  I. Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar! Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war; Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! II. And yet the languor of inglorious days, Not equally oppressive is to all: Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, The silence of neglect can ne'er appall. There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, Supremely blest, if to their portion fall Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. III. The rolls of fame I will not now explore; Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His waving locks and beard all hoary gray; While from his bending shoulder decent hung His harp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. IV. Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide: The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms: They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. V. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, While warbling larks on russet pinions float; Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, Where the gray linnets carol from the hill: O let them ne'er, with artificial note, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! VI. Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Nor was perfection made for man below: Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd, Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. VII. Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire; Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd; Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind. VIII. Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen; Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, (The mansion then no more of joy serene), Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide, And impotent desire, and disappointed pride? IX. O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven! X. These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy impart. But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart: For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart; Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme, The stern resolve unmov'd by pity's smart, The troublous day, and long distressful dream. Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme. XI. There liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd swain, a man of low degree; Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady; But he, I ween, was of the north countrie; A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms; Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms; XII. The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd; Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth. O let your spirit still my bosom soothe, Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide! Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, For well I know wherever ye reside, There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide. XLIII. Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art. XLIV. Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd; Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid; The moonlight revel of the fairy glade; Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves th' unutterable trade, Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood. XLV. But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone. Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, The babes now famish'd lay them down to die; Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry; "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore, When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store. XLVII. A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, "But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, And innocence thus die by doom severe?" O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel: Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel; Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. Nor be thy generous indignation check'd, Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect, This soften and refine the soul for heaven. But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe. XLIX. Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age, Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage, Exclaim that nature hastens to decay, If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray, If but a momentary shower descend! Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, Which bade the series of events extend Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end! L. One part, one little part, we dimly scan Thro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. O then renounce that impious self-esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies! For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. LI. Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years. For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for Truth, but never hit. For why? Their powers inadequate before, This idle art makes more and more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. LII. Nor was this ancient Dame a foe to mirth. Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth; Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice To purchase chat or laughter at the price Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed, That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. LIII. Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where, midst the changeful sc Macbeth. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? What is 't you do? Witches. A deed without a name. Macbeth, Act iv. Scene 1.
Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, Rectique cultus pectora roborant. HORAT. |
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