VII.

THE WOOD-NYMPII.

APPROACH in silence. 'Tis no vulgar tale
Which I, the Driad of this hoary oak,
Pronounce to mortal ears. The second age
Now hasteneth to its period, since I rose

On this fair lawn. The groves of yonder vale
Are all my offspring: and each Nymph, who guards
The copses and the furrow'd fields beyond,
Obeys me. Many changes have I scen
In human things, and many awful deeds
Of Justice, when the ruling hand of Jove
Against the tyrants of the land, against
The unhallow'd sons of Luxury and Guile,
Was arm'd for retribution. Thus at length
Expert in laws divine, I know the paths
Of Wisdom, and erroneous Folly's end
Have oft presag'd: and now well-pleas'd I wait
Each evening till a noble youth, who loves
My shade, a while releas'd from public cares,
Yon peaceful gate shall enter, and sit down
Beneath my branches. Then his musing mind
I prompt, unseen; and place before his view
Sincerest forms of good; and move his heart
With the dread bounties of the Sire Supreme
Of gods and men, with Freedom's generous deeds,
The lofty voice of Glory, and the faith

Of sacred Friendship. Stranger, I have told
My function. If within thy bosom dwell

Ye powers unseen, to whom the bards of Greece
Erected altars; ye who to the mind
More lofty views unfold, and prompt the heart
With more divine emotions; if erewhile
Not quite unpleasing have my votive rites
Of you been deem'd, when oft this lonely seat
To you I consecrated; then vouchsafe
Here with your instant energy to crown
My happy solitude. It is the hour
When most I love to invoke you, and have felt
Most frequent your glad ministry divine.
The air is calm: the Sun's unveiled orb
Shines in the middle Heaven. The harvest round
Stands quiet, and among the golden sheaves
The reapers lie reclin'd. The neighbouring groves
Are mute; nor even a linnet's random strain
Echoeth amid the silence. Let me feel
Your influence, ye kind powers. Aloft in Heaven
Abide ye? or on those transparent clouds
Pass ye from hill to hill? or on the shades
Which yonder elms cast o'er the lake below
Do you converse retir'd? From what lov'd haunt
Shall I expect you? Let me once more feel
Your influence, O ye kind inspiring powers!
And I will guard it well, nor shall a thought
Rise in my mind, nor shall a passion move
Across my bosom unobserv'd, unstor'd
By faithful memory. And then at some
More active moment will I call them forth
Anew; and join them in majestic forms,
And give them utterance in harmonious strains;
That all mankind shall wonder at your sway.

IX.

ME though in life's sequester'd vale The Almighty Sire ordain'd to dwell, Remote from Glory's toilsome ways, And the great scenes of public praise; Yet let me still with grateful pride Remember how my infant frame And early music to my tongue supply'd. He temper'd with prophetic flame,

'Twas then my future fate he weigh'd: And, "This be thy concern," he said, "At once with Passion's keen alarms, And Beauty's pleasurable charms, And sacred Truth's eternal light, To move the various mind of man; Till under one unblemish'd plan, His reason, fancy, and his heart unite."

AN EPISTLE TO CURIO 1. THRICE has the Spring beheld thy faded fame, And the fourth Winter rises on thy shame, Since I exulting grasp'd the votive shell, In sounds of triumph all thy praise to tell; Blest could my skill through ages make thee shine, And proud to mix my memory with thine. But now the cause that wak'd my song before, With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil no more. If to the glorious man, whose faithful cares, Nor quell'd by malice, nor relax'd by years, Had aw'd Ambition's wild audacious hate, And dragg'd at length Corruption to her fate; If every tongue its large applauses' ow'd, And well-earn'd laurels every Muse bestow'd; If public Justice urg'd the high reward, And Freedom smil'd on the devoted bard: Say then, to him whose levity or lust Laid all a people's generous hopes in dust; Who taught Ambition firmer heights of power, And sav'd Corruption at her hopeless hour; Does not each tongue its execrations owe? Shall not each Muse a wreath of shame bestow? And public Justice sanctify the award? And Freedom's hand protect th' impartial bard?

Curio was a young Roman senator of distinguished birth and parts, who, upon his first entrance into the forum, had been committed to the care of Cicero. Being profuse and extravagant, he soon dissipated a large and splendid fortune; to supply the want of which, he was driven to the necessity of abetting the designs of Cæsar against the liberties of his country, although he had before been a professed enemy to him.-Cicero exerted himself with great energy to prevent his ruin, but without effect, and he became one of the first victims in the civil war. This epistle was first published in the year 1744, when a celebrated patriot, after a long and at last a successful opposition to an unpopular minister, had deserted the cause of his country, and become the foremost in support and defence of the same measures he had so steadily and for such a length of time contended against. It was altered by the author into the Ode to Curio; but the original poem is too curious to be omitted. N.

