.

Long wandering mid the chaos, I at length Approach'd the border of the cold, dark waste, The bottomless abyss, the dreadful void Of scepticism; affrighted, back I shrunk.

O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more, Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye, Melting thy fairy visions into air.

Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove, There study nature, and with grateful heart, In thy serene, translucent stream behold The light of truth reflected, and the smile Of heaven's benevolence, and in that gla.s.s The loveliness of every Virtue woo And every Grace. There let me, too, behold In all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy, That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart; And let the love of glory fire my breast; And let me see, to stimulate my powers, The new-born crescent of my fame ascend, While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope, On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wings To fan its beams and joyful hails the hour When in its full-orb'd glory it shall s.h.i.+ne.

A SUMMER-EVENING.

Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill, The prospect, from its height, will well reward The toil of climbing; thence we shall command The various beauties of the landscape round.-- Now we have reached the top. O! what a scene Opens upon the sight, and swallows up The admiring soul! She feels as if from earth Uplifted into heaven. Scarce can she yet Collect herself, and exercise her powers.

While o'er heaven's lofty, wide-extended arch, And round the vast horizon, the bold eye Shoots forth her view, with what sublime delight The bosom swells! See, where the G.o.d of day, Who through the cloudless ether long has rid On his bright, fiery car, amidst a blaze Of dazzling glory, and in wrath shot round His burning arrows, with tyrannic power Oppressing Nature, now, his daily course Well-nigh completed, toward the western goal Declines, and with less awful majesty Concludes his reign; his flamy chariot hid In floods of golden light that dazzles still, Though less intense. O! how these scenes exalt The throbbing heart! Louisa, canst thou bear These strong emotions? do they not o'erpower Thy tender nerves? I fear, my Love, they do; Those eyes that, late, with transport beam'd so bright, Now veil their rays with the soft, dewy shade Of tenderness. Let us repose awhile; The roots of yonder tree, cover'd with moss, Present a pleasing seat; there let us sit.

Hark! Zephyr wakes, and sweetly-whispering, tells The approach of Eve; already Nature feels Her soothing influence, her refres.h.i.+ng breath; The fields, the trees, imbibe the cool, moist air, Their feverish thirst allay, and smile revived.

The Soul, too, feels her influence, sweetly soothed Into a tender calm. O! let us now, My loved Louisa! let us now enjoy The landscape's charms, and all the nameless sweets Of this, our favourite hour, for ever dear To Fancy and to Love. Cast round thy sight Upon the altered scene, nor longer fear The dazzling sun; his latest, lingering beams Where are they? can'st thou find them?--see! they gild The glittering top of yonder village-spire; Upon that distant hill they faintly s.h.i.+ne; And look! the topmost boughs of this tall oak Majestic, which o'ercanopies our heads, Yet catch their tremulous glimmerings:--now they fade, Fade and expire; and, as they fade, the Moon, The full-orb'd Moon, that seem'd, erewhile, to melt In the bright azure, from the darkening sky Emerging slow, and silent, sheds around Her snowy light, that with the day's last, dim Reflection, from the broad, translucid lake, Insensibly commingles, and unites In sweetest harmony, o'er all the scene Diffusing magic tints, enchanting power.

How lovely every object now appears!

Each in itself, and how they all combine In one delightful whole! What eye, what heart, O Nature! can resist thy potent charms When thus in soft, transparent shade half-veil'd?

Now Beauty and Sublimity, methinks, Upon the lap of Eve, embracing sleep.

Mark the tree-tops, my Love, of yonder wood, Whose moonlight foliage fluctuates in the breeze, Say, do they not, in figure, motion, hue, Resemble the sea-waves at misty dawn?

What shadowy shape along the troubled lake Comes this way moving? how mysteriously It glides along! how indistinct its form!

Imagination views with sweet surprise The unknown appearance--breathless in suspense.

The Spirit of the waters can it be, On his aerial car? some fairy Power?

Pants not thy heart, Louisa, half-alarm'd?

It grows upon the sight,--strange, watery sounds Attend its course;--hark! was not that a voice?

O! 'tis a fis.h.i.+ng-boat!--its sails and oars I now discern. The church-clock strikes! how loud Burst forth its sound into the startled air, That feels it still, and trembles far around!

My dearest Love! it summons us away; The dew begins to fall; let us depart: How sweetly have we spent this evening-hour!

PROLOGUE.

The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind, For which the appropriate name is hard to find; No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be, With strictest truth, p.r.o.nounced a Tragedy; Since, though predominant the tragic tone, It reigns not uniformly and alone; Then, that its character be best proclaim'd, A Tragic-drama let the piece be named.

But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude, 'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude, Where incidents in strange confusion blend, Without connexion, interest, or end: Not so;--far different was the bard's design; For though, at times, he ventures to combine With grave Melpomene's impa.s.sion'd strain The gay Thalia's more enlivening vein; (As all mankind with one consent agree How strong the charms of sweet variety,) Yet Reason's path he still with care observes, And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves, His plot conducting by the rules of art: And, above all, he strives to touch the heart; Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire, Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.

Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent; The poet means not here to represent The tragic Muse in all her terrors drest, With might tempestuous to convulse the breast; Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien, To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene; But with an air more mild and versatile, } Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile, } Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style, } Resembling in effect an April-night When from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light; And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease, Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.

But, in few words our author ends his plea, Already tending to prolixity, To paint from Nature was his leading aim; Let then, the play your candid hearing claim: Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws; If good, reward it with deserved applause; If bad, condemn; yet be it still exempt From your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.