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Rocking on the billowy air,
Clouds of incense woo thy smile,
Scaly monarch of the Nile !*
What eye those long, long labyrinths dare exThat veils its genius from the vulgar eye:
plore, s The spirit of the water rides the storm,
To which the parted soul oft wings her flight; And, through the mist, reveals the terrors of his Again to visit her cold cell of clay, form.
Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at I. 3.
On yon hoar summit, mildly bright|
With purple ether's liquid light,
High o'er the world, the white-robed magi gaze
On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire ;
Start at each blue, portentous blaze,
Each flame that flits with
But say, what sounds my ear invade
From Delphi's venerable shade?
The temple rocks, the laurel waves !
“ The god! the god !” the sibyl cries. I Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,*
Her figure swells, she foams, she raves ! Blooming in her bridal vest :
Her figure swells to more than mortal size !
Streams of rapture roll along,
Silver notes ascend the skies :
Wake, echo, wake and catch the song,
O catch it, ere it dies !
The sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er,
The holy harpings charm no more.
In vain she checks the god's control;
His madding spirit fills her frame,
And moulds the features of her soul, Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral
Breathing a prophetic flame. train.
The cavern frowns! its hundred mouths unclose! II. 1.
And in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire
Mona, thy Druid rites awake the dead !
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
E’en whisper to the idle air ;
Rites that have chain'd old ocean on his bed. Circled with seats of bliss, the lord of light
Shiver'd by thy piercing glance, Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height.
Pointless falls the hero's lance. The statue, waking with immortal powers,
Thy magic bids th' imperial eagle fly, Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. spheres;
Hark! the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! Th’indignant pyramid sublimely towers,
At every pause dread silence hovers o'er: And braves the efforts of a host of years.
While murky night sails round on raven wing, Swett music breathes her soul into the wind;
Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's And bright-eyed painting stamps the image of the
Chased by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow, 11. 2.
Where late she sate and scowl'd on the black wave Round their rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise !
below. A timbrell’d anthem swells the gale, And bids the god of thunders hail ;|
* The crocodile. With lowings loud the captive god replies. + According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult
in Egypt to find a god than a man. The funeral rite of the Hindoos.
The hieroglyphics. + The fates of the northern mythology. See Mallet's $ The catacombs. Antiquities.
11 “ The Persians," says Herodotus, " have no temples, 1 An allusion to the second-sight.
altars, or statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the high§ See that fine description of the sudden animation of est mountains." I. 131. the Palladium, in the second book of the Æneid.
| En. VI. 46, etc. || The bull, Apis.
** See Tacitus, l. xiv. c. 29.
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, Lo, steel-clad war his gorgeous standard rears !
When to be grateful is the part assign'd ? The red cross squadrons madly rage, *
Ah no! she scorns the trappings of her art; And mow through infancy and age ;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.
But, ladies, say, must I alone unmask ? Veiling from the eye of day,
Is here no other actress ? let me ask. Penance dreams her life away ;
Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, In cloister'd solitude she sits and sighs,
Know every woman studies stage effect. While from each shrine still, small responses rise. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, Hear, with what heartfelt beat, the midnight bell As instinct teaches, or as humour wills; Swings its slow summons through the hollow And as the grave or gay her talent calls, pile!
Acts in the drama till the curtain falls. The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell,
First, how her little breast with triumph swells To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ;
When the red coral rings its golden bells ! With choral chantings vainly to aspire,
To play in pantomime is then the rage, Beyond this nether sphere, on rapture’s wing of fire. Along the carpet's many-colour'd stage ;
Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, III. 3.
Now here, now there in noise and mischief ever! Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours ; Faith lifts the soul above this little ball! Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances ; While gleams of glory open round,
Playful at church, and serious when she dances; And circling choirs of angels call,
Tramples alike on customs and on toes, Canst thou, with all thy terrors crown'd, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions ! Destined to shine when suns are dark ?
A romp! that longest of perpetual motions ! Thy triumphs cease! through every land,
-Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, Hark! truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease! She sports her lovely face at public places; Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, Benignly points to piety and peace.
First acts her part with that great actor, man. Flush'd with youth, her looks impart
Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Each fine feeling as it flows;
Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Her voice the echo of a heart
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice;
Till fading beauty hints the late advice.
Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And softly, sweetly die away.
And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd! She smiles! and where is now the cloud
Then comes that good old character, a wise, That blacken'd o'er thy baleful reign ?
