SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.
WHAT portents, from what distant region, ride,
Unseen till now in ours, th' astonished tide?
In ages past old Proteus, with his droves
Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves;
But now, descending whence of late they stood,
Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood.
Dire times were they, full-charged with human woes ;
And these, scarce less calamitous than those,
What view we now? More wond'rous still! Behold:
Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold;
And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,
And all around the ruby's fiery glow.
Come they from India, where the burning earth,
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;
And where the costly gems, that beam around
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found?
No. Never such a countless dazzling store
Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore.
Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes,
Should sooner far have mark'd and seiz'd the prize.
Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come
From Ves'vius, or from Etna's burning womb?
Thus shine the self illumin'd, or but display
The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day?
With borrowed beams they shine. The gales that
breathe
Now landward, and the current's force beneath,
Have borne them nearer and the nearer sight,
Advantaged more, contemplates them aright
Their lofty summits crested high, they show,
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow,
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,
Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year,
Their infant growth began. He bade arise
Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.
Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow
Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below,
He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast
The current, ere it reached the boundless waste.
By slow degrees uprose the wonderous pile,
And long successive ages rolled the while,
Till ceaseless in its growth, it claimed to stand
Tall as its rival mountains on the land.
Thus stood and unremoveable by skill,
Or force of man, and stood the structure still;
But that, though firmly fixed, supplanted yet
By pressure of its own enormous weight,
It left the shelving beach--and, with a sound
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,
Self-launched, and swiftly, to the briny wave,
As if instinct with strong desire to lave,
Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old,
How Delos swam the Ægean deep, have told.
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore
[wore,
Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crowned with laurel,
Even under wintry skies, a summer smile;
And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle,
But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due.
Your hated birth he deigned not to survey,
But scornful turned his glorious eyes away.
Hence! seek your home, nor longer rashly dare
The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air;
Lest he regret, too late, your native coast,
In no congenial gulph for ever lost!
ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE.
FORTUNE! I thank thee, gentle goddess! thanks!
Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny
She would have thanked thee rather, hadst thou cast
A treasure in her way; for neither meed
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,
And bowel-raking pains of emptiness,
Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast,
Hopes she from this--presumptous, though perhaps
The cobler, leather-carving artist! might.
Nathlets she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found, [ah!
Spurned the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore,
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!)
Conferrd'st thou, goddess! thou art blind, thou sayest:
Enough!--thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my muse no benefit exhale
From this thy scant indulgence !---even here,
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found;
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song.
This ponderous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply, (for such its massy form bespeaks)
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown
Upbore: on this supported oft, he stretched,
With uncouth strides, along the furrowed glebe,
Fattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time,
(What will not cruel time) on a wry step,
Severed the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,
Pursue his destined way with symmetry,
And some proportion formed, now, on one side,
Curtailed and maimed, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on:
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet
Of humble villager---the statesman thus,
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads,
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds
His prosperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails, and friends prove true;
But that support soon failing, by him left,
On whom he most depended, basely left,
Betrayed, deserted; from his airy height
Headlong he falls: and through the rest of life,
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.
ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF THE GREAT MILTON.---1790.
'ME too, perchance, in future days,
'The sculptured stone shall show, With Paphian marble or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
'But I, or ere that season come,
'Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
'And sleep securely there."
Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Pernasside lauri
Fronde comas---At ego secura pace quiescam.
Milton in Manso.
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordained to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest,
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
W. WILSON, Printer, 4, Greville Street, London.
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