That fires the noble-passion'd soul to shine; In all the depths of useful lore ingage
To grace thy youth, and dignifie thine age: Ne ween that Physis bids those paths decline, For all those paths are mine.
Change then the straine; to hill, to valley tell, Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, fare
But, ah! beware: for in the goodly chase A vile enchauntress spreds her vain delights; With guilefull semblants charming all that pass, Till she enslaved hath their feeble sprights; And sooth she is to view a ladie faire
Of beauty past compare;
And aye around her croud a gorgeous throng, Skill'd in the mincing step, the vestment rare, And the fine squeaking of a eunuch's song: But sacred Science, tender Love, trew Fame, And Honour's heaven-born flame
They know not; yet the pompous name Vertù To the' idle pageant give: she cruel prowde Deals magic charms emong the careless crowde, And does them all to hideous apes transmew. But fear not thou the minion's magic pride, For Physis is thy guide:
Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell,
Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, fare
To Cosme's polisht court thy steps I'll lead, My sister she, though eft we strangers seem; Farre otherwise of us the wise aread, But follies' feeble eyes of things misdeem. The straw-rooft cot, the pastured mead I love, The mavis-haunted grove,
The moss-clad mountaine hoar, a rugged scene; Along the streamlet's mazie margent rove, That sweetly steals the broken rocks atween : She through the manner'd cittie powres the flame Of hie-atchieved fame,
The star-bright guerdon of the great and good; And breathes her vivid spirit through the mind Whose generous aimes extend to all mankind, And vindicate the worth of noble blood; Such as in bowre Lycean holding place The man of Spargrove grace.
Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell, Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, farewell.
Als like a girlond her enring around
The sphere-born Muses lyring heavenly strains; The Graces eke with bosoms all unzoned, A trinal band that concord sweet maintains : And who is she, that placed them atween Seems a fourth Grace I ween?
So looks the rubie pretious rare, enchaced In the bright crownet of a maiden queen. Each Science too with verdant bay-leaves graced, With honour brought from attic land again, Adorns the radiant train.
Come then, let nobler aimes thy soul inspire; But bring the cherub Innocence along, And Contemplation sage, on pinion strong Hie soaring ore yon' lamping orb of fire.- Thus piped the Doric oate, whiles echoes shrill, To fountaine, dale, and hill,
Resyllabling the notes, this burden tell,
Farewell, sweet shade, sweet poplar shade, fare
THE Common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets.
There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death- And never smiled again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal A bosom heaved with never ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of all she meets, And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier
Though pinch'd with cold, asks never-Kate is
THE HERMIT OF BEACHY HEAD.
Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave, Within a cavern mined by wintry tides Dwelt one who, long disgusted with the world And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale, Fanning the bean-field or the thymy heath, Had not for many summers breathed on him; And nothing marked to him the seasons' change, Save that more gently rose the placid sea, And that the birds which winter on the coast Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog, Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs Betray'd not then the little careless sheep On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall, Near the lone hermit's flint-surrounded home, Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart Was feelingly alive to all that breathed; And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth, By human crimes, he still acutely felt For human misery.
Wandering o'er the beach, He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven, And from the changing colours of the sea, And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs, Or the dark porpoises that near the shore Gambol'd and sported on the level brine When tempests were approaching: then at night He listen'd to the wind, and as it drove The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth, And, hazarding a life too valueless,
He waded through the waves, with plank or pole, Towards where the mariner in conflict dread Was buffeting for life the roaring surge; And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulfs, The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon Show'd the dire peril. Often had he snatch'd From the wild billows some unhappy man Who lived to bless the hermit of the rocks. But if his generous cares were all in vain, And with slow swell the tide of morning bore Some blue swoln corse to land; the pale recluse Dug in the chalk a sepulchre-above Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide, And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies For the poor helpless stranger.
One dark night The equinoctial wind blew south by west, Fierce on the shore;-the bellowing cliffs were shook
E'en to their stony base, and fragments fell Flashing and thundering on the angry flood. At daybreak, anxious for the lonely man, His cave the mountain shepherds visited, Though sand and banks of weeds had choked their way-
He was not in it; but his drowned corse By the waves wafted near his former home Received the rites of burial. Those who read, Chiseled within the rock, these mournful lines, Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve, That dying in the cause of charity His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed, Had to some better region fled for ever.
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