Nè puo star tra beati
Disperata e dolente.
— i’ moro, e senza colpa,
E senza frutto; e senza te, cor mio:
Mi moro, oime, MIRTILLO.)
Dear woods, your sacred haunts I leave:
Adieu! my parting sighs receive!
Adieu! dear native woods, adieu!
Which I no more am doom’d to view,
From ev’ry joy remov’d;
Till from the cold and cruel urn
My melancholy shade shall turn
To seek your shades belov’d.
For, free from guilt I cannot go
To join the wailing ghosts below,
Nor can despair and bleeding love
Find refuge with the blest above.
In youth and innocence I die;
The cold grave-stone must be my pillow;
From life, from love, from hope I fly;
Adieu! a long adieu! MIRTILLO!
CLONAR AND TLAMIN.
IMITATED FROM A LITTLE POEM IN MACPHERSON’S NOTES ON OSSIAN.
[Published in 1806.]
“The loves of Clonar and Tlamin were rendered famous in the
north by a fragment of a lyric poem, still preserved, which is ascribed
to Ossian. It is a dialogue between Clonar and Tlamin. She begins
with a soliloquy, which he overhears.”
TLAMIN.
SON of CONGLAS of IMOR! thou first in the battle!
Oh CLONAR, young hunter of dun-sided roes!
Where the wings of the wind through the tall branches rattle,
Oh, where does my hero on rushes repose?
By the oak of the valley, my love, have I found thee,
Where swift from the hill pour thy loud-rolling streams;
The beard of the thistle flies sportively round thee,
And dark o’er thy face pass the thoughts of thy dreams.
Thy dreams are of scenes where the war-tempest rages:
TLAMIN’S youthful warrior no dangers appal:
Even now, in idea, my hero engages,
On Erin’s green plains, in the wars of Fingal.
Half hid, by the grove of the hill, I retire:
Ye blue mists of Lutha! why rise ye between?
Why hide the young warrior whose soul is all fire,
Oh why hide her love from the eyes of TLAMIN?
CLONAR.
As the vision that flies with the beams of the morning,
While fix’d on the mind its bright images prove,
So fled the young sunbeam these valleys adorning;
Why flies my TLAMIN from the sight of her love?
TLAMIN.
Oh CLONAR! my heart will to joy be a stranger,
Till thou on our mountains again shalt be seen;
Then why wilt thou rush to the regions of danger,
Far, far from the love of the mournful TLAMIN?
CLONAR.
The signals of war are from Selma resounding!
With morning we rise on the dark-rolling wave:
Towards green-valleyed Erin our vessels are bounding;
I rush to renown, to the fields of the brave!
Yet around me when war’s hottest thunders shall rattle,
Thy form to my soul ever present shall be;
And should death’s icy hand check my progress in battle,
The last sigh of CLONAR shall rise but for thee.
FOLDATH IN THE CAVERN OF MOMA.
FROM THE SAME.
[Published in 1806.]
FOLDATH (addressing the spirits of his fathers).
IN your presence dark I stand:
Spirits of my sires! disclose,
Shall my steps o’er Atha’s land,
Pass to Ullin of the roes?
ANSWER.
Thon to Ullin’s plains shalt go:
There shall rage the battle loud:
O’er the fall’n thy fame shall grow,
Like the gath’ring thunder-cloud.
There thy blood-stain’d sword shall gleam,
Till, around while danger roars,
Cloncath, the reflected beam,
Come from Moruth’s sounding shores.
DREAMS.
FROM PETRONIUS ARBITER.
[Published in 1806.]
Somnia, quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c.
DREAMS, which, beneath the hov’ring shades of night,
Sport with the ever-restless minds of men,
Descend not from the gods. Each busy brain
Creates its own. For when the chains of sleep
Have bound the weary, and the lighten’d mind
Unshackled plays, the actions of the light
Become renew’d in darkness. Then the chief,
“Who shakes the world with war, who joys alone
In blazing cities, and in wasted plains,
O’erthrown battalions sees, and dying kings,
And fields o’erflow’d with blood. The lawyer dreams
Of causes, of tribunals, judges, fees.
The trembling miser hides his ill-gain’d gold,
And oft with joy a buried treasure finds.
The eager hunter with his clam’rous dogs
Makes rocks and woods resound. The sailor brings
His vessel safe to port, or sees it whelm’d
Beneath the foaming waves. The anxious maid
Writes to her lover, or beholds him near.
The dog in dreams pursues the tim’rous hare.
The wretch, whom Fortune’s iron hand has scourg’d,
Finds in his slumbers all his woes reviv’d.
PINDAR ON THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN.