Yet long reluctant I forbore thy name, Long watch'd thy virtue like a dying flame, Hung o'er each glimmering spark with anxious eyes, And wish'd and hop'd the light again would rise. But since thy guilt still more entire appears, Since no art hides, no supposition clears; Since vengeful Slander now too sinks her blast, And the first rage of party-hate is past; Calm as the Judge of Truth, at length I come To weigh thy merits, and pronounce thy doom: So may my trust from all reproach be free, And Earth and Time confirm the fair decree.

There are who say they view'd without amaze
Thy sad reverse of all thy former praise;
That through the pageants of a patriot's name,
They pierc'd the foulness of thy secret aim;
Or deem'd thy arm exalted but to throw
The public thunder on a private foe.
But I, whose soul consented to thy cause,
Who felt thy genius stamp its own applause,
Who saw the spirits of each glorious age
Move in thy bosom, and direct thy rage;
I scorn'd the ungenerous gloss of slavish minds,
The owl-ey'd race, whom Virtue's lustre blinds.
Spite of the learned in the ways of Vice,
And all who prove that each man has his price,
I still believ'd thy end was just and free;
And yet, even yet believe it-spite of thee.
Even though thy mouth impure has dar'd disclaim,
Urg'd by the wretched impotence of shame,
Whatever filial cares thy zeal had paid
To laws infirm and liberty decay'd;
Has begg'd Ambition to forgive the show;
Has told Corruption thou wert ne'er her foe;
Has boasted in thy country's awful ear,
Her gross delusion when she held thee dear;
How taine she follow'd thy tempestuous call,
And heard thy pompous tales, and trusted all--
Rise from your sad abodes, ye curst of old
For laws subverted, and for cities sold!
Paint all the noblest trophies of your guilt,
The oaths you perjur'd, and the blood you spilt;
Yet must you one untempted vileness own,
One dreadful palm reserv'd for him alone:
With studied arts his country's praise to spurn,
To beg the infamy he did not earn,

To challenge hate when honour was his due,
And plead his crimes where all his virtue knew.
Do robes of state the guarded heart enclose
From each fair feeling human nature knows?
Can pompous titles stun the enchanted ear
To all that reason, all that sense, would hear?
Else could'st thou e'er desert thy sacred post,
In such unthankful baseness to be lost?
Else could'st thou wed the emptiness of vice,
And yield thy glories at an idiot's price?

When they who, loud for liberty and laws,
In doubtful times had fought their country's cause,
When now of conquest and dominion sure,
They sought alone to hold their fruits secure;
When taught by these, Oppression hid the face
To leave Corruption stronger in her place,
By silent spells to work the public fate,
And taint the vitals of the passive state,
Till healing Wisdom should avail no more,
And Freedom loath to tread the poison'd shore;
Then, like some guardian god that flies to save
The weary pilgrim from an instant grave,
Whom, sleeping and secure, the guileful snake
Steals near and nearer through the peaceful brake;

Then Curio rose to ward the public woe,
To wake the, heedless, and incite the slow,
Against Corruption, Liberty to armi,
And quell the enchantress by a mightier charm.
Swift o'er the land the fair contagion flew,
And with the country's hopes thy honours grew.
Thee, patriot, the patrician roof confess'd:
Thy powerful voice the rescued merchant bless'd;
Of thee with awe the rural hearth resounds;
The bowl to thee the grateful sailor crowns;
Touch'd in the sighing shade with manlier fires,
To trace thy steps the love-sick youth aspires;
The learn'd recluse, who oft amaz'd had read
Of Grecian heroes, Roman patriots dead,
With new amazement hears a living name
Pretend to share in such forgotten fame;
And he who, scorning courts and courtly ways,
Left the tame track of these dejected days,
The life of nobler ages to renew

In virtues sacred from a monarch's view,
Rouz'd by thy labours from the blest retreat,
Where social ease and public passions meet,
Again ascending treads the civil scene,
To act and be a man, as thou hadst been.

Thus by degrees thy cause superior grew,
And the great end appear'd at last in view:
We heard the people in thy hopes rejoice;
We saw the senate bending to thy voice;
The friends of Freedom hail'd the approaching reiga
Of laws for which our fathers bled in vain;
While venal Faction, struck with new dismay,
Shrunk at their frown, and self-abandon'd lay.
Wak'd in the shock, the public Genius rose,
Abash'd and keener from his long repose;
Sublime in ancient pride, he rais'd the spear
Which slaves and tyrants long were wont to fear:
The city felt his call: from man to man,
From street to street, the glorious horrour ran;
Each crowded haunt was stirr'd beneath his power,
And, murmuring, challeng'd the deciding hour.

