« السابقةمتابعة »
Now, now, ye joyous sportsmen, ye, whose hearts
Are unifon'd to the ecstatic cry
Of the full pack, now give your steeds the rein!
Your's is the day-mine was, and is no more ;
Yet ever as I hear you in the wind,
Tho'chilld and hovering o'er my winter hearth,
Forth, like some Greenwich veteran, if chance
The conqu’ring name of Rodney meets his fear,
Forth I must come to share the glad'ning sound,
To fhew my scars and boast of former feaks. 11
They say our clime's incondant, changeful-True!
It gives the lie to all aftrology;
Makes: the diviner 'mad and almost mocks:
Philosophy itself; Cameleon-like
Our Aky puts on all colours, blushing now,
Now louring like a froward pettish child; du
This hour a zephyr, and the next a stormy
Angry, and pleas'di by fits--- Yet take our clima,
Take it for all in all and day by day,
Thro? all the varying feafons of the year,
For the mind's vigour and the body's strength,
Where is it's rival? - Beauty is it's own.
Not the voluptuous region of the Nile,
Not aromatic India's fpicy breath,
Nor evening breeze from Tagus, Rhone or Loire
Can tinge the maiden cheek with bloom fo fresh.
Here too, if exerdisé and temperance call,
! Health fhall abey their summons; every fount,
Each rilling stream conveys it to our lips';
every zephyr weinhale her breath; The shepherd tracks her: in the morning dew; As o'er the graffy down or to the heath Steaming with fragrance he conducts his flocka ! But oh! defend me frans the baneful east, Screen me, ye 'grovesiliye interposing bills,
and cover me! Agues and rheums,
All Holland's marshes, Atrike me in the gale ;
Like Egypt's blight his breath is all alive;
His very dew is poison, honey-sweet,
Teeming with putrefaction; in his fog
The locust and the caterpillar swarm,
And vegetable nature falls before them:
Open, all quarters else, and blow upon me,
But bar that gate, O regent of the winde !
It gives the food that melancholy doats on,
The quick’ner that provokes the slanderer's spleen,
green of Jealousy and feeds
The swelling gorge of Envy till it bursts :
'Tis now the poet's unpropitious hour;
The student trims his midnight lamp in vain,
And beauty fades upon the painter's eye ;
Hang up thy pallet, Romney! and convene
The gay companions of thy social board;
Apelles' self would throw his pencil by,
And swear the skies conspir'd against his art.
But what must Europe's softer climes endure,
Thy coast, Calabria! or the neighbouring isle,
Of antient Ceres once the fruitful feat ?
Where is the bloom of Enna's flowery field,
Mellifluous Hybla, and the golden'vale
Of rich Panormus, when the fell Sirot,
Hot from the furnace of the Libyan sands,
Breathes all it's plagues upon them ? Hapless ille !
Why must I call to mind thy past renown?
Is it this desolating blast alone,
That strips thy verdure? Is it in the gulph
Of yawning earthquakes that thy.glory finks ?.
Or hath the flood that thund'ring Ætna pours
From her convuls’d and faming entrails whelm'd
In one wide ruin every noble spark
of pristine virtue, genius, wisdom, wit?
Ah no! the elements are not in fault;
Nature is still the same: 'Tis not the blast
From Afric's burning fands, it is the breath
Of Spain's despotic mater lays thee low;
'Tis not alone the quaking earth that reels
Under thy tottering cities, 'tis the fall
Of freedom, 'tis the pit which Navery digs,
That buries every virtue; 'tis the flood
Of superstition, the insatiate fires
Of persecuting zealots that devour thee ;
These are the Titans who disturb thy peace,
This is thy grave, o Sicily! the hell
Deeper than that, which heathen poets feign'd
Under thy burning mountain, that engulphs
Each grace and every muse, arts, arms and all
That elegance inspires or fame records.
Return, ye victims of caprice and spleen,
Ye summer friends, daughters more fiily callid
Than fons of Albion, to your native hores
Return, self-exiles as you are, and face
This only tyrant which our isle endures,
This hoary-headed terror of the year,
Stern winter-What, tho'in his icy chains
Imprilon'd for a time e'en father Thames
Checks his imperial current, and beholds
His wealthy navigation in arrest,
Yet soon, like Perseys on his winged seed,
Forth from the horns of the celestial Ram
Spring, his deliverer, comes-down, down at once
The frighted monster dives into the earth,
Or bursts asunder with a hideous crash,
As thro' his stubborn ribs th: all-conqu’ring sun
Drives his refulgent spear : The ransom'd foods,
As at a signal, rise and clap their hands ;
The mountains shout for joy; the laughing hours
Dance o'er the eastern hills and in the lap
Of marriageable earth their odours fling,
Wreaths of each vernal flowret, whilst the choir
Of feather'd songsters make the groves resound
With Nature's hymenaals--all is joy.
Hail, bounteous Spring! primæval season, hail !
Nature's glad herald ! who to all the tribes
That link creation's scale, from lordly man
To the small insect, that eludes his fight,
Proclaims that universal law of life,
The first great blessing of the new-born world,
Increase and multiply !---No sooner heard
By sultry climes, than strait the rebel fun
Mounts his bright throne, ando'er the withering earth.
Sčatters his bold Titanian fires around,
And cancels Heaven's high edict ; Nature feels
Quick growth and quick decay ; the verdant scene
Glitters awhile and vanishes at once.
Not such the tints that Albion's landscape wears,
Her mantle dipt in never-fading green,
Keeps fresh its vernal honours thro' the year;
Soft dew-drops nurse her role's maiden bloom,
And genial Mowers refresh her vivid lawn.
Thro' other lands indignant of delay
Spring travels homeward with a stranger's hafte
Here he reposes, dwells upon the scene
Enamourd, native here prolongs his stay,
And when his fiery successor at length
Warns him from lience, with ling'ring step and flow,
And many a stream of falling tears he parts,
Like one, whom surly creditors arrest
In a fond confort's arms and force him thence.
But now, my Muse, to humbler themes descend !
'Tis not for me to paint the various gifts
Which freedom, science, art, or fav’ring Heav'n
Shower on my native ille ; quenchd are the fires,
Which young ambition kindled in my breast;
Morning and noon of life's Mort day are past,
And what remains for me ere night comes on,
But one still bour perchance of glimmering eve
For sober contemplation? Come, my Muse,
Come then! and as from some high mountain's top
The careful shepherd counts his (traggling flock,
So will we take one patient last survey
Of this unquiet, babbling, anxious world;
We'll scan it with a calm but curious eye;
Silence and solitude are all our own;
Their's is the tumult, their's the throng; my coul
Is fitted to the task-for, oh fair truth!
Yet I am thine, on thy perennial base
I will inscribe my monumental verse,
And tho' my heart with kindred ardor beats
To every brave compatriot, yet no ties,
Tho dignified with friendship's specious name,
Shall Mackle my free mind, nor any space
Less than the world's wide compass bound my love.
No more; for now the hospitable gates
Of wealthy Attalus invite their guest ;
I paus’d and look'd, and yielding to the wild
That fortune had bequeath'd me such a lot,
A momentary figh surpriz'd my heart :
Flocks, herds, and fields of golden grain, of these
I envied not the owner ; but I saw,
The curling sinoke from cottages ascend,
And heard the merry din of childish sports ;