Stung with thoughts of home; the thoughts of Whence tumbled headlong from the height of
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! With black despair, what horror fills his heart When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd, His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the tract, and blest abode of Man; While round him night resistless closes fast. And every tempest, howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh, or solitary lake, Where the fresh mountain from the bottom boils,
These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots Thro' the wrung bosom of the dying man, His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. In vain for him th' officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing, and the vestiment warm; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, With tears of artless innocence. Alas! Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter scises; shuts up sense; And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, Lays him along the snow, a stiffened corse Stretch'd out and bleaching in the northern
They furnish matter for the tragic Muse. Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retir'd distress. How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish. Think fond Man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of Charity would warm, And her wide wish Benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work.
And here can I forget the generous band, Who touch'd with human woe, redressive search'd
Into the horrors of the gloomy jail? Uupitied and unheard, where misery moans? Where sickness pines? where thirst and hunge burn,
And poor misfortune feels the lash of vice. While in the land of liberty, the land Whose every street and public meeting glow` With open freedom, little tyrants rag'd?" Snatch'd the lean morsel from the starring
Tore from cold wint'ry limbs the tatter'd weed; Even robb'd them of the last of comforts, sleep; The free-born Briton to the dungeon chain'd, Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail'd,
At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes; And crush'd our lives, by secret barbarous ways, That for their country would have toil'd, or bled.
Ah! little think the gay licentions prond, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence sur-O great design! if executed well,
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain. How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man! How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms; Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery. Sore pierc'd by wint'ry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty. How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;
With patient care, and wisdom-temper'd zeal. Ye sons of mercy! yet resume the search; Drag forth the legal monsters into light, Wrench from their hands oppression's iron rod, And bid the cruel feel the pains they give, Much still untouch'd remains; in this rank
Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd. The toils of law (what dark insidious Men Have cumbrous added to perplex the truth, And lengthen simple justice into trade) How glorious were the day! that saw these broke,
And every Man within the reach of right.
By wintry famine rous'd, from all the tract Of horrid mountains which the shining Alps, And wavy Apennine, and Pyrennees, Branch out stupendous into distant lands; Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave!
* The Jail Committee, in the year 1729.
Burning for blood! bony, and ghaunt, and On equity's wide base; by tender laws
Assembling wolves in raging troops descend; And, pouring o'er the country, bear along, Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow. All is their prize. They fasten on the steed, Press him to earth, and pierce his mighty heart. Nor can the bull his awful front defend, Or shake the murdering savages away. Rapacious, at the mother's throat they fly, And tear the screaming infant from her breast. The godlike face of Man avails him nought. Even beanty, force divine! at whose bright glance
The generous lion stands in soften'd gaze, Here bleeds, a hapless undistinguish'd prey. But if appriz'd of the severe attack, The country be shut up, lur'd by the scent, On the church-yards drear (inhuman to relate!) The disappointed prowlers fall, and dig The shrouded body from the grave; o'er which, Mix'd with foul shades, and frighted ghosts, they howl.
Among those hilly regions, where embrac'd In peaceful vales the happy Grisons dwell Oft, rushing sudden from the loaded cliffs, Mountains of snow their gathering terrors roll. From steep to steep, loud thundering down they come,
A wint'ry waste in dire commotion all; And herds, and flocks, and travellers, and swains,
And sometimes whole brigades of marching troops,
Or hamlets sleeping in the dead of night, Are deep beneath the smothering ruin
