Anna Seward

What asks the POET, when he pours His first libation in the Delphic Bowers? Duteous before the altar standing,

BARINE, to thy always broken vows Were slightest punishment ordain'd; Hadst thou less charming been

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose, Of artful fold, and rich brocade;

LEUCONOE, cease presumptuous to inquire Of grave Diviner, if successive years Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre,

Not always, dear Licinius, is it wise On the main Sea to ply the daring Oar; Nor is it safe, from dread of angry Skies,

O thou! exulting in the charms, Nature, with lavish bounty, showers, When youth no more thy spirit warms,

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave, Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave, A barbarous Scythian's Bride,

O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ The strongest power of amorous spell

I. M'cenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung, For whom my golden lyre I strung,

Not he, O MUSE! whom thy auspicious eyes In his primeval hour beheld, Shall victor in the Isthmian Contest rise;

'T was night - the moon, upon her sapphire throne, High o'er the waning stars serenely shone, When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane

My Phidyle, retir'd in shady wild, If thou thy virgin hands shalt suppliant raise, If primal fruits are on thy altars pil'd,

Sweet Phyllis, leave thy quiet home, For lo! the ides of April come! Then hasten to my bower;

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years Unpausing glide away; Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers,

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave, Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy, Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave,

Dark in the Miser's chest, in hoarded heaps, Can Gold, my SALLUST, one true joy bestow, Where sullen, dim, and valueless it sleeps,

OCTOBER 1796. Conscious the mortal stamp is on thy breast, O, ERSKINE! still an equal mind maintain,

Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains, Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword? Is it believ'd that Roman veins

The snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute, Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide, And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot,

Be far-fam'd [2]RHODES the theme of loftier strains, Or [3]MITYLENE, as their Bard decrees; Or EPHESUS, where great DIANA reigns,

In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers, As all the mountain were one heap of snow! Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers;

I. Thrice happy he, whose life restores The pleasures pure of early times;

M'cenas, I conjure thee cease To wake my harp's enamour'd strings To tones, that fright recumbent Peace,

The number of the vanish'd years That mark each famous Grecian reign, This night, my Telephus, appears

Nymph of the stream, whose source perpetual pours The living waters thro' the sparkling sand, Cups of bright wine, enwreath'd with summer flowers,

Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower That drenches deep the furrow'd lea; Nor do continual tempests pour

Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains, When graver cares forbade the lengthen'd strains,

When Life's realities the Soul perceives Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows With rising energy, and open throws

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize, Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd; Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;

From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale, Each transient, gleaming interval we hail,

Seek not, my Lesbia, the sequester'd dale, Or bear thou to its shades a tranquil heart; Since rankles most in solitude the smart

In every breast Affection fires, there dwells A secret consciousness to what degree They are themselves belov'd. - We hourly see

Hope comes to Youth, gliding thro' azure skies With amaranth crown: - her full robe, snowy white, Floats on the gale, and our exulting sight

Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene, And wrapt the hush'd horizon. - All around, In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,

The knell of WHITEHEAD tolls! - his cares are past, The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays, His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise! -

FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAY ON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS. Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor, Nor in the chains of thine own indolence

To The Right Honourable Lady Marianne Carnegie, passing her winters at Ethic House on the Coast of Scotland, with her Father, Lord Northesk, who retired thither after the death of his excellent Countess. WRITTEN FEBRUARY 1787. Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind,

Loud blew the North thro' April's pallid days, Nor grass the field, nor leaves the grove obtains, Nor crystal sun-beams, nor the gilded rains,

What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes, Fair Zillia! - Ah! more dear to LOVE the gaze That dwells upon its object, than the rays

In the chill silence of the winter eve, Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way By that sad mansion, where NERINA's Clay

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes, The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn, The dark robe floating, the dejection worn

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien The little Naiad of the Downton Wave? High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave

Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell Amid the wild wood, and irriguous dell,

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast From whom my life I drew; - and thrice has Spring Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,

Thy GENIUS, Colebrooke, faithless to his charge, Amid thy woods and vales, thy rocks and streams, Form'd for the Train that haunt poetic dreams,

Prais'd be the Poet, who the Sonnet's claim, Severest of the orders that belong Distinct and separate to the Delphic Song,

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice. Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,

Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain To thy young eyes and kindling fancy, gleam With somewhat of the vivid hues, that stream

Nobly to scorn thy gilded veil to wear, Soft Simulation! - wisely to abstain From fostering Envy's asps; - to dash the bane

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear, Fancy, or judgment? - no! his splendid strain, In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea. - The pain

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow JOHNSON's high claims! - yet boasting that his fires Were of unclouded lustre, TRUTH retires

Yes, thou shalt smile again! - Time always heals In youth, the wounds of Sorrow. - O! survey Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey

While Summer Roses all their glory yield To crown the Votary of Love and Joy, Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh,

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,

He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives, Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd,

[1]In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay, Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade, Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid

While unsuspecting trust in all that wears Virtue's bright semblance, stimulates my heart To find its dearest pleasures in the part

He found her not; - yet much the POET found, To swell Imagination's golden store, On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,

Lo! modern Critics emulously dare Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone And massy words their true no meaning down!

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning bright Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews, Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,

Sophia tempts me to her social walls, That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise, Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure vies

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid green When juvenescent April's showery Sun Looks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon;

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine This precious Ringlet! - still the soft hairs shine,

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA. Here, from laborious Art, proud TOWNS, ye rose! Here, in an instant, sunk! - nor ought remains

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds, Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray, November, dragging on his sunless day,

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece Rests; - but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase

MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne, Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn,

Pride of Ierne's Sea-encircled bound, Rival of all Britannia's Naiads boast, Magnificent Killarney! - from thy coast

Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine, And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast! Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shine

The three following Sonnets are written in the character of Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not intirely taken from one of his letters. Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour, With mind congenial to the scene, I come!