[Published in 1806.]
ALL-ENLIGHT’NING, all-beholding,
All-transcending star of day!
Why, thy sacred orb enfolding,
Why does darkness veil thy ray?
On thy life-diffusing splendour
These portentous shades that rise,
Vain the strength of mortals render,
Vain the labours of the wise.
Late thy wheels, through ether burning,
Roll’d in unexampled light:
Mortals mourn thy change, returning
In the sable garb of night.
Hear, oh Phoebus! we implore thee,
By Olympian Jove divine;
Phœbus! Thebans kneel before thee,
Still on Thebes propitious shine.
On thy darken’d course attending,
Dost thou signs of sorrow bring?
Shall the summer rains descending,
Blast the promise of the spring?
Or shall War, in evil season,
Spread unbounded ruin round?
Or the baleful hand of Treason
Our domestic joys confound?
By the bursting torrent’s power,
Shall our rip’ning fields be lost?
Shall the air with snow-storms lower,
Or the soil be bound in frost?
Or shall ocean’s waves stupendous,
Unresisted, unconfin’d,
Once again, with roar tremendous,
Hurl destruction on mankind?
TO A YOUNG LADY, NETTING.
[Published in 1806.]
WHILE those bewitching hands combine,
With matchless grace, the silken line,
They also weave, with gentle art,
Those stronger nets that bind the heart.
But soon all earthly things decay:
That net in time must wear away:
E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay
No lasting hold can take:
But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d,
(And all these charms in thee are join’d)
Can throw that net upon the mind,
No human heart can e’er unbind,
No human pow’r can break.
LEVI MOSES.
[Published in 1806.]
Sed quô divitias hæc p
er tormenta coactas?
Cum furor haud dubius, cum sit manifesta phrenesis,
Ut locuples moriaris egenti vivere fato? — Juv.
MA name’sh Levi Moshesh: I tink I vash born,
Dough I cannot exactly remember,
In Roshemary Lane, about tree in de morn,
Shome time in de mont of November.
Ma fader cried “clothesh” trough de shtreetsh ash he vent,.
Dough he now shleeping under de shtone ish,
He made by hish bargains two hundred per shent,
And dat vay he finger’d de monish.
Ma fader vash vise: very great vash hish shenshe:
De monish he alvaysh vash turning:
And early he taught me poundsh, shülingsh, and penshe;
“For,” shaysh he, “dat ish all dat’sh vorth learning.
Ash to Latin and Greek, ’tish all nonshenshe, I shay,
Vhich occasion to shtudy dere none ish;
But shtick closhe to Cocker, for dat ish de vay,
To teach you to finger de monish.”
To a shtock-broker den I apprentishe vash bound,
Who hish monish lov’d very shinsherely;
And, trough hish instructions, I very shoon found,
I ma bushinesh knew pretty clearly.
Shaysh he: “cheat a little: ’tish no shuch great crime,
Provided it cleverly done ish
Sho I cleverly cheated him every time
I could manage to finger hish monish.
And den I shet up for a broker mashelf,
And Fortune hash shmil’d on nla laborsh;
I’ve minded de main-chanshe, and shcrap’d up de pelf,
And ruin’d von half of ma neighboursh.
If any von cash on goot bondsh vould obtain,
Very shoon ready for him de loan ish;
And about shent per shent ish de int’resht I gain,
And dat vay I finger de monish.
To part vit ma monish I alvaysh vash loth;
For ma table no daintiesh I dish up:
I dine on two eggsh, and I shup on de broth,
But I feasht vonsh a veek like a bishop!
EVry Shaturday night, on a grishkin of pork
I regale bote mashelf and ma croneish;
And I play on de grishkin a goot knife and fork,
Dough dat runsh avay vit de monish!
To de presheptsh ma fader inshtill’d in ma mind
I have over been conshtant and shteady:
To learning or pleasure I ne’er vash inclin’d,
For neider vould bring in de ready.
And into ma pocketsh de monish to bring
Ma perpetual shtudy alone ish,
For de monish indeed ish a very goot ting,
Oh, a very goot ting ish de monish!
SLENDER’S LOVE-ELEGY.
[Published in 1806.]
COME, Polyhymnia, heav’nly maid!
Oh deign an humble bard to aid,
Whose heart in tenfold chains is laid,
In Cupid’s cage:
To Anna’s name I strike the string;
Thence all my pains and pleasures spring:
Yes, I aspire thy praise to sing,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
The lustre of thy soft blue eyes,
Thy lip that with the coral vies,
Might bid love’s flames the breast surprise
Of stoic sage:
And cold indeed his heart must be,
Who could thy matchless features see,
And not at once exclaim with me,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Wealth, pow’r, and splendour, I disown:
To them no real joys are known:
Thy unaffected charms alone
My heart engage:
Thou canst alone my bosom fire,
Thou canst alone my muse inspire,
To thee alone I tune the lyre,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Against my passion’s fond appeal
Should’st thou thy gentle bosom steel,
What pow’r the pangs I then should feel
Could e’er assuage?
