Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine,
And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine,
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor;
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And loose from dross the silver runs below.
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now the child half wean'd his heart from God;
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run!
But God, to save the father, took the son.
To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go,
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow);
The poor fond parent humbled, in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
Fann'd the soft air, and downward seem'd to glide,
And to my lips a living coal applied.
Then while the warmth o'er all my pulses ran,
Diffusing comfort, thus the maid began:
"Where glorious mansions are prepared above,
The seats of music, and the seats of love,
Thence I descend, and Piety my name,
To warm thy bosom with celestial flame,
To teach thee praises mix'd with humble prayers,
And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs.
Be thou my bard." A vial here she caught
(An angel's hand the crystal vial brought);
And as with awful sound the word was said,
She pour'd a sacred unction on my head;
Then thus proceeded: "Be thy muse thy zeal,
Dare to be good, and all my joys reveal.
While other pencils flattering forms create,
And paint the gaudy plumes that deck the great;
While other pens exalt the vain delight,
Whose wasteful revel wakes the depth of night;
Or others softly sing in idle lines
How Damon courts, or Amaryllis shines;
More wisely thou select a theme divine,
Fame is their recompense, 'tis Heaven is thine.
Despise the raptures of discorded fire,
Where wine, or passion, or applause inspire
Low restless life, and ravings born of earth,
Whose meaner subjects speak their humble birth,
Like working seas, that when loud winters blow,
But now had all his fortune felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back;
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Not made for rising, only rage below.
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.
On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew.
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky;
The fiery pomp ascending, left to view;
The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too.
The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
"Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done!"
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And pass'd a life of piety and peace.
"TWAS when the night in silent sable fled,
When cheerful morning sprung with rising red,
When dreams and vapours leave to crowd the brain,
And best the vision draws its heavenly scene;
"Twas then, as slumbering on my couch I lay,
A sudden splendour seem'd to kindle day,
A breeze came breathing in a sweet perfume,
Blown from eternal gardens, fill'd the room;
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest,
Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest;
Her head a ring of golden glory wore,
Her honour'd hand the sacred volume bore,
Her raiment glittering seem'd a silver white,
And all her sweet companions sons of light.
Straight as I gazed, my fear and wonder grew,
Fear barr'd my voice, and wonder fix'd my view;
When lo a cherub of the shining crowd
That sail'd as guardian in her azure cloud,
Mine is a warm, and yet a lambent heat,
More lasting still, as more intensely great;
Produced where prayer, and praise, and pleasure
And ever mounting whence it shot beneath.
Unpaint the love, that, hovering over beds
From glittering pinions, guilty pleasure sheds;
Restore the colour to the golden mines
With which behind the feather'd idol shines;
To flowering greens give back their native care,
The rose and lily, never his to wear;
To sweet Arabia send the balmy breath;
Strip the fair flesh, and call the phantom Death:
His bow he sabled o'er, his shafts the same,
And fork and point them with eternal flame.
"But urge thy powers, thine utmost voice
Make the loud strings against thy fingers dance:
"Tis love that angels praise and men adore,
"Tis love divine that asks it all and more.
Fling back the gates of ever-blazing day,
Pour floods of liquid light to gild the way;
And all in glory wrapt, through paths untrod,
Pursue the great unseen descent of God.
Hail the meek virgin, bid the child appear,
The child is God, and call him Jesus here.
He comes, but where to rest? A manger's nigh,
Make the great Being in a manger lie;
Fill the wide sky with angels on the wing,
Make thousands gaze, and make ten thousand sing:
Let men afflict him, men he came to save,
And still afflict him till he reach the grave;
Make him resign'd, his loads of sorrow meet,
And me, like Mary, weep beneath his feet;
I'll bathe my tresses there, my prayers rehearse, And glide in flames of love along my verse.
"Ah! while I speak, I feel my bosom swell, My raptures smother what I long to tell. 'Tis God! a present God! through cleaving air I see the throne, and see the Jesus there Placed on the right. He shows the wounds he bore (My fervours oft have won him thus before): How pleased he looks, my words have reach'd his He bids the gates unbar, and calls me near." [ear; The cloud on which she seem'd to
Its curls unfolded, and around her spread;
Bright angels waft their wings to raise the cloud,
And sweep their ivory lutes, and sing aloud;
The scene moves off, while all its ambient sky
Is turn'd to wondrous music as they fly;
And soft the swelling sounds of music grow,
And faint their softness, till they fail below.
My downy sleep the warmth of Phoebus broke, And while my thoughts were settling, thus I spoke : Thou beauteous vision! on the soul impress'd, When most my reason would appear to rest, 'Twas sure with pencils dipp'd in various lights, Some curious angel limn'd thy sacred sights; From blazing suns his radiant gold he drew, While moons the silver gave, and air the blue. I'll mount the roving wind's expanded wing, And seek the sacred hill, and light to sing ('Tis known in Jewry well); I'll make my lays, Obedient to thy summons, sound with praise.