Ah, thankless! canst thou envy him who gains The Stoic's cold and indurate repose? Thou! with thy lively sense of bliss and woes! -

In this chill morning of a wintry Spring I look into the gloom'd and rainy vale; The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail,

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd, With Infancy's light step and glances wild, And saw vast rocks, on steepy mountains pil'd,

Short is the time the oldest Being lives, Nor has Longevity one hour to waste; Life's duties are proportion'd to the haste

HONORA, shou'd that cruel time arrive When 'gainst my truth thou should'st my errors poize, Scorning remembrance of our vanish'd joys;

My hour is not yet come! - these burning eyes Have not yet look'd their last! - else, 'mid the roar Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour

On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose, In amber radiance plays; - the tall young grass No foot hath bruis'd; - clear Morning, as I pass,

Behold that Tree, in Autumn's dim decay, Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind; Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud, Sheds its [1]green lustre thro' the darksome air. - Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphere

All is not right with him, who ill sustains Retirement's silent hours. - Himself he flies, Perchance from that insipid equipoise,

DECEMBER 1790. Remorseless WINTER! in thy iron reign Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne;

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore Lonely at eve to wander; - or reclin'd Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn, Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields, A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep, Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes, All the dire train of ills Existence knows,

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains, Industrious habits can, at times, repress The weight of filial woe, the deep distress

How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd, In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide;

Chill'd by unkind Honora's alter'd eye, "Why droops my heart with fruitless woes forlorn," Thankless for much of good? - what thousands, born

Thou child of NIGHT, and SILENCE, balmy SLEEP, Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow! And charm to rest the thoughts of whence, or how

INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart Proceeding from the Form we fondly love! How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!

Farewell, false Friend! - our scenes of kindness close! To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell! To sweet consolings, that can grief expel,

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, Winter's pale dawn; - and as warm fires illume, And cheerful tapers shine around the room,

Since dark December shrouds the transient day, And stormy Winds are howling in their ire, Why com'st not THOU, who always can'st inspire

Lo! the YEAR's FINAL DAY! - Nature performs Its obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain; But Man is jocund. - Hark! th' exultant strain

My memory, long accustom'd to receive In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date

Rapt CONTEMPLATION, bring thy waking dreams To this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour, While full of thee seems every bending flower,

While with false pride, and narrow jealousy, Numbers reject each new expression, won, Perchance, from language richer than our own,

[1]From Possibility's dim chaos sprung, High o'er its gloom the A'rostatic Power Arose! - Exulting Nations hail'd the hour,

Dark as the silent stream beneath the night, Thy funeral glides to Life's eternal home, Child of its narrow house! - how late the bloom,

With lyre Orphean, see a Bard explore The central caverns of the mornless Night, Where never Muse perform'd harmonious rite

Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne, 'Mid the deep woodlands, hills, and vales, and bowers, Unfolds her leaves, her blossoms, and her flowers,

The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride, And all the sunny hills at distance glow, And all the brooks, that thro' the valley flow,

Apollo, at his crowded altars, tir'd Of Votaries, who for trite ideas thrown Into loose verse, assume, in lofty tone,

Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight With scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shown? Scenes, that too seldom human Life has known

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall From the drench'd roof; - yet murmurs the sunk wind Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade Mus'us cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply

Proud of our lyric Galaxy, I hear Of faded Genius with supreme disdain; As when we see the Miser bend insane

You, whose dull spirits feel not the fine glow Enthusiasm breathes, no more of light Perceive ye in rapt POESY, tho' bright

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown, That the brook's verge is green; - and bid thee hear, In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear,

Behold the Day an image of the Year! The Year an image of our life's short span! Morn, like the Spring, with growing light began,

If GENIUS has its danger, grief and pain, That Common-Sense escapes, yet who wou'd change The Powers, thro' Nature, and thro' Art that range,

Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain! Where morn, and eve, my soul's fair Idol stray'd, While all your winds, that murmur'd thro' the glade,

O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast, From thee in more than pristine beauty rise, Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs

See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head; His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew; His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;

O, GENIUS! does thy Sun-resembling beam To the internal eyes of Man display In clearer prospect, the momentous way

That song again! - its sounds my bosom thrill, Breathe of past years, to all their joys allied; And, as the notes thro' my sooth'd spirits glide,

O, EVER DEAR! thy precious, vital powers Sink rapidly! - the long and dreary Night Brings scarce an hope that Morn's returning light

Behold him now his genuine colours wear, That specious False-One, by whose cruel wiles I lost thy amity; saw thy dear smiles

Last night her Form the hours of slumber bless'd Whose eyes illumin'd all my youthful years. - Spirit of dreams, at thy command appears

When Death, or adverse Fortune's ruthless gale, Tears our best hopes away, the wounded Heart Exhausted, leans on all that can impart

When mourn the dark Winds o'er the lonely plain, And from pale noon sinks, ere the fifth cold hour, The transient light, Imagination's power,

In April's gilded morn when south winds blow, And gently shake the hawthorn's silver crown, Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown,

Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains, Full looks the shining Day. - Our gardens wear The gorgeous robes of the consummate Year.

Thro' changing Months a well-attemper'd Mind Welcomes their gentle or terrific pace. - When o'er retreating Autumn's golden grace

If he whose bosom with no transport swells In vernal airs and hours commits the crime Of sullenness to Nature, 'gainst the Time,