THE POETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL ROGERS. The Pleasures of Memory. IN TWO PARTS. -Hoc est Vivere bis, vità posse priore frui.-Mart. OH could my mind, unfolded in my page, Dolce sentier, PART I. Colle, che mi piacesti, Ov' ancor per usanza Amor mi mena; ANALYSIS. Petrarch. 1793. regularity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasure to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, he, who feels the infirmities of age, dwells most on whatever reminds him of the vigor and vivacity of his youth. The associating principle, as here employed, is no less conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous propensity. Not confined to man, it extends through all animated nature; and its effects are peculiarly striking in the domestic tribes. TWILIGHT'S Soft dews steal o'er the village-green, THE Poem begins with the description of an obscure With magic tints to harmonize the scene: village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed When round the ruins of their ancient oak sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, we naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject And games and carols closed the busy day. proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more the nature and leading principles of this faculty. With treasured tales, and legendary lore. It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succes- All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows sion, and introduce each other with a certain degree of To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled, yet still I linger here! Mark yon old Mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport, See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest; And all was sunshine in each little breast. "Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. "Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. Ye Household Deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-color'd chart; The clock still points its moral to the heart; That faithful monitor 't was heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near. And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; [dust, Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life-all whisper of the Past! As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time; Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summer shade Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the red-breast from his lone retreat! Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each van alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke-to thee belong The sage's precept, and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn: Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, (1) Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams! [shade, Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The Gipsey's fagot-there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, To learn the color of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, [live!" He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness "Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring. Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth. I wave a wistful look he cast, The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, Long o'e Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone Luli'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, So Scotia's Queen, (5) as slowly dawn'd the day, Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, (6) This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. And hence the charm historic scenes impart: (9) In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: What though the iron school of War erase The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Ask not if courts or camp solve the charm: Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne, (18) Undamp'd by time, the generous Instinct glows The social tribes its choicest influence hail :- Want with her babes round generous Valor clung Hark! the bee (21) winds her small but mellow Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. THE Memory has hitherto acted only in subservi ence to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distinguished from other animals: but, with respect to man, she has a higher province; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external cause whatever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colors all the prospects of life: for "we can only anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible from what is past." On her agency depends every effusion of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only compound or transpose, augment or diminish, the materials which she has collected. When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble confidence which results from the conscious With that mute eloquence which passes speech.-ness of having acted well. When sleep has suspended Led by what chart, transports the timid dove And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered imagi nation, she revives past perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar. Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences, are often cherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm. But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favorable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a Tale illustrative of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with |