Imágenes de páginas

Rocking on the billowy air,

Clouds of incense woo thy smile,
Ha! what withering phantoms glare !

Scaly monarch of the Nile !*
As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee!
At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell! Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.
The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,
Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by; Lock'd up in characters as dark as night ?i
In every grove is felt a heavier gloom,

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.

O’er solid seas, where winter reigns,

II. 3.
And holds each mountain wave in chains,
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright|
By glistering starlight through the snow,

With purple ether's liquid light,
Breathes softly in her wondering ear

High o'er the world, the white-robed magi gaze
Each potent spell thou badest him know.

On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire ;
By thee inspired, on India's sands,

Start at each blue, portentous blaze,

Each flame that flits with
Full in the sun the Brahmin stands ;

Averse spire.
And, while the panting tigress hies

But say, what sounds my ear invade
To quench her fever in the stream,

From Delphi's venerable shade?
His spirit laughs in agonies,

The temple rocks, the laurel waves !
Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam.

“ 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 !
She hurls the torch! she fans the fire !

Streams of rapture roll along,
To die is to be blest:

Silver notes ascend the skies :
She clasps her lord to part no more,

Wake, echo, wake and catch the song,
And, sighing, sinks ! but sinks to soar.

O catch it, ere it dies !
O’ershadowing Scotia's desert coast,

The sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er,
The sisters sail in dusky state,t

The holy harpings charm no more.
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,

In vain she checks the god's control;
Weave the airy web of fate ;

His madding spirit fills her frame,
While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,

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

Thou spakest, and lo! a new creation glow'd.
Each unhewn mass of living stone

III. 1.
Was clad in horrors not its own,

Mona, thy Druid rites awake the dead !
And at its base the trembling nations bow'd.

Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
Giant Error, darkly grand,

E’en whisper to the idle air ;
Grasp'd the globe with iron hand.

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

roar; mind.

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.

III, 2.

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;
Pure as the mountain snows:

Till fading beauty hints the late advice.
Celestial transports round her play

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;
Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,

A thousand cards a day at doors to leave,
Shrinking from her glance in vain.

And, in return, a thousand cards receive;
Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire,
And lo! it visits man with beans of light and love. With nightly blaze set Portland-plaee on fire;

Snatch hralf a glimpse at concert, opera, ball,
A meteor, traced by none, though seen by all ;

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,
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!

Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot ;
Full oft, with energy that scorns control,

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,
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows; In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
For all that life endears—to you she owes. Nor moved by gold-nor to be moved by tears;

And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green mantled moat that sleeps below.



SLEEP on, and dream of heaven a while.
Though shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,
And move, and breathe delicious sighs !
Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps !
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
-And now, how like a saint she sleeps !
A seraph in the realms of rest!
Sleep on secure! Above control,
Thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee!
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary !

The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade ;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recall’d and cherish'd in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colours mellow'd, not impair’d, by time.
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main ;
This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To see the smile of her he loves again.
When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;
And when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain forest, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'erarch the golden tide.
But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail !
Lo, o'er the clif what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
—'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl'd;
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to

And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

Go-you may call it madness, folly ;
You shall not chase my gloom away.
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.
0, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a easure
Monarchs are too poor to buy.

There is a streamlet issuing from a rock.
The village girls, singing wild madrigals,
Dip their white vestments in its waters clear,
And hang them to the sun. There first I saw

Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire,
'Twas heaven to look upon; and her sweet voice,
As tunable as harp of many strings,
At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul!


Immota manet; multosque nepoles,
Mullir virům volvens durando sæcula, vincit.-Virg.

Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees;
And all, who know it, come and come again.
The small birds build there; and, at summer

Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers,
As in the shining grass she sate conceal'd,
Sing to herself

Round thee, alas, no shadows move!
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe !
Yet within thee, thyself a grove,
Once did the eagle scream above,

And the wolf howl beneath.

There once the steel-clad knight reclined,
His sable plumage tempest toss'd ;
And, as the death-bell smote the wind,
From towers long fled by human kind

His brow the hero cross'd!
Then culture came, and days serene;
And village sports, and garlands gay.
Full many a pathway cross'd the green ;
And maids and shepherd youths were seen

To celebrate the May.
Father of many a forest deep,
Whence many a navy thunder fraught
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep,
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep,

Opening new spheres of thought !
Wont in the night of woods to dwell,
The holy Druid saw thee rise ;
And, planting there the guardian spell,
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell

Of human sacrifice !
Thy singed top and branches bare
Now straggle in the evening sky;
And the wan moon wheels round to glare
On the long corse that shivers there

Of him who came to die!


Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief,
Look in each other's face, and melt in tears.
Well may you shun all counsel, all relief.
0, she was great in mind, though young in years !
Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed
Light when she spoke, and kindled sweet surprise,
As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread,
Play'd round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes.
Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade,
Still to the last enliven'd and endear'd.
Those eyes at once her secret soul convey'd,
And ever beam'd delight when you appear'd.
Yet has she fled the life of bliss below,
That youthful hope in bright perspective drew!
False were the tints ! false as the feverish glow
That o'er her burning cheek distemper threw !
And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves !
(Glory and joy reserved for you to share.)
Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves
Than they, alas ! unconscious of her care.

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!
In thee the rays of virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul !
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude control
Of love or pity, joy or grief.
The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream,
In reason's philosophic page.
That very law* which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.


Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor ?
Aëris et linguæ sum filia;
Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.-Ausonius.

ONCE more, enchantress of the soul,
Once more we hail thy soft control.
-Yet whither, whither didst thou fly?
To what bright region of the sky?
Say, in what distant star to dwell ?
(of other worlds thou seem'st to tell)
Or trembling, fluttering here below,
Resolved and unresolved to go,
In secret didst thou still impart
Thy raptures to the pure in heart?

Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Thee, in his rage, the tempest bore ;
Thy broken murmurs swept along,
'Mid echoes yet untuned by song ;
Arrested in the realms of frost,
Or in the wilds of ether lost.

Far happier thou ! 'twas thine to soar
Careering on the winged wind.
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore ?
Suns and their systems left behind.
No tract of space, no distant star,
No shock of elements at war,
Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire
Bore thee amidst the cherub-choir ;
And there a while to thee 'twas given
Once more that voicef beloved to join,

Which taught thee first a flight divine,
And nursed thy infant years with many a strain

from heaven!

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.



“ 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,
To draw down gods, and lift the soul to heaven! His voice was heard no more !

'Twas but a step! the gulf he pass’d
But that step—it was his last !

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
When mountain-glens and caverns full of night

Received their little all of life!
O'er her young mind divine enchantment threw, There now the matin-bell is rung;
That in her veins a secret horror slept,

The “ Miserere !” duly sung;
That her light footsteps should be heard no more,

And holy men in cowl and hood
That she should die-nor watch'd, alas ! nor wept Are wandering up and down the wood.
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.

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.
She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired.

And she who wildly wanders there
And now to thee she comes ; still, still the same The mother in her long despair,
As in the hours gone unregarded by !

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
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,

When red with blood the river rollid.
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth,
By the way-side she shed her parting tears-
For ever lovely in the light of youth!

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers

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.

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