Rofe up, and with a graceful air Addrefs' the vifionary fair; Excus'd his morning-difhabille, Complain'd of late he had been ill. In thort, he gaz'd, he bow'd, he figh'd, He fung, he flatter'd, prefs'd, and ly'd, With fuch a witchery of art, That Fancy gave him all her heart, Her catechifm quite forgot, And waited on him to his grot.
In length of time the bore a fon, As brilliant as his fire, the Sun. Pure æther was the vital ray That lighted up his finer clay; The nymphs, the rofy-finger'd hours, The dryads of the woods and bow'rs, The graces with their loofen'd zones, The mufes with their harps and crowns, Young zephyrs of the foft wing, The loves that wait upon the spring, Wit with his gay aleciate Mirth, Attended at the infant's birth, And faid, Let Genius be his name, And his the faireft wreath of fame.
The gollips gone, the chift'ning o'er, And Genius now 'twixt three and four, Phoebus, according to the rule, Refolv'd to fend his fon to fchool: And, knowing well the tricks of youth, Reign'd him to the matron Truth, Whofe hut, unknown to pride and pelf, was Near his own oracle at Delphos.** The rev'rend dame, who found the child A little mifchievous and wild, Taught him at firft to fpell and read, To fay his prayers, and get his creed— Would often tell him of the fky, And what a crime it is to Ive. She chid him when he did amifs, When well, fhe blefs'd him with a kiss. Her fifter Temp'rance, fage and quiet, Prefided at his meals and diet :
She watch'd him with religious care, And fed him with the fimpleft fare; Would never let the urchin eat Of pickled pork, or butcher's meat; But what of aliment earth vields In gardens, orchards, woods, and fields; Whare'er of vegetable wealth
Was cultur'd by the hand of Health, She cropp'd and drefs'd it, as the knew well, In many a mess of foup and gruel; And now and then, to cheer his heart, Indulg'd him with a Sunday's tart.
A luty peafant chanc'd to dwell Hard by the folitary cell:
His name was Labour.-Ere the dawn Had broke upon the upland-lawn, He hied him to his daily toil, To turn the glebe, or mend the foil. With him young Genius oft wou'd go O'er dreary waftes of ice and fnow With capture climb the cloud-topt hill, Or wall across the fhallow fills
Or thro' th'entangled wood purfue The foouteps of a dragging ewe. isy thefe fatigues he got at length Robufticis and athiene ftrength, Spirits as light as fies the gale Along the my-filver'd vale. The cherub health, of dimple fleck, Sat radiant on his rofy check, And gave each nerve's elaftic spring The vigour of an eaglet's wing.
Time now had roll'd, with mooth career, Our hero thro' his fevent. year. Tho' in a ruftic cottage bed,
The buty np had thought and read: He knew th'adventures, one by one, Of Robin Hood and Little John; Could fing with fpirit, warmth, and grace, The woeful hunt of Chevy Chace; And how St. George, his fiery nag on, Destroy'd the vaft Egyptian dragon. Chief he admir'd that learned piece Wrote by the fabulift of Greece, Where wildom fpeaks in crows and cocks,, And cunning fneaks into a fox. In thort, as now his op'ning parts, Ripe for the culture of the arts, Became in ev'ry hour acuter, Apollo look'd out for a tutor; But had a world of pains to find This artift of the human mind.
For, in good truth, full many an afs was Among the doctors of Parnaffus, Who fcarce had ikill enough to teach Old Lilly's elements of 1peech;
And knew as much of men and morals
As doctor Rock of ores and corals.
At length, with much of thought and care, He found a mafter for his heir;
A learned man, adroit to speak
Pure Latin, and your attic Greek; Well known in all the courts of fame, And Criticifin was his name.
Beneath a tutor keen and fine as
Or Ariftotle or Longinus, Beneath a lynx's eye that faw The lightest literary flaw,
Young Genius trod the path of knowledge, And grew the wonder of the college. Old authors were his bofom friends-- He had them at his fingers ends- Became an acc'rate imitator Of truth, propriety, and nature; Diplay'd in every just rema k The ftrong fagacity of Clark; And pointed out the falfe and true, With all the fun-beams of Bossu.
