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Methinks even now the interview I see,
The Mistress's glad smile, the Master's glee;
Much of my future happiness they said,
Much of the easy life the scholars led,

Of spacious play-ground and of wholesome air,
The best instruction and the tenderest care;
And when I followed to the garden-door
My father, till through tears I saw no more,..
How civilly they sooth'd my parting pain,
And never did they speak so civilly again.

Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell,
When Memory spreads around her saddening spell,
When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast,
Turns from the present and prefers the past?
Why calls reflection to my pensive view
Each trifling act of infancy anew,

Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er,
Even at the time when trifles please no more?
Yet is remembrance sweet, though well I know
The days of childhood are but days of woe;
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours
What else should be our sweetest blithest hours;
Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind,..
Those easy hours for ever left behind;
Ere care began the spirit to oppress,
When ignorance itself was happiness.

Such was my state in those remember'd years
When two small acres bounded all my fears;
And therefore still with pleasure I recall

The tapestried school, the bright brown-boarded hall,

The murmuring brook, that every morning saw
The due observance of the cleanly law;
The walnuts, where, when favour would allow,
Full oft I went to search each well-stript bough;
The crab-tree, which supplied a secret hoard
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board;
These trifling objects then my heart possest,
These trifling objects still remain imprest;
So when with unskill'd hand some idle hind
Carves his rude name within a sapling's rind,
In after years the peasant lives to see
The expanding letters grow as grows the tree;
Though every winter's desolating sway
Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves away,
That rude inscription uneffaced will last,
Unalter'd by the storm or wintry blast.

Oh while well pleased the letter'd traveller roams
Among old temples, palaces, and domes,
Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime,
Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride,
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side,
Oh be it mine, aloof from public strife,
To mark the changes of domestic life,

The alter'd scenes where once I bore a part.
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart.
As when the merry bells with echoing sound
Proclaim the news of victory around,
Rejoicing patriots run the news to spread
Of glorious conquest and of thousands dead,
All join the loud huzzah with eager breath,
And triumph in the tale of blood and death;
But if extended on the battle-plain,

Cut off in conquest some dear friend be slain,
Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye,
And suffering Nature grieve that one should die.

Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last. My bosom bounded as I wander'd round With silent step the long-remember'd ground, Where I had loiter'd out so many an hour, Chased the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower, Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, Or with mine equals vied amid the chase. I saw the church where I had slept away The tedious service of the summer day; Or, hearing sadly all the preacher told, In winter waked and shiver'd with the cold. Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred ground Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around; Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall, Or aged convent tottering to its fall; Yet never had my bosom felt such pain, As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again; For many a long-lost pleasure came to view, For many a long-past sorrow rose anew; Where whilom all were friends I stood alone, Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown.

There, where my little hands were wont to rear
With pride the earliest salad of the year;
Where never idle weed to spring was seen,
Rank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads ob-

scene.

Still all around and sad, I saw no more
The playful group, nor heard the playful roar;
There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee,
It seem'd as though the world were changed like
me!

Enough! it boots not on the past to dwell, . . Fair scene of other years, a long farewell! Rouse up, my soul ! it boots not to repine, Rouse up for worthier feelings should be thine; Thy path is plain and straight,. . that light is given, . .

Onward in faith, . . and leave the rest to Heaven.

Oxford, 1794.

L

HYMN TO THE PENATES.

"Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me." The words of Agur. ΟΙΚΟΙ βελτερον είναι, επει βλαβερον το θύρηφι.

Hesiod.

YET One Song more! one high and solemn strain
Ere, Phoebus! on thy temple's ruin'd wall
I hang the silent harp: there may its strings,
When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile,
Make melancholy music. One song more!
PENATES, hear me ! for to you I hymn
The votive lay; whether, as sages deem,

Ye dwell in inmost Heaven, the Counsellors 2
Of Jove; or if, Supreme of Deities,

All things are yours, and in your holy train
Jove proudly ranks, and Juno, white-arm'd Queen,
And wisest of Immortals, the dread Maid
Athenian Pallas. Venerable Powers,

And when the lingering hour of rest was come,
First wet with tears my pillow. As I grew
In years and knowledge, and the course of time
Developed the young feelings of my heart,
When most I loved in solitude to rove
Amid the woodland gloom; or where the rocks
Darken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave
Recluse to sit and brood the future song,..
Yet not the less, PENATES, loved I then
Your altars; not the less at evening hour
Loved I beside the well-trimm'd fire to sit,
Absorb'd in many a dear deceitful dream
Of visionary joys, . . deceitful dreams, . .