Now, all amid the rigors of the year, In the wild depth of Winter, while without The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat Between the groaning forest and the shore, Beat by the boundless multitude of waves, A rural, shelter'd, solitary, scene: Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join, To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit,
And hold high converse with the dead;
Sages of antient time, as gods rever'd, As gods beneficent, who blest mankind With arts, with arms, and humaniz'd a world. Rous'd at th' inspiring thought, I throw aside The long-liv'd volume; and, deep musing, hail The sacred shades, that slowly rising pass Before my wondering eyes. First Socrates, Who, firmly good in a corrupted state, Against the rage of tyrants single stood, Juvincible! calm reason's holy law, That Voice of God within th' attentive mind, Obeying, fearless, or in life, or death; Great mortal teacher! Wisest of Mankind! Solon the next, who built his commonweal
A lively people curbing, yet undamp'd, Preserving still that quick peculiar fire, Whence in the laurel'd field of finer arts, And of bold freedom, they unequal'd shone, The pride of smiling Greece and human-kind. Lycurges then, who bow'd beneath the force Of strictest discipline severely wise, All human passions. Following him I see, As at Thermopyla he glorious fell, The firm Devoted Chief, who prov'd by deeds The hardest lesson which the other taught. Then Aristides lifts his honest front; Spotless of heart, to whom th' unflattering
Of freedom gave the noblest name of Just; In pure majestic poverty rever'd; Who even his glory to his country's weal Submitting, swell'd a haughty Rival's ↑ fame, Rear'd by his care, of softer ray appears Cimon, sweet soul'd; whose genius, rising strong,
Shook off the load of young debauch; abroad The scourge of Persian pride, at home the friend
Of every worth and every splendid art; Modest and simple in the pomp of wealth. Then the last worthies of declining Grecce, Late call'd to glory, in unequal times, Pensive appear. The fair Corinthian boast, Timoleon, happy temper! mild, and firm, Who wept the Brother, while the Tyrant bled. And equal to the best, the Theban Pair 1, Whose virtues, in heroic Concord join'd, Their country rais'd to freedom, empire, fame. He too, with whom Athenian honor sunk, And left a mass of sordid lees behind, Phocion the Good; in public life severe, To virtue still inexorably firm;
But when, beneath his low illustrious roof, Sweat peace and happy wisdom smooth'd his brow,
Not friendship softer was, nor love more kind. And he, the last of old Lycurgus' sons, The generous victim to that vain attempt To save a rotten state, Agis, who saw Even Sparta's self to servile avarice sunk. The two Achaian heroes close the train: Aratus, who awhile relum'd the soul Of fondly lingering liberty in Greece: And he her darling, as her latest hope, The gallant Philopoemen; who to arms Turn'd the luxurious pomp he could not cure; Or toiling in his farm, a simple swain; Or, bold, and skilful, thundering in the field.
Of rougher front, a mighty people come ! A race of heroes! in whose virtuous times, Which knew no stain, save that with partial Alame
Their dearest country they too fondly lov'd; Her better Founder first, the light of Rome, Numa, who soften'd her rapacious sons :
Servius the King, who laid the solid base On which o'er earth the vast republic spread. Then the great consuls venerable rise. The Public Father, who the Private quell'd, And on the dread tribunal sternly sad.
Ile, whom his thankless country could not loose,
Camillus, only vengeful to her foes. Fabricus, scorner of all-conquering gold; And Cincinnatus, awful from the plough. Thy Willing Victim †, Carthage, bursting Jose
From all that pleading Nature could oppose, From a whole city's tears, by rigid faith Imperious call'd, and honor's dire command. Scipio, the gentle chief, humanely brave, Who soon the race of spotless glory ran, And, warm in youth to the Poetic shade With Friendship and Philosophy retir'd. Tully, whose powerful eloquence awhile Restrain'd the rapid fate of rushing Rome. Unconquer'd Cato, virtuous in extreme. And thou, unhappy Brutus, kind of heart, Whose steady arin, by awful virtue urg'd, Lifted the Roman steel against thy Friend. Thousands besides the tribute of a verse Demand; but who can count the stars of ven?
The friend and lover of the tuneful throng! Ah! why, dear youth, in all the blooming prime
Of vernal genius, where disclosing fast Each active worth, each manly virtue lay, Why wert thou ravish'd from our hope so soon?
What now avails that noble thirst of fame, Which stung thy fervent breast! that treasur'd
Of knowledge, early gain'd! that eager zeal To serve thy country, glowing in the band Of Youthful Patriots, who sustain her name? What now, alas! that life diffusing charm Of sprightly wit? that rapture for the Muse, That heart of friendship, and that soul of joy, Which bade with softest light thy virtues smile?
Ah! only show'd to check our fond pursuits, And teach our humble hopes that life is vain!
