Minerva's ægis; Lacedæmon sent
Her hardy veterans from their frugal board,
Thy troops, Leonidas; whose glorious death
Stands aye renown'd, fit theme, in British song.
Tell me, O Mason, will thy liberal soul
With tame submission hug the chain, and brook
Barbarian bondage? Shall the Muse, who led
Thy youthful steps through every bosky bourn
That skirts wide Harewood's forest, and before
Thy raptured eye raised Mona's central oak,
Haunt of the Druids old, implore in vain?
Wilt thou not join, and from her gall'd feet shake
The Northern shackle? So to every walk
That through thy garden weaves its mazy path,
To every opening glade, each odorous shrub
That scents the horizon round, shall she conduct
Her musing votary: So shall she unfold
Rude nature polish'd, not subdued, by art,
Scenes where thy fancy roves; and all her flowers
Steep in the living fountains of the spring,
To wreathe a chaplet for her poet's brow.
Would I could name thee, Gray! but Ode is
And plaintive Elegy. Not Pindar soars [thine,
On bolder wing-But hark! what means that bell
At this still hour slow rising on mine ear?
It is the voice of Death*. Even while I write,
Cold icy dewdrops chill thy languid limbs,
And life's short date is out. From these high spires,
These antique towers that crown the watery
glade,'
These fields that echoed to thy moral muse,
Warbling in childhood's happiest hour, accept
This was written at the time of Mr. Gray's death,
This boon; and, O sweet melancholy bard,
Rest to thy cares, and mercy to thy soul!
Return, my Muse; thy wild unfetter'd strains
Suit not the mournful dirge. Rhyme tunes the pipe
Of querulous elegy; 'tis rhyme confines
The lawless numbers of the lyric song.
Who shall deny the quick-retorted sound
To Satire, when with this she points her scorn,
Darts her keen shaft, or whets her venom'd fang?
Pent in the close of some strong period stands
The victim's blasted name: the kindred note
First stamps it on the ear; then oft recalls
To memory what were better wrapp'd at once
In dark oblivion. Still unrival'd here
Pope through his rich dominion reigns alone;
Pope, whose immortal strains Thames echoes yet
Through all his winding banks. He smoothed
the verse,
Tuned its soft cadence to the classic ear,
And gave to rhyme the dignity of song!
As when the cheerful bells some wake proclaim, The village maid loads not her head with gems, Ruby, or diamond, but from every field
Culls daffodils and harebells, sprent with dew, Her loveliest ornaments; in humble style
Let rhyme supply
The majesty of nobler sentiment,
Which ill might suit the peasant. Gay felt this;
And banish'd from his woods Arcadian swains,
And mark'd the manners of the British hind,
And uncouth dialect. He too could veil
In fable's mystic garb the form of truth;
And by his sprightly tale could often draw
The tear of laughter even from the dim eye
Of churlish gravity. Nor be forgot
The grotesque mirth of Butler's errant Knight,
Nor Swift, strange child of fancy and of spleen,
Nor he, whose labour'd line flows smoothly on,
The gallant, easy Prior. Subjects light,
Swoln by heroic phrase, like some poor slave
Who, robed in royal mantle, struts his hour,
Betray their base original the more.
Pardon, my Anstey, that I name thee last, Though last, not least in fame. For thee the Muse Reserved a secret spot, unknown before,
And smiled, and bade thee fix thy banner there,
As erst Columbus on his new found world
Display'd the' Iberian ensign. Graceful sit
Thy golden chains, and easy flows the rhyme
Spontaneous. While old Bladud's sceptre guards
His medicinal stream, shall Simkin raise
Loud peals of merriment. Thou too canst soar
To nobler heights, and deck the fragrant earth
'Where generous Russel lies.'
With thee, my
Oft have I stray'd from morn to latest eve,
And stolen from balmy sleep the midnight hour
To court the Latian Muse. Though other cares
Tore me from that sweet social intercourse,
I cannot but remember how I roved
By Camus, sedgy stream, and on the pipe,
The rustic pipe, while yet it breathed thy lips,
Essay'd alternate strains. Accept this verse,
Pledge of remembrance dear and faithful love.
THE DEVOTED LEGIONS*.
WHEN Sordid Crassus led his destined band
To fall unpitied on the Parthian strand,
Before the city gate, his fatal way,
He stood, and silent mark'd the long array.
While through the glittering files he darts his eyes,
Unusual transports in his bosom rise;
He tastes the glories of the distant war,
Sees captive monarchs struggle at his car,
The Parthian trembling in his wild domains,
And Rome's proud eagle towering o'er the plains.
Thus while, to fate and future evils blind,
He rolls imagined triumphs in his mind,
The mournful prophet of his country's woes,
In sullen majesty the tribune rose,
To Crassus, on the formation of the celebrated Triumvirate, were allotted the Eastern Provinces, in which his avarice had long meditated an unprovoked war, to gratify itself with the spoils and riches of those favoured countries. He was therefore no sooner invested with these new powers than he made preparations for an expedition against the Parthians. This people were at that time in alliance with his own nation, and therefore the injustice of attacking them was too flagrant not to excite horror and detestation even in the minds of the corrupted and degenerated Romans themselves: particularly Atteius, one of the tribunes of the people, after having ineffectually opposed this impious war, arrayed himself in the solemn vestments which were used in the dreadful ceremonies of devoting any one to the Infernal Gods, and placed himself at the gate through which Crassus was to lead his troops to the Parthian expedition. In this habit he met that general, and, scattering incense over a fire which burned before him, muttered the most horrid execrations, and devoted Crassus and his legions to destruction. The Romans believed that these execrations were never ineffectual; but their effects were thought so fatal even to the person who pronounced them that they were very rarely practised. The fate of Crassus is well known.
One hand, stretch'd out, invokes celestial ire,
And one, extended o'er a glimmering fire,
Feeds with incessant toil the fatal flame
Which gleams portentous to the Roman name—
A sudden fear the starting host impedes—
Back roll the legions-back recoil the steeds—
Even he, the haughty chief, beyond the rest,
Felt secret horrors tear his guilty breast;
While a loud voice, that shook the dark abodes,
Thus utter'd dreadful words, and call'd the' aveng-
'With every power of heaven and earth thy foe,
Whither, O gloomy warrior, dost thou go?
What moves thy mind to quit thy glittering home,
The pomps and glories of imperial Rome?
Where song and dance chase gently down the light,
And Pleasure strews her roses o'er the night;
Where smiling Beauty offers all her charms,
And every Siren woos thee to her arms—
Is it in vain that ravaged Nature pours
Her choicest gifts on yon rapacious shores?
To glut thy pride, mild Asia yields her spoils,
Vex'd Europe bleeds, and groaning Afric toils.—
Is it too little to content thy soul,
That from the scorch'd Equator to the Pole
No sound is heard, through all the wide domains,
But Roman scourges and the clank of chains?
And now,
lest persecuted Freedom hide
Some secret eyry from thy impious pride,
Where, fenced by rocks,her chosen brood she forms,
To face the sun, and mount upon the storms;
Thy pride impels thee on this favour'd seat
To rouse her eagle in its last retreat.-
For this thy banners flutter on the wind;
Oaths lose their power, and treaties cease to bind.
|