But still I fear, unwarm'd with holy flame, I take for truth the flatteries of a dream; And barely wish the wondrous gift I boast, And faintly practise what deserves it most.
Indulgent Lord! whose gracious love displays Joy in the light, and fills the dark with ease! Be this, to bless my days, no dream of bliss; Or be, to bless the nights, my dreams like this.
HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. LOVELY, lasting peace of mind Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky With more of happiness below Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, O whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek contented head; What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calms and ease!
Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state to meet thee there. Increasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart, which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground:
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.
Lovely, lasting peace, appear, This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast.
"Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whisper as they waved: It seem'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of his grace. When thus she spoke-Go rule thy will, Bid thy wild passions all be still, Know God-and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow: Then every grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest.
Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat, Might I thus my soul employ, With sense of gratitude and joy; Raised as ancient prophets were, In heavenly vision, praise and prayer, Pleasing all men, hurting none, Pleased and bless'd with God alone: Then while the gardens take my sight, With all the colours of delight; While silver waters glide along, To please my ear, and court my song; I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, And thee, great Source of nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go search among your idle dreams, Your busy or your vain extremes; And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.si/books/content?id=8HQPAAAAYAAJ&hl=sl&output=html_text&pg=PA381&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:UOM39015013354595&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3pk5FSHU_jrRAsY3jI7S2SzNZ9iQ&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=41,229,854,259)
Lucilla conjuring Calista to conquer her passion for
Lothario.
Cal. BE dumb for ever, silent as the grave,
Nor let thy fond officious love disturb
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy!
If thou wilt soothe me, tell me some dismal tale
Of pining discontent and black despair;
For, oh! I've gone around through all my thoughts,
But all are indignation, love, or shame,
And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever!
Luc. Why do you follow still that wandering fire,
That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you
Benighted in a wilderness of woe,
That false Lothario? Turn from the deceiver;
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont,
Kind as the softest virgin of our sex,
And faithful as the simple village swain,
That never knew the courtly vice of changing,
Sighs at your feet, and woos you to be happy.
Cal. Away! I think not of him. My sad soul
Has form'd a dismal melancholy scene,
Such a retreat as I would wish to find;
An unfrequented vale, o'ergrown with trees,
Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade
Ravens, and birds ill-omen'd, only dwell:
No sound to break the silence, but a brook
That, bubbling, winds among the weeds: no mark
Of any human shape that had been there,
Unless a skeleton of some poor wretch,
Who had long since, like me, by love undone,
Sought that sad place out to despair and die in!
Luc. Alas, for pity!
Cal. There I fain would hide me
Never to see this faithless man again:
Let me forbid his coming.
I charge thee no: my genius drives me on;
I must, I will behold him once again;
Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate,
And this one interview shall end my cares.
My labouring heart, that swells with indignation,
Heaves to discharge the burden; that once done,
The busy thing shall rest within its cell,
And never beat again.
Sciolto, the father of Calista, finds her watching the dead body of Lothario by lamp-light, in a room hung round with black.
Sci. THIS dead of night, this silent hour of
Nature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose;
And yet distraction, and tumultuous jars,
Keep all our frighted citizens awake:
The senate, weak, divided, and irresolute,
Want power to succour the afflicted state.
Vainly in words and long debates they're wise,
While the fierce factions scorn their peaceful
orders,
And drown the voice of law, in noise and anarchy.
Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands,
[Pointing to CALISTA
Like Helen in the night when Troy was sack'd,
Spectatress of the mischief which she made.
Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul;
Be strong to bear his fatal indignation,
That he may see thou art not lost so far,
But somewhat still of his great spirit lives
From the base world, from malice, and from shame; In the forlorn Calista.
For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul
Never to live with public loss of honour:
"Tis fix'd to die, rather than bear the insolence
Of each affected she that tells my story,
And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous.
To be a tale for fools! scorn'd by the women,
And pitied by the men! Oh, insupportable!
Luc. Can you perceive the manifest destruction,
The gaping gulf that opens just before you,
And yet rush on, though conscious of the danger?
Oh, hear me, hear your ever faithful creature;
By all the good I wish, by all the ill
My trembling heart forebodes, let me intreat you
Sci. Thou wert once
My daughter.
Cal. Happy were it had I died,
And never lost that name!
Sci. That's something yet;
Thou wert the very darling of my age:
I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee,
That all the blessings I could gather for thee,
By cares on earth, and by my prayers to heaven
Were little for my fondness to bestow;
Why didst thou turn to folly, then, and curse me?
Cal. Because my soul was rudely drawn from
yours,
A poor imperfect copy of my father,
Where goodness, and the strength of manly
virtue,
Was thinly planted, and the idle void
Fill'd up with light belief, and easy fondness;
It was because I loved, and was a woman.
Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been a cherubim ;
But of that joy, as of a gem long lost,
Beyond redemption gone, think we no more.