Thus in some deep retirement would I pass The wintery glooms, with friends of pliant soul,
Or blythe, or solemn, as the theme inspir'd: With them would search, if Nature's boundless
hea-Was call'd, late rising from the void of night, Or sprung eternal from th' eternal mind; Its life, its laws, its progress, and its end. Hence larger prospects of the beauteous whole; Would, gradual, open on our opening minds; And each diffusive harmony unite In full perfection to th' astonish'd eye. Then would we try to scan the moral world, Which tho' to us it seems embroil'd, moves
Who sing their influence on this lower world? Behold, who yonder comes! in sober state, Fair, mild, and strong, as is a vernal sun: "Tis Phoebus' self, or else the Mantuan Swain! Great Homer too appears, of daring wing, Parent of song! and equal by his side, The British Muse; join'd hand in hand they walk,*
Darkling, full up the middle steep to fame. Nor absent are those shades, whose skilful touch
Pathetic drew th' impassion'd heart, and charm'd
Transported Athens with the Moral Scene: Nor those who tuneful wak'd th' enchanting
First of your kind! society divine! Still visit thus my knights, for you reserv'd, And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like
Silence, thou lonely power, the door be thine; See on the hallow'd hour that none intrude, Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign
To bless my humble roof, with sense refin'd; Learning digested well, exalted faith, Unstudy'd wit, and humor ever gay. Or from the Muses hill will Pope descend,' To raise the sacred hour, to bid it smile, And with the social spirit warm the heart: For tho' not sweeter his own Homer sings, Yet is his life the more endearing song. Where art thou, Hammond? thou the ling pride,
Of patriots, and of heroes. But if doom'd, In powerless humble fortune, to repress These ardent risings of the kindling soul; Then, even superior to ambition, we
Wou'd learn the private virtues; how to glide dar-Thro' shade, and plains, along the smoothest
Of rural life; or snatch'd away by hope, Thro' the dim spaces of futurity, With earnest eye anticipate those scenes Of happiness, and wouder; where the mind In endless growth, and infinite ascent, Rises from state to state, and world to world. But when with these the serious thought is foil'd,
We, shifting for relief, would play the shapes Offrolic fancy; and incessant form Those rapid pictures, that assembled Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, Whence lively Wit excites to gay surprise; Or folly-painting Humor, grave himself, Calls Laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. Meantime the village rouses up the fire; While well-attested, and as well believ'd, Heard solemn, goes the goblin-story round: Till superstitious horror creeps o'er all. Or, frequent in the sounding hall they wake The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round; The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart,
Fasily pleas'd; the long lond laugh sincere; The kiss, snatch'd hasty from the side-long naid,
On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep: The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to
Hums indistinct. The sons of riot flow Down the loose stream of false enchanted joy, To swift destruction. On the rankled soul The gaming fury falls: and in one gulph. Of total ruin, honor, virtue, peace, Friends, families, and fortune, headlong sink. Up springs the dance along the lighted dome, Mix'd and evolv'd, a thousand sprightly ways. The glittering court effuses every pomp; The circle deepens; beam'd from gaudy robes; Tapers and sparkling gems, and radiant eyes, A soft effulgence o'er the palace waves; While, a gay insect in his summer-shine, The fop, light-fluttering, spreads his meanly wings.
Dread o'er the scene, the ghost of Hamlet stalks,
Othello rages; poor Monimia mourns ; And Belvidera pours her soul in love. Terror alarms the breast, the comely tear Steels o'er the check: or else the Comic Muse Holds to the world a picture of itself, And raises sly the fair impartial laugh. Sometimes she lifts her strain, and paints the
Of beauteous life; whate'er can deck mankind,
Or charm the heart, in generous Bevil * show'd O thou, whose wisdom, solid yet refin'd, Whose patriot virtues, and consummate skill To touch the finer springs that move the world,
Join'd to whate'er the Graces can bestow, And all 'Apollo's animating fire,
Give thee, with pleasing dignity to shine At once the guardian, ornament, and joy, Of polish'd life; permit the Rural Muse, O Chesterfield, to grace with thee her song! Ere to the shades again she humbly flies; Indulge her fond ambition in thy train, (For every Muse has in thy train a place) To mark thy various full-accomplish'd mind: To mark that spirit, which, with British scorn, Rejects th' allurements of corrupted power; That elegant politeness, which excels, Even in the judgement of presumptuous France, The boasted manners of her shining court; That wit, the vivid energy of sense, The truth of Nature, which, with Attic point, And kind well-temper'd satire, smoothly keen, Steals thro' the soul, and without pain cor
