"Dumb too had been the sage
And perished all the sons of ancient fame;
Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse
Through the dark depth of time, their living flame,
Had all been lost with such as have no name.
Who then had scorned his ease for other's good?
Who then had toiled rapacious men to tame?
Who in the public breach devoted stood,
And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood?
Come, follow me, I will direct
you right, Where pleasure's roses, void of serpents, grow;
Sincere as sweet; come, follow this good knight,
And you will bless the day that brought him to your sight.
"Some he will lead to courts, and some to camps;
To senates some, and public sage debates,
Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight lamps,
The world is poised, and managed mighty states;
To high discovery some, that new creates
The face of earth; some to the thriving mart;
Some to the rural reign, and softer fates;
To the sweet Muses some, who raise the heart;
All glory shall be yours, all nature, and all art.
"There are, I see, who listen to my lay,
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair.
All may be done (methinks I hear them say)
Ev'n death despised by generous actions fair;
All, but for those who to these bowers repair,
Their every power dissolved in luxury,
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair,
And from the powerful arms of sloth get free,
'Tis rising from the dead-Alas!—It cannot be !
"Would you then learn to dissipate the band
Of these huge threatening difficulties dire,
That in the weak man's way like lions stand,
His soul appal, and damp his rising fire!
Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire.
Exert that noblest privilege, alone,
Here to mankind indulged: control desire :
Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne,
Speak the commanding word—I will—and it is done."
William Collins died at the age of thirty-five, 1756. The latter years of his life were clouded with melancholy. In this state Dr. Johnson describes him as having lost all relish for booksexcept one. This was the best of books, and it may be presumed that he who had lost all interest in temporal things, as his sad eye explored the pages of the gospel, enjoyed a foretaste of heavenly happiness. Collins' verses on the death of Thomson are tender and pastoral. The poet supposes the author of the Seasons to repose on the banks of the Thames, in a delightful spot suitable to a lover of nature; and he fancies that the living will long connect the memory of his gentle spirit with the beauty of that quiet and charming scene.
In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck their poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in pity's ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And mid the varied landscape weep. -
But, thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail ?
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dim night has veiled the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu !
The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!
There hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes.
O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave a Druid lies!
HASSAN, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
In silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Hassan with his camels passed;
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contained a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gained the middle sky,
And not a tree and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view
With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man
Thrice sighed, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way!
"Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,
When fails this cruise, his unrelating rage?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign,
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal share!
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know
Which plains more blest or verdant vales bestow.
Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.
O cease, my fears! all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumbered scenes of wo,
What if the lion in his rage I meet?
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:
And fearful! oft when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger roused he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train.
At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep:
Or some swollen serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish, with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust of wealth and dread of death secure!
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find ;
Peace rules the day where reason rules the mind.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way."
It is well known that in the wide region which intervenes between the Mediterranean and Persia, there are vast tracts, lonely, sandy, and parched by the absence of water and shade, which men, tempted by the love of gain, are induced to traverse; and that some inland commerce is thus carried on between the western Asiatics and those of the interior. The merchants or their agents usually travel in caravans, or large companies, but Mr. Collins supposes his Camel-Driver to undertake a journey alone, and he describes his fears and his actual sufferings, in a manner which is intelligible and affecting.
Born A D. 1688-Died 1732.
No great importance is now attached to the name of Gay, and he would not probably have been known to readers of the present age, had he not been a favourite of his contemporaries. Pope was his friend; he survived him, and wrote an Epitaph in honour of his memory. In the Epitaph he is described as a safe companion, and an easy friend."This faint and common-place praise seemed to Dr. Johnson, the biographer and critic of English poets, to be very insignificant, but it records the amiableness of Mr. Gay's disposition and manners. He wrote a dramatic piece called the Beggar's Opera, which was often exhibited, and extremely admired, during the author's life, but it has now fallen into oblivion. Gay's Fables have been very popular. Two only are selected for this volume.
All upstarts, insolent in place,
Reminds us of their vulgar race.
As in the sunshine of the morn
A butterfly (but newly born)
Sat proudly perking on a rose,
With pert conceit his bosom glows;
His wings (all glorious to behold)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes and various hue.
His now-forgotten friend, a snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail,
Crawls o'er the grass; whom when he spies
In wrath he to the gardener cries:
"What means yon peasant's daily toil
From choking weeds to rid the soil?
Why wake you to the morning's care?
Why with new arts correct the year?
Why glows the peach with crimson hue ?
And why the plum's inviting blue ?
Were they to feast his taste designed,
That vermin of voracious kind.
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