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Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

Page 121

by Thomas Love Peacock


  Not ours to taste the joys our parents shar’d,

  But pitying NATURE half our loss repair’d,

  Our wounds to heal, our murmurs to remove,

  She left mankind the PARADISE of LOVE.

  All-conqu’ring LOVE! thy pow’rful reign surrounds

  Man’s wildest haunts, and earth’s remotest bounds:

  Alike for thee th’ untainted bosom glows

  ‘Mid eastern sands and hyperborean snows:

  Thy darts unerring fly with strong control,

  Tame the most stern, and nerve the softest soul,

  Check the swift savage of the sultry zone,

  And bend the monarch on his glitt’ring throne.

  When wakeful MEMORY bids the mind explore

  The half-hid deeds of years that are no more,

  How few the scenes her hand can picture there

  Of heart-felt bliss untroubled by a care!

  Yet many a charm can pow’rful FANCY raise,

  To point the smiling path of future days;

  There too will HOPE her genial influence blend,

  Faithless, but kind; a flatt’rer, but a friend.

  But most to cheer the lover’s lonely hours,

  Creative FANCY wakes her magic powers;

  Most strongly pours, by ardent love refin’d,

  Her brightest visions on the youthful mind.

  Hence, when at eve with lonely steps I rove

  The flow’r-enamell’d plain or dusky grove,

  Or press the bank with grassy tufts o’erspread,

  Where the brook murmurs o’er its pebbly bed;

  Then steals thy form, ROSALIA, on my sight,

  In artless charms pre-eminently bright:

  By HOPE inspir’d, my raptur’d thoughts engage

  To trace the lines of FATE’S mysterious page

  At once in air, the past, the present, fade;

  In fairy-tints the future stands display’d;

  No clouds arise, no shadows intervene,

  To veil or dim the visionary scene.

  Within the sacred altar’s mystic shade,

  I see thee stand, in spotless white array’d;

  I hear thee there thy home, thy name resign,

  I hear the awful vow that seals thee mine.

  Not on my birth propitious FORTUNE smil’d,

  Nor proud AMBITION mark’d me for her child;

  For me no dome with festal splendour shines;

  No pamper’d lacquies spread their length’ning lines

  No venal crowds my nod obsequious wait;

  No summer-friends besiege my narrow gate;

  Joys such as these, if joys indeed they be,

  Indulgent NATURE ne’er design’d for me:

  I ask them not: she play’d a kinder part:

  She gave a nobler gift, ROSALIA’S heart.

  The simple dwelling by affection rear’d;

  The smiling plains, by calm content endear’d;

  The classic book-case, deck’d with learning’s store,

  Rich in historic truth, and bardic lore;

  The garden-walks, in NATURE’S liv’ry dress’d;

  Will these suffice to make ROSALIA bless’d?

  And will she never feel a wish to roam

  Beyond the limits of our rural home?

  How sweet, when SPRING has crown’d, by genial show’rs,

  The woods with verdure, and the fields with flow’rs,

  When fleeting SUMMER holds his burning reign,,

  Or fruitful AUTUMN nods with golden grain,

  With thee, dear girl, each well-known path to tread,

  Where blooming shrubs their richest odours shed,

  With thee to mark the seasons’ bright career,

  The varied blessings of the rip’ning year.

  When frost-crown’d WINTER binds the earth in chains,

  And pours his snow-storms on the whit’ning plains,

  Then shall the pow’r of constant LOVE be found,

  To chase the deep’ning gloom that low’rs around.

  Beside the cheerful fire’s familiar blaze,

  Shall MEMORY trace the deeds of long past days;

  Of those propitious hours when first I strove

  To win thy gentle ear with tales of love,

  When, while thy angel-blushes half-conceal’d

  The kind consent thy bashful smiles reveal’d,

  From those bright eyes a soft expression stole,

  That spoke the silent language of the soul.