Or, rising thence with yet a brighter flame, O let me hail thee on some glorious day, When to the listening scuate, ardent, crowd Britania's sons, to hear her pleaded cause. Then dress'd by thee, more amiably fair, Truth the soft robe of mild persuasion wears; Thou to assenting reason giv'st again Her own enlighten'd thought; call'd from the heart,
Th' obedient passions on thy voice attend; And even reluctant party feels awhile Thy gracious power; as thro' the various maze Of eloquence, now smooth, now quick, now
• A character in the Conscious Lovers, written by Sir Richard Steele,
The purer rivers flow; their sullen deeps, Transparent, open to the shepherd's gaze, And murmur hoarser at the fixing frost. What art thou, frost? and whence are thy keen stores
Deriv'd, thou secret all-invading power, Whom even the illusive fluid cannot fly? Is not thy potent energy, unseen,
Myriads of little salts, or hook'd or shap'd- Like double wedges, and diffus'd immense Thro' water, earth, and ether? Hence at ere, Steam'd eager from the red horizon round, With the fierce rage of Winter deep suffus'd, An icy gale, oft' shifting, o'er the pool Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career Arrests the bickering stream. The loosen'd ice, Let down the flood, and half-dissolv'd by day, Rustles no more; but to the sedgy bank Fast grows, or gathers round the pointed stone, A crystal pavement, by the breath of heaven Cemented firin; till, seis'd from shore to shore, The whole imprison'd river growls below. Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects A double noise; while at his evening watch, The village-dog deters the nightly thief; The heifer lows; the distant water-fall Swells in the breeze; and, with the hasty tread
Of traveller, the hollow-sounding plain Shakes from afar. The full ethereal round, Infinite worlds disclosing to the view, Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole. From pole to pole the rigid influence falls, Thro' the still night, incessant, heavy, strong, And seises Nature fast. It freezes on; Till morn, late rising o'er the drooping world, Lifts her pale eye unjoyous. Then appears The various labor of the silent night: Prone from the dripping cave, and dumb carle,
The manly strife, with highly blooming charms, Flush'd by the season, Scandinavia's dames, Or Russia's buxom daughters, glow around. Pure, quick, and sportful, is the wholesome day:
But soon claps'd. The horizontal sun, Broad o'er the south, hangs at its utmost noor; And, ineffectual, strikes the gelid cliff: His azure gloss the mountain still maintains, Nor feels the feeble touch. Perhaps the vale Relents awhile to the reflected ray; Or from the forest falls the cluster'd snow, Myriads of gems, that in the waving gleam Gay twinkle as they scatter. Thick around Thunder the sport of those, who with the gun, And dog impatient bounding at the shot, Worse than the season, desolate the fields; And adding to the ruins of the year, Distress the footed or the feather'd game.
But what is this? Our infant Winter sinks, Divested of its grandeur, should our eye Astonish'd shoot into the Frigid Zone; Where, for relentless months, continual night Holds o'er the glittering waste her starry reign.
There, thro' the prison of unbounded wilds, Barr'd by the hand of Nature from escape, Wide-roams the Ruffian exile. Nought around Strikes his sad eye, but desarts lost in snow; And heavy-loaded groves; and solid floods, cas-That stretch athwart the solitary vast,
Whose idle torrents only seem to roar, The pendant icicle; the frost-work fair, Where transient hues, and fancy'd figures rise; Wide spouted o'er the hill, the frozen brook, A livid tract, cold-gleaming on the morn; The forest bent beneath the plumy wave; And by the frost refin'd the whiter snow, Incrusted hard, and sounding to the tread Of early shepherd, as he pensive seeks His pining flock, or from the mountain top, Pleas'd with the slippery surface, swift de-
On blithsome frolics bent, the youthful
While every work of Man is laid at rest, Fond o'er the river crowd, in various sport And revelry dissolv'd; where mixing glad, Happiest of all the train! the raptur'd boy Lashes the whirling top. Or, where the Rhine Branch'd out in many a long canal extends, From every province swarming, void of care,
Their icy horrors to the frozen main;
And cheerless towns far distant, never bless'd, Save when its annual course the caravan Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay*, With news of human kind. Yet there life glows;
Yet cherish'd there, beneath the shining waste, The furry nations harbor; tipt with jet, Fair ermines, spotless as the snows they press; Sables of glossy black; and dark embrown'd, Or beauteous streak'd with many a mingled hue,
Thousands besides, the costly pride of courts. There, warm together press'd, the trooping
Sleep on the new-fallen snows; and, scarce his head
Rais'd o'er the heapy wreath, the branching elk
Lies slumbering sullen in the white abyss. The ruthless hunter wants not dogs nor toils, Nor with the dread of sounding bows he drive
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