Hast thou e'er dared to meditate on death?
Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and sorrow. Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly thought?
"Tis not the stoic's lessons got by rote,
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations,
That can sustain thee in that hour of terror;
Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it,
But when the trial comes, they stand aghast;
Hast thou consider'd what may happen after it?
How thy account may stand, and what to answer?
Cal. I have turn'd my eyes inward upon myself, Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste; Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling, And longs to find some better place of rest.
Sci. "Tis justly thought, and worthy of that
spirit,
That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome
Was mistress of the world. I would go on,
And tell thee all my purpose; but it sticks
Here at my heart, and cannot find a way.
Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, And write the meaning with your poniard here. Sci. Oh! truly guess'd-see'st thou this trembling hand— [Holding up a dagger. Thrice justice urged-and thrice the slackening
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.si/books/content?id=8HQPAAAAYAAJ&hl=sl&output=html_text&pg=PA382&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:UOM39015013354595&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U296ChoeUX9IjMzeOiwQ6HiCCcvHw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=128,845,443,236)
The stern, the rigid judge has been obey'd;
Now nature, and the father, claim their turns.
I've held the balance with an iron hand,
And put off every tender human thought,
To doom my child to death; but spare my eyes
The most unnatural sight, lest their strings crack,
My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror!
Cal. Ha! Is it possible! and is there yet
Some little dear remains of love and tenderness
For poor, undone Calista, in your heart?
Sci. Oh! when I think what pleasure I took
What joys thou gavest me in thy prattling infancy, Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty! How have I stood, and fed my eyes upon thee, Then, lifting up my hands, and wondering, pless'd thee
By my strong grief, my heart even melts within
I could curse Nature, and that tyrant, Honour, For making me thy father, and thy judge; Thou art my daughter still!
Cal. For that kind word,
Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth,
Weep on your feet, and bless you for this goodness.
Oh! 'tis too much for this offending wretch,
This parricide, that murders with her crimes,
Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off,
Ere little more than half his years be number'd.
Sci. Would it were otherwise-but thou must
Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort; Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking: Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner, Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down. Come then, and take me into thy cold arms, Thou meagre shade! here let me breathe my last,
Charm'd with my father's pity and forgiveness, More than if angels tuned their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul.
Sci. I am summon'd hence; ere this my friends expect me.
There is I know not what of sad presage, That tells me I shall never see thee more; If it be so, this is our last farewell, And these the parting pangs which nature feels, When anguish rends the heart-strings.-Oh my daughter! [Exit SCIOLTO.
Cal. Now think, thou cursed Calista! now
behold
The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around,
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head.
Yet Heaven, who knows our weak imperfect
How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences,
But is atoned by penitence and prayer:
Cheap recompense! here 'twould not be received.
Nothing but blood can make the expiation,
And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution.-
And see, another injured wretch is come,
To call for justice from my tardy hand.
Alt. Hail to you, horrors! hail, thou house of death!
And thou, the lovely mistress of the shades, Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight
And makes it grateful as the dawn of day,
Ah, take me in, a fellow-mourner, with thee!
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear;
And when the fountain of thy eyes is dry,
Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both.
Cal. I know thee well; thou art the injured
Thou comest to urge me with the wrongs I've done thee;
But know, I stand upon the brink of life,
And in a moment mean to set me free From shame and thy upbraiding.
Alt. Falsely, falsely
Dost thou accuse me! When did I complain,
Or murmur at my fate? For thee I have
Forgot the temper of Italian husbands,
And fondness has prevail'd upon revenge.
bore my load of infamy with patience,
As holy men do punishment from heaven;
Nor thought it hard, because it came from thee.
Oh, then, forbid me not to mourn thy loss,
To wish some better fate had ruled our loves,
And that Calista had been mine, and true.
Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like
mine,
Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss.
But, oh, behold! my proud disdainful heart
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love,
Such are the graces that adorn thy youth,
That, were I not abandon'd to destruction,
With thee I might have lived for ages blest,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms.
Alt. Then happiness is still within our reach.
Here let remembrance lose our past misfortunes,
Tear all records that held the fatal story;
Here let our joys begin, from hence go on,
In long successive order.
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply; And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas! silly swain that I was!
Thus sadly complaining he cried; When first I beheld that fair face,
"Twere better by far I had died: She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue;
When she smiled, 'twas a pleasure too great; I listen'd, and cried when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet!
How foolish was I to believe,
She could dote on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folk of the town; To think that a beauty so gay
So kind and so constant would prove, Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray, Or live in a cottage on love!
What though I have skill to complain,
Though the muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around? Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy false one inclines to a swain
Whose music is sweeter than thine.
All you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; "Twas hers to be false and to change, "Tis mine to be constant and die.
If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true.
Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array; Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day: While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.*
[* This by Mr. Rowe is better than any thing of the kind
in our language.-GOLDSMITH.]
|