  Or haply then the poet’s song may cheer

  The dark death-season of th’ accomplish’d year:

  Together then we’ll roam the sacred plain,

  Where the bright NINE in ceaseless glory reign;

  By HOMER led, through TROJAN battles sweep;

  With VIRGIL cleave the tempest-beaten deep;

  Trace the bold flights of SHAKESPEARE’S muse of fire

  Strike the wild chords of GRAY’S enraptur’d lyre;

  From MILTON learn with holy zeal to glow;

  Or weep with OSSIAN o’er a tale of woe.

  Nor less shall Music charm: her pow’r sublime

  Shall oft beguile the ling’ring steps of TIME:

  Then, as I watch, while my Rosalia, sings,

  Her seraph fingers sweep the sounding strings,

  In soft response to sorrow’s melting lay,

  Or joy’s loud swell, that? steals our cares away,

  My heart shall vibrate to the heav’nly sound,

  And bless the stars our mutual fates that bound.

  And oft, when darkness veils the stormy skies,

  Beneath our roof shall FRIENDSHIP’S voice arise;

  On ev’ry breast her sacred influence pour’d,

  Shall crown with gen’rous mirth our social board;

  The chosen few, to TASTE and VIRTUE dear,

  Shall meet a welcome, simple, but sincere.

  Not from our door, his humble pray’r denied,

  The friendless man shall wander unsupplied;

  Ne’er shall the wretch, whom fortune’s ills assail,

  Tell there in vain his melancholy tale:

  Thy heart, where NATURE’S noblest feelings glow,

  Will throb to heal the bending stranger’s woe;

  On mercy’s errand wilt thou oft explore

  The crazy dwellings of the neighb’ring poor,

  To blunt the stings of want’s unsparing rage,

  To smooth the short and painful path of age,

  The childless widow’s drooping head to raise,

  And cheer her soul with hopes of better days:

  For thee the pray’r affliction’s child shall frame,

  And lisping orphans bless ROSALIA’S name.

  Soon shall new objects thy affection share,

  Hew hopes, new duties claim ROSALIA’S care.

  How will thy anxious eye exulting trace

  The charms and virtues of thy infant-race!

  Thy tender hand with sense and taste refin’d

  Shall stamp each impulse of the rip’ning mind,

  And early teach their little steps to stray

  Through VIRTUE’S paths, and WISDOM’S flow’ry way.

  Thus may our lives in one smooth tenor flow;

  Possess’d of thee, I ask no more below.

  That constant love, which bless’d with genial rays

  The bright and happy spring-time of our days,

  Shall still dispel the clouds of woe and strife

  From the full summer of progressive life.

  The hand of TIME may quench the ardent fire

  Of rising passion, and of young desire;

  But that pure flame esteem first taught to burn

  Can only perish in the silent urn.

  And when the last, the solemn hour draws near,

  That bids us part from all that charm’d us here,

  Then on our thoughts the heav’nly hope shall rise,

  To meet in higher bliss
, in better skies,

  In those bright mansions of the just above,

  Where all is RAPTURE, INNOCENCE, and LOVE.

  MARIA’S RETURN TO HER NATIVE COTTAGE.

  [First published in 1806.]

  Si perda la vita,

  Finisca il mar tire;

  E meglio morire,

  Che viver cosi. — METASTASIO.

  THE whit’ning ground

  In frost is bound;

  The snow is swiftly falling;

  While coldly blows the northern breeze,

  And whistles through the leafless trees,

  In hollow sounds appalling.

  On this cold plain,

  Now reach’d with pain,

  Once stood my father’s dwelling:

  Where smiling pleasure once was found,

  Now desolation frowns around,

  And wintry blasts are yelling.

  Hope’s visions wild

  My thoughts beguil’d,

  My earliest days delighting,

  Till unsuspected treach’ry came,

  Beneath affection’s specious name,

  The lovely prospect blighting.

  With many a wile

  Of blackest guile

  Did HENRY first deceive me:

  What winning words to him were giv’n!

  He swore, by all the pow’rs of HEAV’N,

  That he would never leave me.