Hearken your hymn of praise! Though from your And yet not vain; for painting purest bliss, rites

Estranged, and exiled from your altars long,

I have not ceased to love you, Household Gods!
In many a long and melancholy hour

Of solitude and sorrow, hath my heart
With earnest longings pray'd to rest at length
Beside your hallow'd hearth, . . for Peace is there!
Yes, I have loved you long! I call on ye
Yourselves to witness with what holy joy,
Shunning the common herd of humankind,
I have retired to watch your lonely fires
And commune with myself: . . delightful hours,
That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know
Mine inmost heart, its weakness and its strength,
Taught me to cherish with devoutest care
Its deep unworldly feelings, taught me too
The best of lessons to respect myself.

Nor have I ever ceased to reverence you,
Domestic Deities! from the first dawn

Of reason, through the adventurous paths of youth
Even to this better day, when on mine ear
The uproar of contending nations sounds
But like the passing wind, and wakes no pulse
To tumult. When a child... (for still I love
To dwell with fondness on my childish years,)
When first, a little one, I left my home,
I can remember the first grief I felt,

And the first painful smile that clothed my front
With feelings not its own: sadly at night
I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth;

1 Hence one explanation of the name Penates, because they were supposed to reign in the inmost heavens.

2 This was the belief of the ancient Hetrusci, who called them Concertes and Complices.

They form'd to Fancy's mould her votary's heart.

By Cherwell's sedgey side, and in the meads Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects The willow's bending boughs, at early dawn, In the noon-tide hour, and when the night-mist

rose,

I have remember'd you; and when the noise
Of lewd Intemperance on my lonely ear
Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sate,
Musing on days when man should be redeem'd
From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness,
I bless'd you, Household Gods! because I loved
Your peaceful altars and serener rites.
Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven
Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man
To mingle with the world; still, still my heart
Sigh'd for your sanctuary, and inly pined;
And loathing human converse, I have stray'd
Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howl'd the blast,
And gazed upon the world of waves, and wish'd
That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep,
In woodland haunts, a sojourner with Peace.

Not idly did the ancient poets dream, Who peopled earth with Deities. They trod The wood with reverence where the Dryads dwelt ; At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hour They saw the Oreads on their mountain haunts, And felt their holy influence; nor impure Of thought, nor ever with polluted hands, s

3 Μηδε ποτ' αενάων ποταμων καλλίρροον ύδως Ποσσι πέραν, πριν γ' ευξη ίδων ες καλα ρείθρα, Χείρας νιψάμενος πολυκρατῳ ὑδατι λευκω *Ος ποταμον διαβη, κακοτητι δε χείρας ανίστος, Τωδε θεοι νεμεσωσι, και αλγια δωκαν οπίσσω - Ηesiod,

Touch'd they without a prayer the Naiad's spring;
Nor without reverence to the River God
Cross'd in unhappy hour his limpid stream.
Yet was this influence transient; such brief awe
Inspiring as the thunder's long loud peal
Strikes to the feeble spirit. Household Gods,
Not such your empire! in your votaries' breasts
No momentary impulse ye awake;
Nor fleeting, like their local energies,
The deep devotion that your fanes impart.

O ye whom Youth has wilder'd on your way,
Or Pleasure with her syren song hath lured,
Or Fame with spirit-stirring trump hath call'd
To climb her summits, . . to your Household Gods
Return; for not in Pleasure's gay abodes,
Nor in the unquiet unsafe halls of Fame
Doth Happiness abide. O ye who grieve
Much for the miseries of your fellow-kind,
More for their vices; ye whose honest eyes
Scowl on Oppression,-ye whose honest hearts
Beat high when Freedom sounds her dread alarm;
O ye who quit the path of peaceful life
Crusading for mankind. . a spaniel race

That lick the hand that beats them, or tear all
Alike in frenzy; to your Household Gods
Return! for by their altars Virtue dwells,
And Happiness with her; for by their fires
Tranquillity, in no unsocial mood,

Sits silent, listening to the pattering shower;
For, so Suspicion 1 sleep not at the gate
Of Wisdom, Falsehood shall not enter there.