But though this critic-fage refin'd His pupil's intellectual mind, And gave him all that keen difcerning Which marks the character of learning Yet, as he read with much of glee The trifles of antiquity, And, Bentley-like, would write epiftles About the origin of whistles!
The scholar took his master's trim, And grew identically him; Employ'd a world of pains to teach us What nation firft invented breeches; Afferted that the Roman focks Were broider'd with a pair of clocks; That Capua ferv'd up with her victuals An olio of Venafran pickles; That Sifygambis drefs'd in blue, And wore her treffes in a queue. In short, he knew what Paulus Jovius, Salmafius, Grævius, and Gronovius Ha e faid in fifty folio volumes, Printed by Elzevir in columns. Apollo faw, with pride and joy, The vaft improvement of his boy; But yet had more than flight fufpicion, That all this load of erudition Migh overlay his parts at once, And turn him out a letter'd dunce. He faw the lad had fill'd his fenfe With things of little confequence; That tho' he read, with application, The wits of every age and nation, And could, with nice precifion, reach The boldeft metaphors of fpeech; Yet warp'd too much, in truth's defiance, From real to fictitious fcience,
He was, with all his pride and parts,
A mere mechanic in the arts,
That measures with a rule and line What nature meant for great and fine, Phoebus, who faw it right and wife was To counteract this fatal bias,
Took home his fon with mighty hafte, And fent him to the fchool of Taste. This fchool was built by wealth and peace, Some ages fince, in Elder Greece, Juft when the Stagyrite had writ His lectures on the pow'rs of wit. Here, flush'd in all the bloom of youth, Sat Beauty in the fhrine of truth.
Here all the finer arts were feen Affembl'd round their virgin-queen. Here fculpture, on a bolder plan Ennobled marble into man. Herc, mufic, with a foul on fire, Impaflion'd, breath'd along the lyre; And here, the painter-mufe difplay'd Diviner forms of light and fhade.
But fuch the fate, as Hefiod fings, Of all our fublunary things,
When now the Tuik, with fword and halters, Had drove religion from her altars, And delug'd with a fea of blood The academic dome and wood; Affrighted Tafte, with wings unfurl'd, Took refuge in the western world; And fettled on the Tufcan main, With all the mufes in his train.
In this calm fcene, where Tafte wirldrew, And Science trimm'd her lamp anew; Young Genius rag'd in every part The vifionary worlds of art,
And from their finifh'd forms refin'd His own congenial warmth of mind, And learn'd with happy fkill to trace The magic pow'rs of cafe and grace: His ftyle grew delicately fine, His numbers flow'd along his line, His periods manly, full, and ftrong, Had all the harmony of fong. Whene'er his images betray'd Too ftrong a light, too weak a fhade, Or in the graceful and the grand Confefs'd inelegance of hand, His noble mafter, who could fpy The fighteft fault with half an eye, Set right by one ethereal touch, What feem'd too little or too much; Till ev'ry attitude and air Arofe fupremely full and fair.
GENIUS was now among his betters Diftinguifh'd as a man of letters. There wanted ftill, to make him pleafe, The fplendor of address and ease, The foul-enchanting mien and air, Such as we fee in Grofvenor-Square, When Lady Charlotte fpeaks and moves, Attended by a fwarm of loves.
GENIUS had got, to fay the truth, A manner aukward and uncouth; Sare fate of all who love to dwell In wifdom's folitary cell : So much a clown in gait and laugh, He wanted but a fcrip and staff; And fuch a beard as hung in candles Down to Diogenes's fandals, And planted all his chin fo thick, To be like him a dirty cynic.