  With fondest truth

  I lov’d the youth:

  My soul to guilt a stranger,

  Knew not, in those too simple hours,

  That oft beneath the sweetest flow’rs

  Is couch’d the deadliest danger.

  With him to roam

  I fled my home;

  I burst the bonds of duty;

  I thought my days in joy would roll;

  But HENRY hid a demon’s soul

  Beneath an angel’s beauty!

  Shall tills poor heart

  E’er cease to smart?

  Oh never! never! never!

  Did av’rice whisper thee, or pride,

  False HENRY! for a wealthier bride

  To cast me off for ever?

  My sire was poor:

  No golden store

  Had he, no earthly treasure:

  I only could his griefs assuage,

  The only pillar of his age,

  His only source of pleasure.

  With anguish wild,

  He miss’d his child,

  And long in vain he sought her:

  The fiercest thunderbolts of heav’n

  Shall on thy guilty head be driv’n,

  Thou DISOBEDIENT DAUGHTER!

  I feel his fears,

  I see his tears,

  I hear his groans of sadness:

  My cruel falsehood seal’d his doom:

  He seems to curse me from the tomb,

  And fire my brain to madness!

  Oh! keenly blow,

  While drifts the snow,

  The cold nocturnal breezes;

  On me the gath’ring snow-flakes rest,

  And colder grows my friendless breast;

  My very heart-blood freezes!

  ’Tis midnight deep,

  And thousands sleep,

  Unknown to guilt and sorrow;

  They think not of a wretch like me,

  Who cannot, dare not, hope to see

  ‘ The rising light to-morrow!

  An outcast hurl’d

  From all the world,

  Whom none would love or cherish,

  What now remains to end my woes,

  But here, amid the deep’ning snows,

  To lay me down and perish?

  Death’s icy dart

  Invades my heart:

  Just HEAV’N! all-good! all-seeing!

  Thy matchless mercy I implore,

  When I must wake, to sleep no more,

  In realms of endless being!

  FIOLFAR, KING OF NORWAY.

  [First published in 1806.]

  — Agmina

  Ferra ta vas to dirait impetu. — HOR.

  I.

  IN the dark-rolling waves at the verge of the west

  The steeds of DELLINGER had hasten’d to rest,

  While HRIMFAX advanc’d through the star-spangled plain,

  And shook the thick dews from his grey-flowing mane;

  The moon with pale lustre was shining on high,

  And meteors shot red down the paths of the sky.

  By the shore of the ocean FIOLFAR reclin’d,

  Where through the rock-fissures loud-murmured the wind,

  For sweet to his ear was the deep-dashing flow

  Of the foam-cover’d billows that thunder’d below.

  — “Alas!” he exclaim’d, “were the hopes of my youth,

  Though rais’d by affection, unfounded on truth?

  Ye are flown, ye sweet prospects, deceitfully fair,

  As the light-rolling gossamer melts into air;

  As the wild-beating ocean, with turbulent roar,

  Effaces my steps on the sands of the shore!

  Thy waters, oh NIORD! tumultuously roll,

  And such are the passions that war in my soul:

  Thy meteors, oh NORVER! malignantly dart,

  And such are the death-flames that burn in my heart.

  NITALPHA! my love! on the hill and the plain,

  In the vale and the wood, have I sought thee in vain;

  Through the nations for thee have I carried afar

  The sunshine of peace and the tempests of war;

  Through danger and toil I my heroes have led,

  Till hope’s latest spark in my bosom was dead!

  Cold, silent, and dark are the halls of thy sires,

  And hush’d are the harps, and extinguish’d the fires;

  The wild autumn-blast in the lofty hall roars,

  And the yellow leaves roll through the half-open doors.

  NITALPHA! when rapture invited thy stay,

  Did force or inconstancy bear thee away?

