WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song
Can with the bard compare,
Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong As ever child of air?
His plume, his note, his form, could Burns
For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns,
With transmigration strange :
The blackbird, oracle of spring,
When flowed his moral lay;
The swallow, wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play;
The humming-bird from bloom to bloom
Inhaling heavenly balm;
The raven, in the tempest's gloom;
The halcyon, in the calm ;
In "auld Kirk Alloway," the owl,
At witching time of night;
By "Bonny Doon," the earliest fowl
That carolled to the light.
He was the wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein;
At Bannockburn the bird of Jove,
With thunder in his train;
The wood-lark, in his mournful hours;
The goldfinch, in his mirth ;
The thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth;
The swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still;
But, roused, -no falcon in the chase
Could like his satire kill.
The linnet in simplicity,
In tenderness the dove; But more than all beside was he The nightingale in love.
O, had he never stooped to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had devotion loved to name
That bird of paradise!
Peace to the dead!- In Scotia's choir
Of minstrels great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The phoenix of them all.
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow and the moor;
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace, and the grave!
Sin met thy brother everywhere!
And is thy brother blamed?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care
He no exemption claimed.
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He feared to scorn or hate;
Bnt, honoring in a peasant's form
The equal of the great,
He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes
The poor man's little more;
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes From plundered labor's store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,
A heart to feel and dare,
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.
REAR high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread,
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red; But, ah! what poet now shall tread
Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, That ever breathed the soothing strain? As green thy towering pines may grow, As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may glow, As gayly charm thy feathery throng; But now unheeded is the song,
And dull and lifeless all around, For his wild harp lies all unstrung,
And cold the hand that waked its sound.
What though thy vigorous offspring rise, —
In arts, in arms, thy sons excel;
Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes,
And health in every feature dwell;
Yet who shall now their praises tell
In strains impassioned, fond, and free,
Since he no more the song shall swell
To love and liberty and thee!
To take another step. Above him seemed,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
No cost was spared. What books he wished, he All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw.
And first in rambling school-boy days,
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wished:
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valor fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray
With years; and drank from old and fabulous
wells,
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And plucked the vine that first-born prophets And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw;
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt ;
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed,
So he, through learning and through fancy, took
His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul, As if he from the earth had labored up,
Thither he went, and meditated there.
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair
He touched his harp, and nations heard en- He looked, which down from higher regions came,
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And opened new fountains in the human heart.
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his fresh as morning rose,
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at
home,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
The nations gazed, and wondered much and
praised.
Critics before him fell in humble plight;
Confounded fell; and made debasing signs
To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled
themselves
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though Of admiration vast; and many too,
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed;
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters
Many that aimed to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.
Great man! the nations gazed and wondered
much,
And praised; and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness;
And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full,
He died, he died of what? Of wretchedness;
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank
draughts
That common millions might have quenched,
then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed,
Fell from his arms, abhorred; his passions died,
Died, all but dreary, solitary Pride;
And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall,
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore,
And then, retiring, left it there to rot
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
Scorched and desolate and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought,
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the
earth.
But before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate!
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
"T is to thee that I would drink.
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near,
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowd among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by !
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.
Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;
Here pause, and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!
Reader, attend, whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;
Know prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.
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ON what foundations stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide: A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labors tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain.
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their power combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ;
"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till naught remain,
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky."
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast,
And winter barricades the realms of frost.
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day!
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose and slaves debate.
EPISTLE TO ROBERT, EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL OF MORTIMER.
[Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by the author after the said earl's imprisonment in the Tower, and retreat into the country, in the year 1721.]
SUCH were the notes thy once-loved poet sung,
Till death untimely stopped his tuneful tongue.
O just beheld, and lost! admired and mourned!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorned !
Blest in each science, blest in every strain !
Dear to the Muse to Harley dear in vain!
For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to' scape from Flattery to Wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,)
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And sure, if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 't is a soul like thine, A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all passion, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made, The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade: 'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace, Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When interest calls off all her sneaking train, And all the obliged desert, and all the vain; She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. Even now she shades thy evening walk with bays (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise), Even now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day; Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell, that Mortimer is he.
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