THE MINSTREL:

OR,

THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

BOOK I.

Ан!

I who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines

afar!

Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Hath felt the influence of malignant star,
And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war;
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote hath pin'd alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown.

And yet, the languor of inglorious days
Not equally oppressive is to all.

Him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,
The silence of neglect can ne'er appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of
Fame;

Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had He, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

The rolls of fame, I will not now explore; Nor need I here describe in learned lay, How forth The Minstrel far'd in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His waving locks and beard all hoary grey: And from his bending shoulder decent bung His barp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide: The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms,

Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float:
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.
O let them ne'er, with artificial note,

To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will.

Liberal, not lavisb, is kind Nature's hand;
Nor was perfection made for man below.
Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,
Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.
With gold and gems if Chilian mountain glow,
If bleak and barren. Scotia's bills arise;

There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes

Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;

Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse The imperial banquet and the rich attire. Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refin❜d? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To farcy, freedom, harmony, resign; Ambition's groveling crew for ever left behind.

Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of luxury to loll, Stung with disease and stupified with spleen; Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, (The mansion then no more of joy serene,) . Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide, And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?

O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields;
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven,

O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ?

These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart; For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart; Prompting th❜ ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme, The stern resolve, unmov'd by pity's smart, The troublous day, and long distressful dream. Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme.

There liv'd in Gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree;
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;

But he, I ween, was of the north countrie:*
A nation fam'd for song, and beauty's charms;
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms

The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd; An honest heart was almost all his stock; His drink the living water from the rock: The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe❜er they went.

From labour health, from health contentment springs,

Contentment opes the source of every joy.

He envied not, he never thought of kings: Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, Which chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy; Nor fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd, And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child,

There is hardly an ancient Ballad or Romance, wherein a Minstrel or Harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have been "of the North Countrie." It is probable, that under this appellation were formerly comprehended all the provinces to the north of the Trent. See Percy's Essay on the English Minstrels.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;
Each season look'd delightful, as it past,
To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life
They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm
Which in ambition's lofty land is rife,

Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold,
Was all the offspring of this humble pair.
His birth no oracle or seer foretold:
No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,

Nor aught that might a strange event declare. You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth: And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy. Silent when glad; affectionate though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad, And now be laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours star'd and sigh'd,yet bless'd the lad; Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.

But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head; Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phœbus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.