  Ah, no! though in vain I thy footsteps pursue,

  I will not, I cannot, believe thee untrue:

  Perchance thou art doom’d in confinement to moan,

  To dwell in the rock’s dreary caverns alone,

  And LOK’S cruel mandates, while fast thy tears flow,

  Forbid thy FIOLFAR to solace thy woe,

  Condemn thee unvarying anguish to bear,

  And leave me a prey to the pangs of despair.” —

  Ha! whence were those accents portentous and dread,

  Like the mystical tones of the ghosts of the dead,

  In echoes redoubling that rung through the gloom,

  As the thunder resounds in the vaults of the tomb?

  — “FIOLFAR!” — He started, and wond’ring descried

  A sable-clad form standing tall by his side:

  His soul-piercing eyes as the eagle’s were bright,

  And his raven-hair flow’d on the breezes of night.

  — “FIOLFAR!” he cried, “thy affliction forsake:

  To hope and revenge let thy bosom awake;

  For he, that NITALPHA from liberty tore,

  Is LOCHLIN’S proud monarch, the bold YRRODORE.

  Still constant to thee, she the traitor abhorred;

  ‘ Haste! haste! let thy valour her virtue reward:

  For her let the battle empurple the plain:

  In the moment of conquest I meet thee again.” —

  He ceas’d, and FIOLFAR beheld him no more;

  Nor long paus’d the youth on the dark-frowning shore:

  — “Whate’er be thy nature, oh stranger!” he said,

  Thou hast call’d down the tempest on YRRODORE’S head:

  The broad-beaming buckler and keen-biting glaive

  Shall ring and resound on the fields of the brave,

  And vengeance shall burst, in a death-rolling flood,

  And deluge thy altars, VALFANDER, with bloo
d!”

  II.

  To LODA’S dark CIRCLE and mystical STONE,t

  With the grey-gather’d moss of long ages o’ergrown,

  While the black car of NORVER was central in air,

  Did the harp-bearing bards of FIOLFAR repair;

  The wild-breathing chords, as they solemnly sung,

  In deep modulations responsively rung;

  To the hall of VALHALLA, where monarchs repose,

  The full-swelling war-song symphoniously rose:

  — “The mountains of LOCHLIN shall ring with alarms,

  For the heroes of NORWAY are rising in arms;

  The heroes of NORWAY destruction shall pour

  On the wide-spreading plains of the bold YRRODORE.

  VALFANDER! look down from thy throne in the skies!

  Our suppliant songs from thy altar arise:

  Be thou too propitious, invincible THOR!

  And lend thy strong aid to our banners of war.

  As the white-beating stream from the rock rushes down,

  FIOLFAR’S young warriors will speed to renown.

  Ye spirits of chieftains, tremendous in fight!

  That dwell with VALFANDER in halls of delight;

  Awhile from your cloud-circled mansions descend;

  On the steps of your sons through the battle attend,

  When the raven shall hover on dark-flapping wing,

  And the eagle shall feed on the foes of our king!” —

  As full to the wind rose the soul-thrilling tones,

  Strange murmurs rung wild from the moss-cover’d stones;

  The ghosts of the mighty, rejoicing, came forth,

  And roll’d their thin forms on the blasts of the north;

  On light-flying meteors triumphantly driv’n,

  They scatter’d their signs from the centre of heav’n

  The skies were all glowing, portentously bright,

  With strong coruscations of vibrating light:

  In shadowy forms, on the long-streaming glare,

  The insignia of battle shot swift through the air;

  In lines and in circles successively whirl’d,

  Fantastical arrows and jav’lins were hurl’d,

  That, flashing and falling in mimic affray,

  In the distant horizon died darkly away,

  Where a blood-dropping banner seem’d slowly to sail,

  And expand its red folds to the death-breathing gale.

  FIOLFAR look’d forth from his time-honour’d halls,

  Where the trophies of battle emblazon’d the walls:

  He heard the faint song as at distance it swell’d,

  And the blazing of ether with triumph beheld;

  He saw the white flames inexhaustibly stream,

  And he knew that his fathers rode bright on the beam,

  That the spirits of warriors of ages long past

  Were flying sublime on the wings of the blast.

 

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