To woods, to mountains would I fly;
Thy dear lov’d name unceasing sigh,
Till thousand echoes should reply:
Oh sweet Anne Page!
I cannot boast the art sublime,
Like some great poets of the time,
To sing, in lofty-sounding rhyme,
Of amorous rage:
But love has taught me to complain;
Love has inspir’d this humble strain;
Then let me not still sigh in vain,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
A FRAGMENT.
[Published in 1806.]
NAY, deem me not insensible, Cesario,
To female charms; nor think this heart of mine
Is cas’d in adamant; because, forsooth,
I cannot ogle, and hyperbolise,
And whisper tender nothings in the ear
Of ev’ry would-be beauty, holding out
The bright but treach’rous flame of flattery,
To watch the she-moths of a drawing-room
Sport round the beam, and burn their pretty wings,
Ere conscious of their danger: yet, believe me,
I love a maid whose untranscended form
Is yet less lovely than her spotless mind.
With modest frankness, unaffected genius,
Unchang’d good-humour, beauty void of art,
And polish’d wit that seeks not to offend,
And winning smiles that seek not to betray,
She charms the sight, and fascinates the soul.
Where dwells this matchless nymph? alas, Cesario!
’Tis but a sickly creature of my fancy,
Unparallel’d in nature.
I DUG, BENEATH THE CYPRESS SHADE.
[Written after 1806.]
I DUG, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin’s grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose’s fading wreath
Around the sepulchre of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.
THE VIGILS OF FANCY.
[Written 1806.]
NO. I.
THE wind is high, and mortals sleep,
And through the woods resounding deep,
The wasting winds of Autumn sweep,
While waves remurmur hollowly.
Beside this lake’s sequester’d shore,
Where foam-crowned billows heave and roar,
And pines, that sheltered bards of yore,
Wave their primeval canopy.
At midnight hour I rove alone,
And think on days for ever flown,
When not a trace of care was known,
To break my soul’s serenity.
To me, when day’s loud cares are past,
And coldly blows th’ autumnal blast,
And yellow leaves around are cast
In melancholy revelry.
While Cynthia rolls through fields of blue,
’Tis sweet these fading groves to view,
With ev’ry rich and varied hue
Of foliage smiling solemnly.
Matur’d by Time’s revolving wing,
These fading groves more beauties bring
Than all the budding flow’rs of Spring,
Or Summer’s glowing pageantry.
All hail! ye breezes wild and drear,
That peal the death-song of the year,
And with the waters thund’ring near
Combine in awful harmony!
Methinks, as round your m
urmurs sail,
I hear a spirit in the gale,
That seems to whisper many a tale
Of dark and ancient mystery.
Ye bards, that in these sacred shades,
These tufted woods and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!
Say, do your spirits yet delight
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this waters margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery.
And strike, to notes of tender fire,
With viewless hands the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wandering winds respire
A more than mortal symphony?
Come, Fancy, come, romantic maid!
No more in rainbow vest array’d
But robed to suit the sacred shade
Of midnight’s deep sublimity.
By thee inspir’d I seem to hold
High converse with the good and bold,
Who fought and fell, in days of old,
To guard their country’s liberty.
Roused from oblivion’s mouldering urn,
The chiefs of ancient times return;
Again the battle seems to burn,
And rings the sounding panoply!
And while the war-storm rages loud,
In yonder darkly rolling cloud,
Their forms departed minstrels shroud,
And wake the hymns of victory.
Far hence all earthly thoughts be hurl’d!
Thy regions, Fancy, shine unfurl’d,
Amid the visionary world
I lose the sad reality.
Led by thy magic pow’r sublime,
From shore to shore, from clime to clime,
Uncheck’d by distance or by time,
My steps shall wander rapidly.
Thy pow’r can all the past restore,
Bid present ills afflict no more,
And teach the spirit to explore,
The volume of futurity.
REMEMBER ME.
[Written after 1808.]
E tu, chi sa se mai
Te sovverrai di me? — METASTASIO.
AND what are life’s enchanting dreams,
That melt, like morning mists, away?
And what are Fancy’s golden beams,
That glow with transitory day?
While adverse stars my steps impel,
To climes remote, my love, from thee,
Will that dear breast with pity swell,
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 123