With all the dear, distracting cares of life;
A thousand cards a day at doors to leave,
And, in return, a thousand cards receive;
Snatch hralf a glimpse at concert, opera, ball,
And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam,
In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home.
Last, the gray dowager, in ancient flounces, WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.
With snuff and spectacles the age denounces ; Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain ;
Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle I wake, I breathe, and am myself again.
Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet!
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal ; With troubled step to haunt the fatal board,
With modern belles eternal warfare wages, Where I died last-by poison or the sword;
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages ; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night,
And shutlles round to bear her tale to all, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.
Like some old ruin, “ nodding to its fall !" -To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Thus wornan makes her entrance and her exit; Call’d back reality, and broke the spell.
Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
Yet nature oft peeps out and mars the plot,
Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot ;
At once lights up the features of the soul ;. * This remarkable event happened at the siege and Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward art, sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. And to full day the latent passions start!
After a tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the - And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795.
Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. 36
% A 2
Dlatth. Paris, p. 34.
Born on the stage-through every shifting scene,
CAPTIVITY. Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired? When the hern screams along the distant lake, Thus from her mind all artifice she flings,
Her little heart oft flutters to be free,
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
SLEEP on, and dream of heaven a while.
She starts, she trembles, and she weeps !
TO AN OLD OAK.
Immota manet; multosque nepoles,
Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees;
Round thee, alas, no shadows move!
And the wolf howl beneath.
There once the steel-clad knight reclined,
His brow the hero cross'd!
To celebrate the May.
Opening new spheres of thought !
Of human sacrifice !
Of him who came to die!
TO TWO SISTERS.*
Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief,
ON A TEAR. 0! That the chymist's magic art Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! Long should it glitter near my heart A secret source of pensive pleasure. The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cellThe spring of sensibility!
On the death of a younger sister.
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST.
Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor ?
ONCE more, enchantress of the soul,
Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Far happier thou ! 'twas thine to soar
Which taught thee first a flight divine,
FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals! O fly-yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.
+ In the winter of 1805.
* The law of gravitation. #Mrs. Sheridan's.
THE BOY OF EGREMOND. FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES,
“ Say, what remains when hope is filed ?" COMMONLY CALLED THE TORSO.
She answer'd, “ Endless weeping !" AND dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, For in the herdsman's eye she read (Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurld,)
Who in his shroud lay sleeping. Still sit as on the fragment of a world ;
At Embsay rung the matin-bell, Surviving all, majestic and alone ?
The stag was roused on Barden fell; What though the spirits of the north, that swept The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept, And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk
When near the cabin in the wood, Deep in the dust ’mid tower and temple sunk; In tartan clad and forest green, Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to rise,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood, Still, still unquell'd thy glorious energies !
The Boy of Egremond was seen, Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught* Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; Bright revelations of the good they sought ;
But where the rock is rent in two, By thee that long-lost spellt in secret given,
And the river rushes through,
'Twas but a step! the gulf he pass’d
As through the mist he wing'd his way,
(A cloud that hovers night and day,)
The hound hung back, and back he drew Au! little thought she, when, with mild delight,
The master and his merlin too. By many a torrent's shining track she flew,
That narrow place of noise and strife
Received their little all of life!
The “ Miserere !” duly sung;
And holy men in cowl and hood
But what avail they? Ruthless lord,
Thou didst not shudder when the sword Yet round her couch indulgent fancy drew
Here on the young its fury spent, The kindred forms her closing eye required.
The helpless and the innocent. There didst thou stand—there, with the smile she
Sit now and answer groan for groan, knew,
The child before thee is thy own.
And she who wildly wanders there
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, To thee, how changed ! comes as she ever came
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!
Of those who would not be consoled
When red with blood the river rollid.
TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; THERE, in that bed so closely curtain'd round,
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, As on she moves with hesitating grace, A father sleeps ! O hush'd be every sound ! She wins assurance from his soothing voice; Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! And, with a look the pencil could not trace, He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice. Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise ;
* In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid Till through the shutter'd pane the morning streams
waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and And on the hearth the glimmering rushlight dies. was afterward established there by his uncle, David,
King of Scotland. * In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called Julius H., it was long the favourite study of those great the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here men to whom we owe the revival of the arts, Michael related; when a priory was removed from Embsay to Angelo, Raphael, and the Carracci.
Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place + Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may be where the accident happened. That place is sttil known lieve an ancient epigram on the Guidian Venus.-Ana- by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as lecta Vet. Poetarum, III. 200.
given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in On the death of her sister.
Wharfedale.-See Whitaker's Hist. of Craven.