Apollo, who to do him right Was always perfectly polite, Chagrin'd to fee his fon and heir Dishonour'd by his gape and ftare, Refolv'd to fend him to Verfailles, To learn a minuet of Marfeilles : But Venus, who had deeper reading In all the myfteries of breeding, Obferv'd to Phoebus, that the name Of Ip and Frenchman was the fame. French manners were, the faid, a thing which Thofe grave mifguided fools, the English, Had, in defpite of common fenfe, Miftook for nianly excellence;
By which their nation ftrangely funk is, And half their nobles turn'd to monkies. She thought it better, as the cafe was, To fend young Genius to the graces: Thofe fweet divinities, fhe faid, Would form him in the myrtle fhade; And teach him more, in half an hour, Than Lewis or his Pompadour.
Phoebus agreed-the Graces took Their noble pupil from his book, Allow'd him at their fide to rove Along their own domeftic grove, Amidst the found of melting lyres, Soft wreathing fimiles, and young defires:
And when confin'd by winds or show'rs, Within their amaranthine bow'rs, They taught him with addrefs and skill To thine at ombre and quadrille; Or let him read an ode or play, To wing the gloomy hour away. GENIUS was charm'd-divinely plac'd 'Midft beauty, wit, politeness, taste; And, having every hour before him The fineft models of decorum, His manners took a fairer ply, Expreffion kindled in his eye; His gefture difengag'd, and clean, Set off a fine majestic mien; And gave his happy pow'r to please The nobleft elegance of cafe.
Thus, by the difcipline of art, Genius fhone out in head and heart. Form'd from his first fair bloom of youth, By Temp'rance and her fifter Truth, He knew the fcientific page Of every clime and every age; Had learnt with critic-fkill to rein The wildness of his native vein; That critic-fkill, tho' cool and chafte, Refin'd beneath the eye of Tafte; His unforbidding mien and air, His aukward gait, his haughty stare, And every ftain that wit debafes, Were melted off among the graces; And Genius rose, in form and mind, The first, the greatest of mankind.
§ 94. The Enthufiaft. An Ode. WHITEHEAD. ONCE, I remember well the day,
'Twas ere the blooming fweets of May Had loft their fresheft hues, When every flower on every hill, In every vale had drank its fill
Of funfhine and of dews.
In fhort, 'twas that sweet season's prime, When Spring gives up the reins of Time To Summer's glowing hand, And doubting mortals hardly know, By whofe command the breezes blow Which fan the fmiling land. 'Twas then, befide a green-wood shade, Which cloath'd a lawn's afpiring head, I urg'd my devious way. With loit'ring steps regardless where, So foft, fo genial was the air,
So wond'rous bright the day. And now my eyes with tranfport rove O'er all the blue expanfe above,
Unbroken by a cloud! And now beneath delighted pafs, Where winding thro' the deep green graf, A full-brim'd river flow'd.
I ftop, I gaze; in accents rude,
To thee, ferencft folitude,
Burft forth th'unbidden lay;
Begone, vile world, the learn'd, the wife, The great, the bufy, I defpife,
These, these are joys alone, I cry; 'Tis here, divine Philofophy,
Thou deign'ft to fix thy throne! Here Contemplation points the road Thro' Nature's charms to Nature's God! Thefe, thefe are joys alone! Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares, Ye human hopes and human fears, Ye pleasures and ye pains!" While thus I fpake, o'er all my foul A philofophic calmness stole, A ftoic ftilnefs reigns. The tyrant paffions all fubfide, Fear, anger, pity, shame and pride No more my bofom move; Yet ftill I felt, or feem'd to feel, A kind of vifionary zeal
Of univerfal love.
When lo! a voice, a voice I hear! 'Twas Reafon whisper'd in my car Thefe monitory strains:
"What mean'ft thou man? would'ft the The ties which conftitute thy kind,
The pleafures and the pains? The fame Almighty Power unfeen, Who fpreads the gay or folemn fcene To Contemplation's eve, Fix'd every movement of the foul, Taught every with its deftin'd goal, And quicken'd every joy. He bids the tyrant paffions rage, He bids them war eternal wage,
And combat each his foe: Till from diffenfions concords rife, And beauties from deformities,
And happiness from woe.
