Poems by Samuel Rogers Part 9

s.h.i.+ver'd by thy piercing glance, Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly, [Footnote 18]

And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.

Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string!

At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar; Chas'd by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowl'd on the black wave below.

III. 2.

Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!

The red-cross squadrons madly rage, [Footnote 19]

And mow thro' infancy and age: Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.

Veiling from the eye of day, Penance dreams her life away; In cloister'd solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise.

Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell Swings its slow summons thro' the hollow pile!

The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell, To walk, with taper dim, the winding isle; With choral chantings vainly to aspire, Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.

III. 3.

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Hence, with the rack and reeking wheel.

Faith lifts the soul above this little ball!

While gleams of glory open round, And circling choirs of angels call, Can'st thou, with all thy terrors crown'd, Hope to obscure that latent spark, Destin'd to s.h.i.+ne when suns are dark?

Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land, Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease: Her heavenly form, with glowing hand, Benignly points to piety and peace.

Flush'd with youth her looks impart Each fine feeling as it flows; Her voice the echo of her heart, Pure as the mountain-snows: Celestial transports round her play, And softly, sweetly die away.

She smiles! and where is now the cloud That blacken'd o'er thy baleful reign?

Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud, Shrinking from her glance in vain.

Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.

[Footnote 1: Written in the year 1784.]

[Footnote 2: An allusion to the sacrifice of Iphigenia.]

[Footnote 3: Lucretius, I. 63.]

[Footnote 4: When we were ready to set out, our host muttered some words in the ears of our cattle. See a Voyage to the North of Europe in 1653.]

[Footnote 5: The Bramins expose their bodies to the intense heat of the sun.]

[Footnote 6: Ridens moriar. The conclusion of an old Runic ode.]

[Footnote 7: In the Bedas, or sacred writings of the Hindoos, it is written: "She, who dies with her husband, shall live for ever with him in heaven."]

[Footnote 8: The Fates of the Northern Mythology. See MALLET'S Antiquities.]

[Footnote 9: An allusion to the Second Sight.]

[Footnote 10: See that fine description of the sudden animation of the Palladium in the second book of the aeneid.]

[Footnote 11: The bull, Apis.]

[Footnote 12: The Crocodile.]

[Footnote 13: So numerous were the Deities of Egypt, that, according to an antient proverb, it was in that country less difficult to find a G.o.d than a man.]

[Footnote 14: The Hieroglyphics].

[Footnote 15: The Catacombs, in which the bodies of the earliest generations yet remain without corruption, by virtue of the gums that embalmed them.]

[Footnote 16: "The Persians," says Herodotus, "reject the use of temples, altars, and statues. The tops of the highest mountains are the places chosen for sacrifices." I. 131. The elements, and more particularly Fire, were the objects of their religious reverence.]

[Footnote 17: An imitation of some wonderful lines in the sixth aeneid.]

[Footnote 18: See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29.]

[Footnote 19: This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. Hume, I.221.]

VERSES WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS. [Footnote]

Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain!

I wake, I breathe, and am myself again.

Still in this nether world; no seraph yet!

Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where I died last--by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.

--To drop all metaphor, that little bell Call'd back reality, and broke the spell.

No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman--scarce restrains her own!

Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part a.s.sign'd?

Ah, No! she scorns the trappings of her Art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart!

But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask?

Is here no other actress? let me ask.

Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Know every Woman studies stage-effect.

She moulds her manners to the part she, fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls.

First, how her little breast with triumph swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells!

To play in pantomime is then the _rage_, Along the carpet's many-colour'd stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there--in noise and mischief ever!

A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions!

A romp! that _longest_ of perpetual motions!

--Till tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces, She sports her lovely face at public places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor, MAN.

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies!

Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs!

Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice.

Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd!

Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set PORTLAND-PLACE on fire; s.n.a.t.c.h half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, A Meteor, trac'd by none, tho' seen by all; And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen--rehea.r.s.e the girls at home.

Last the grey Dowager, in antient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile.

The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, 'nodding to its fall!'

Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress, when she least suspects it.

Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns controul, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chain'd by coward Art, And to full day the latent pa.s.sions start!

--And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.

Born on the stage--thro' every s.h.i.+fting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir'd!

And can she act, with thoughts like these inspir'd?

_Thus_ from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things!

To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears--to you she owes.