(FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.)
How profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume Too high, or idle agitations lull!
Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, To have no seat for thought were better doom, Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they? Our fond regrets, insatiate in their grasp? The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?
Mere Fibula without a robe to clasp ;
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!
No more the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt as without preconceived design Was the beginning, yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie Though unapparent, like those Shapes distinct That yet survive ensculptured on the walls Of Palace, or of Temple, 'mid the wreck Of famed Persepolis; each following each, As might beseem a stately embassy, In set array; these bearing in their hands Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, Or gift, to be presented at the Throne Of the Great King; and others, as they go
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Muse condemn, or treat with scorn Our ministration, humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse Its impulse took—that sorrow-stricken door, Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed (Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds, and hoar-frost sprinklings
Foretaste of winter, on the moorland heights; And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. Hence, if dejection have too oft encroached Upon that sweet and tender melancholy Which may itself be cherished and caressed More than enough, a fault so natural, Even with the young the hopeful or the gay, For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.
IF to Tradition faith be due,
And echoes from old verse speak true, Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore Glad tidings to Iona's shore,
No common light of nature blessed The mountain region of the west, A land where gentle manners ruled O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, That raised, for centuries, a bar Impervious to the tide of war;
Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain Where haughty Force had striven in vain; And, 'mid the works of skilful hands, By wanderers brought from foreign lands And various climes, was not unknown The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown;
The Fibula, whose shape, I ween, Still in the Highland Broach is seen, The silver Broach of massy frame, Worn at the breast of some grave Dame On road or path, or at the door Of fern-thatched Hut on heathy moor: But delicate of yore its mould, And the material finest gold;
As might beseem the fairest Fair, Whether she graced a royal chair, Or shed, within a vaulted Hall, No fancied lustre on the wall
Where shields of mighty Heroes hung, While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.
The heroic Age expired-it slept Deep in its tomb:—the bramble crept O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod Grew on the floors his Sons had trod: Malvina! where art thou? Their state The noblest-born must abdicate,
The fairest, while with fire and sword Come Spoilers-horde impelling horde, Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest By ruder hands in homelier vest.
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