As on the height of some huge eminence, Beach'd with long labour, the way-faring man Pauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain With many a sore step travell'd, turns him then Serious to contemplate the onward road, And calls to mind the comforts of his home, And sighs that he has left them, and resolves To stray no more: I on my way of life Muse thus, Penates, and with firmest faith Devote myself to you. I will not quit, To mingle with the crowd, your calm abodes, Where by the evening hearth Contentment sits And hears the cricket chirp; where Love delights To dwell, and on your altars lays his torch That burns with no extinguishable flame.

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Have sicken'd of the world. There was a time
When he would weep to hear of wickedness,
And wonder at the tale; when for the opprest
He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor
A good man's honest anger. His quick eye
Betray'd each rising feeling; every thought
Leapt to his tongue. When first among mankind
He mingled, by himself he judged of them,
And loved and trusted them, to Wisdom deaf,
And took them to his bosom. Falsehood met
Her unsuspecting victim, fair of front,
And lovely as Apega's 2 sculptured form,
Like that false image caught his warm embrace,
And pierced his open breast. The reptile race
Clung round his bosom, and with viper folds
Encircling, stung the fool who foster'd them.
His mother was Simplicity, his sire
Benevolence; in earlier days he bore

His father's name; the world who injured him
Call him Misanthropy. I may not choose
But love him, Household Gods! for we grew up
Together, and in the same school were bred,
And our poor fortunes the same course have held,
Up to this hour.

Penates! some there are
Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell,
Gazing with eye remote on all the ways
Of man, his Guardian Gods; wiselier they deem
A dearer interest to the human race
Links you, yourselves the Spirits of the Dead.
No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world,
No light of human reason penetrate
The depth where Truth lies hid. Yet to this faith
My heart with instant sympathy assents;
And I would judge all systems and all faiths
By that best touchstone, from whose test Deceit
Shrinks like the Arch-Fiend at Ithuriel's spear;
And Sophistry's gay glittering bubble bursts,
As at the spousals of the Nereid's son,
When that false Florimel 3, with her prototype
Set side by side, in her unreal charms,
Dissolved away.

Nor can the halls of Heaven Give to the human soul such kindred joy, As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels, When with the breeze it dwells around the brow Of one beloved on earth; or when at night In dreams it comes, and brings with it the Days And Joys that are no more. Or when, perchance With power permitted to alleviate ill

And fit the sufferer for the coming woe,

him to embrace his Apega; the statue of a beautiful Woman so formed as to clasp the victim to her breast, in which a pointed dagger was concealed.

3 "Then did he set her by that snowy one,
Like the true saint beside the image set,
Of both their beauties to make paragone
And trial whether should the honour get;
Streightway so soone as both together met.
The enchaunted damsell vanish'd into nought;
Her snowy substance melted as with heat;
Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought
But the empty girdle which about her wast was wrought."
Spenser.

Some strange presage the Spirit breathes, and fills
The breast with ominous fear, preparing it
For sorrow, pours into the afflicted heart
The balm of resignation, and inspires
With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights
To visit day by day the favourite plant

His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth,
And watch all-anxious for the promised flower;
Thus to the blest spirit in innocence
And pure affections like a little child,
Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends
Beloved; then sweetest, if, as duty prompts,
With earthly care we in their breasts have sown
The seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowers
Whose odour reacheth Heaven.

When my sick Heart
(Sick with hope long delay'd, than which no care
Weighs on the spirit heavier,) from itself
Seeks the best comfort, often have I deem'd
That thon didst witness every inmost thought,
SEWARD! my dear! dear friend! For not in vain,
O early summon'd on thy heavenly course,
Was thy brief sojourn here; me didst thou leave
With strengthen'd step to follow the right path,
Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe
The deep regret of nature, with belief,

O EDMUND! that thine eye's celestial ken
Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy

The movements of the heart that loved thee well!