Art thou not man, and dar'ft thou find A blifs which leans not to mankind? Prefumptuous thought and vain! Each blifs unfhar'd is uncnjoy'd, Each power is weak, unless employ'd Some focial good to gain.
Shall light and shade, and warmth and air, With thofe exalted joys compare
Which active Virtue feels! When on the drags as lawful prize, Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice, At her triumphant wheels. As reft to labour still fucceeds To man, whilst Virtue's glorious deeds Employ his toilfome day; This fair variety of things, Are merely Life's refreshing fprings, To footh him on his way. Enthusiast go, unftring thy lyre, In vain thou fing'ft if none admire, How fweet foe'er the strain. And is not thy o'erflowing mind, Unless thou mixeft with thy kind, Benevolent in vain? Enthufiaft
go, try every fenfe, If not thy blifs, thy excellence, Thou yet haft learn'd to fcan; At leaft thy wants, thy weakness know, And fee them all uniting fhow,
That man was made for man."
97. Father Francis's Prayer, in a Hermitage. JE gay attire, ne marble hall,
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall, e cook of Fraunce ne dainty board, eftow'd with pyes of perigord, e pow'r, ne fuch like idle fancies, veet Agnes! grant to Father Francis: et me ne more myself deceive, e more regret the toys I leave; he world I quit, the proud the vain, orruption's and Ambition's train, ut not the good perdie! nor fair; ainft them I make ne vow, ne pray'r; welcome to my cell, ut fuch nd oft, not always, with me dwell: hen caft, fweet Saint! a circle round, nd blefs from fools this holy ground, rom all the foes to worth and truth, rom wanton old and homely youth, The gravely dull and pertly gay: h! banish thefe; and by my fay ight well I ween, that in this age Iine houfe fhall prove an hermitage.
98. Songe to Ella, Lorde of the Caftel of Bry- ftowe yane daies of yore. From CHATTER TON, under the name of RowLEY.
H thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Ælla, the darlynge of futurity, ett thys mic fonge bolde as thie courage be, As everlaftynge to pofteritye. [redde hue Vhanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude- yche kynge-cuppes braftynge wythe the morn- Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie, [ing due, Upponne the lethale daie,
predde farre and wyde onne Watchet's fhore; Than dyddit thou furiouse stande, And bie thie valyante hande Beefprengedd all the mees wythe gore.
Drawne bie thyne anlace felle, Downe to the depthe of helle Thoufandes of Dacyannes went ; Bryftowannes, menne of myghte, Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte, And actedd deeds full quent.
Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte) Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth befte, Whetherr upponne the bloude - embrewedd Or whare thou kennft from farre pleyne, The dyfinall crye of warre, [neyne; Orr feeft fomme mountayne made of corfe of Orr feeft the hatchedd ftede, Ypraunceynge o'er the mede, And neighe to be amenged the povnetedd fpeeres; Orr ynne blacke armoure ftaulke arounde, Embattel'd Bryftowe, once thie grounde And glowe ardurous oun the Castle ftceres ; Or fierye round the mynterr glare; Let Bryftowe frylle be made thie care; [fyre; fromme focmenne and confumynge Guarde ytt Lyche Avones ftreme enfyrke ytte rounde, Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde, [pyre. Tylle ynne one flame all the whole worlde ex-
Or, the Dethe of Syr Charles Baudin. CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEYS THE feather'd fongfter chaunticleer
Had wounde hys bugle horne,
And told the carlie villager
The commynge of the morne; Kynge Edwardle fave the rudie ftreakcs Of lyghte eclypfe the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte Proclayme the fated date.
"Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the [Godde "That fytts enthron'd on hyghe! "Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, "To-daie fhall furelie die."
Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite ; "Goe, tell the traytour, thatt to-daie "Hee leaves thys mortall ftate." Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the caftle-gate,
And to Syr Charles dydd goc. But whenne hee came, his children twaine, And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinic tears dydd wett the floore, For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.