The rich libation flowed: vain sacrifice!
For not the poppy wreath nor fruits nor wine
Ye ask, Penates! nor the altar cleansed
With many a mystic form; ye ask the heart
Made pure, and by domestic Peace and Love
Hallow'd to you.

Hearken your hymn of praise,
Penates to your shrines I come for rest,
There only to be found. Often at eve,
As in my wanderings I have seen far off
Some lonely light that spake of comfort there,
It told my heart of many a joy of home,
When I was homeless. Often as I gazed
From some high eminence on goodly vales
And cots and villages embower'd below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange
Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it Home.
There is a magic in that little word:

It is a mystic circle that surrounds
Comforts and virtues never known beyond
The hallowed limit. Often has my heart
Ached for that quiet haven! Haven'd now,
I think of those in this world's wilderness
Who wander on and find no home of rest
Till to the grave they go: then Poverty,
Hollow-eyed fiend, the child of Wealth and Power,
Bad offspring of worse parents, aye afflicts,
Cankering with her foul mildews the chill'd heart;..
Them Want with scorpion scourge drives to the den

Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your Of Guilt: . . them Slaughter for the price of death

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Then only shall be Happiness on earth

When man shall feel your sacred power, and love

Dwelt, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrath, Your tranquil joys; then shall the city stand

A safe asylum, fled the offending slave,
And garlanded the statue, and implored

His young lost lord to save. Remembrance then
Soften'd the father, and he loved to see

The votive wreath renew'd, and the rich smoke
Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet.
From Egypt soon the sorrow-soothing rites
Divulging spread; before your idol forms
By every hearth the blinded Pagan knelt,
Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there
Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes
With human blood your sanctuary defiled.
Till the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief,
Arose; he first the impious rites put down,
He fitliest, who for Freedom lived and died,
The friend of humankind. Then did your feasts
Frequent recur and blameless; and when came
The solemn festival 3, whose happiest rites
Emblem'd Equality, the holiest truth,
Crown'd with gay garlands were your statues seen,
To you the fragrant censer smoked, to you

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A huge void sepulchre, and on the site
Where fortresses and palaces have stood,
The olive grow, there shall the Tree of Peace
Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state
Shall bless the race redeem'd of Man, when Wealth
And Power and all their hideous progeny
Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind
Live in the equal brotherhood of love.
Heart-calming hope, and sure! for hitherward
Tend all the tumults of the troubled world,
Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness
Alike; .. so He hath will'd, whose will is just.

Meantime, all hoping and expecting all
In patient faith, to you, Domestic Gods!
Studious of other lore than song, I come.
Yet shall my Heart remember the past years
With honest pride, trusting that not in vain
Lives the pure song of Liberty and Truth.

Bristol, 1796.

were worshipped; according to some, as wooden or brazen rods shaped like trumpets; according to others, they were represented as young men.

3 The Saturnalia.

ENGLISH ECLOGUES.

THE following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by what was told me of the German Idylls by my friend Mr. William Taylor of Norwich. So far, therefore, these pieces may be deemed imitations, though I am not acquainted with the German language at present, and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind.

With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind of poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers, "more silly than their sheep." have, like their sheep, gone on in the same track one after another. Gay struck into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it.

1799.

I.

THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.

STRANGER.

OLD friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,.. and 'tis a task Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours!

OLD MAN.

Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back! . . I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, well nigh the full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember sixty years ago
The beautifying of this mansion here,
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire,
Came to the estate.

OLD MAN.

Ay, Master! fine old trees! Lord bless us! I have heard my father say His grandfather could just remember back When they were planted there. It was my task To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me; All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall! My poor old lady many a time would come And tell me where to clip, for she had play'd In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say, On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs And your pert poplar trees; . . . I could as soon Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!

STRANGER.

But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a carriage road
That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate.
I like a shrubbery too, for it looks fresh ;
And then there's some variety about it.

In spring the lilac and the snow-ball flower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings
Waving in the wind: And when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash,
With pines enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew, making it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
Wither'd and bare.

OLD MAN.

Ay! so the new Squire thinks; And pretty work he makes of it! What 'tis To have a stranger come to an old house!

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