"O goode Syr Charles!" favd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." Speke boldfie, manne,' fayd brave Syr Charles, Whatte fays thie traytor kynge?
"I greeve to telle, before yonne fonne "Does fromme the welkinne flye, "Hee hath uponne hys honour fworne, "Thatt thou shalt furelie die.
Wee all muft die,' quod brave Syr Charles;
Of thatte I'm not affcarde;
What bootes to lyve a little space ?
Thanke Jefu, I'm prepar'd :
Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, I'de fooner die to-daie
Thanne lyve hvs flavc, as manic are, Tho' I fhould lyve for aie,'
Tienne Canterlone hee dydd goe out, To telle the maior ftraite
To gett all thy nges ynne reddyness For goode Syr Charleses tate.
Thenne Maifterr Canynge faughte the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee, "I'm come," quod hec," unto your grace
To move your clemencye."
Thenne quod the kynge, Your tale fpeke out, You have been much oure friende; Whatever youre requeft may bee, Wee wylle to ytte attende.'
"My nobile liege! all my request "Ys for a nobile knyghte, "Who, tho' mayhap he has donne wronge, "Hee thought ytte ftylie was ryghte : Fi
Hee has a fpoufe and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie; "Yif thatt you are refolv'd to lett "Charles Baw din die to daie." Speke nott of fuch a traytour vile, The kynge ynne fury fayde; Before the cv'ning ftarre doth fheene, • Bawdin fhall loose hys hedde: Juftice docs loudlic for hym calle,
And hee thall have hys meede : Speke, Maifter Canynge! Whatte thynge clfe Att prefent doe you neede?'
"My nobile liege!' goode Canynge fayde, "Leave juftice to our Godde, "And laye the yronne rule afyde; "Be thyne the olyve rodde."
"Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines,
"The best were fynners grete; "Chrift's vycarr only knowes ne fynne, "Ynne alle thys mortall ftate: "Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, “Twyle faste thye crowne fulle fure; "From race to race thy familie
"Alle fov'reigns fhall endure:
"But yff wythe bloode ann flaughter thou Beginne thy infante reigne,
"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
Wylle never lonng remayne."
Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vilė Has fcorn'd my power and mee;
Howe can't thou thenne for fuch a manne Intreate my clemencye >
"My nobile liege! the truly brave "Wylle val'rous actions prize; "Refpect a brave and nobile mynde, "Altho' ynne enemies."
Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n,
That dydd mee beinge gyve,
I wylle not tafte a bitt of breade
Whilft thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.
By Maric, and all Scinctes ynne Ileav'n, Thy's funne fhall be hys lafte.' Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, And from the prefence pafte.
With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, Hee to Ser Charles dydd goe, And fatt hymnm downe uponne a stoole, And teares beganne to flowe.
And fhall I now, for feere of dethe, Looke wanne and bee dyfmayde ? Ne! fromm my herte fie childy the feere, Bee alle the manne difplay'd.
Ah, goddelyke Herrie! Godde forefende, And guaide thee and thye fonne,
Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,
Why thenne hys wylle be donne.
'My honefte friende, my faulte has beene To ferve Godde and mye prynce; And that I no tyme-ferver am, My dethe wylle foone convynce. Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Of parents of grete note; My fadyre dydd a nobile arms Emblazon onne hy's cote:
I make ne doubte butt hec ys gone Where foone I hope to goe; Where wee for ever thall bee bleft,
From oute the reech of woe:
'Hee taught mec juftice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite; And eke hec taughte mee howe to knows
The wronge cause fromm the ryghte: Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hands To fecde the hungrie poere, Ne lette mye fervants drive awaie
The hungrie fromme my doore: And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe I have hys wordyes aye kept; And fumm'd the actions of the daie Eche nyghte before I flept.
I have a fpoufe, goe afke of her,
Yff I defyl'd her bedde?
I have a kynge, and none can laie 'Blacke treafon onne my hedde. Ynne Lent, and onne the holic eve, Fromm flethe I dydd refrayne; Whie fhould I thenne appeare difmay'd To leave thys worlde of payne?
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