Lo! the deciding hour at last appears; The hour of every freeman's hopes and fears! Thou, Genius! guardian of the Roman name, O ever prompt tyrannic rage to tame! Instruct the mighty moments as they roll, And guide each movement steady to the goal. Ye Spirits, by whose providential art Succeeding motives turn the changeful heart, Keep, keep the best in view to Curio's mind, And watch his fancy, and his passions bind! Ye Shades immortal, who, by Freedom led, Or in the field, or on the scaffold bled, Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye, And view the crown of all your labours nigh. See Freedom mounting her eternal throne ! The sword submitted, and the laws her own: See! public Power, chastis'd, beneath her stands, With eyes intent, and uncorrupted hands! See private life by wisest arts reclaim'd! See ardent youth to noblest manners fram'd! See us acquire whate'er was sought by you, If Curio, only Curio, will be true.

'Twas then-O shame! O trust how ill repaid! O Latium, oft by faithless sons betray'd!"Twas then-what frenzy on thy reason stole? What spells unsinew'd thy determin'd soul? -Is this the man in Freedom's cause approv'd? The man so great, so honour'd, so belov'd? This patient slave by tinsel chains allur'd? This wretched suitor for a boon abjur'd?

This Curio, hated and despis'd by all?
Who fell himself, to work his country's fall?
O lost, alike to action and repose!
Unknown, unpitied in the worst of woes!
With all that conscious, undissembled pride,
Sold to the insults of a foe defy'd!
With all that habit of familiar fame,
Doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in shame!
The sole sad refuge of thy baffled art,
To act a statesman's dull exploded part,
Renounce the praise no longer in thy power,
Display thy virtue, though without a dower,
Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind,
And shut thy eyes that others may be blind.
-Forgive me, Romans, that I bear to smile
When shameless mouths your majesty defile,
Paint you a thoughtless, frantic, headlong crew,
And cast their own impieties on you.
For witness, Freedom, to whose sacred power
My soul was vow'd from reason's earliest hour,
How have I stood exulting, to survey
My country's virtues opening in thy ray!
How, with the sons of every foreign shore
The more I match'd them, honour'd her's the more!
O race erect! whose native strength of soil,
Which kings, nor priests, nor sordid laws control,
Bursts the tame round of animal affairs,
And seeks a nobler centre for its cares;
Intent the laws of life to comprehend,
And fix dominion's limits by its end.
Who, bold and equal in their love or hate,
By conscious reason judging every state,
The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
And know the mortal through a crown's disguise:
Thence prompt alike with witty scorn to view
Fastidious Grandeur lift his solemn brow,
Or, all awake at Pity's soft command,

Bend the mild ear, and stretch the gracious hand:
Thence large of heart, from envy far remov'd,
When public toils to virtue stand approv'd,
Not the young lover fonder to admire,
Nor more indulgent the delighted sire;
Yet high and jealous of their free-born name,
Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame,
Where'er Oppression works her wanton sway,
Proud to confront, and dreadful to repay.
But if, to purchase Curio's sage applause,
My country must with him renounce her cause,
Quit with a slave the path a patriot trod,
Bow the meek knee, and kiss the regal rod;
Then still, ye powers, instruct his tongue to rail,
Nor let his zeal, nor let his subject fail:
Else, ere he change the style, bear me away
To where the Gracchi 2, where the Bruti stay!
O long rever'd, and late resign'd to shame!
If this uncourtly page thy notice claim
When the loud cares of business are withdrawn,
Nor well-drest beggars round thy footsteps fawn;
In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour,
When Truth exerts her unresisted power,
Breaks the false optics ting'd with Fortune's glare,
Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare;
Then turn thy eyes on that important scene,
And ask thyself-if all be well within.
Where is the heartfelt worth and weight of soul,
Which labour could not stop, nor fear control?

The two brothers, Tiberius and Caius Gracchus, lost their lives in attempting to introduce the only regulation that could give stability and good order VOL. XIV.

Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe,
Which, half abash'd, the proud and venal saw?
Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause?
Where the delightful taste of just applause?
Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue,
On which the senate fir'd or trembling hung?
All vanish'd, all are sold-and in their room,
Couch'd in thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom,
See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell,
Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell!
To her in chains thy dignity was led;
At her polluted shrine thy honour bled;
With blasted weeds thy awful brow she crown'd,
Thy powerful tongue with poison'd philters bound,
That baffled Reason straight indignant flew,
And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew:
For now no longer Truth supports thy cause;
No longer Glory prompts thee to applause;
No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast,
With all her conscious majesty confest,
Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty flame,
To rouse the feeble, and the wilful tame,
And where she sees the catching glimpses roll,
Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul;
But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill,
And formal passions mock thy struggling will;
Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain,
And reach impatient at a nobler strain,
Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth
Shoot through thy breast, and stab the generous
birth,

Till, blind with smart, from Truth to Frenzy tost,
And all the tenour of thy reason lost,
Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear;
While some with pity, some with laughter hear.
-Can Art, alas! or Genius, guide the head,

Where Truth and Freedom from the heart are

fled?

Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke,
When the prime function of the soul is broke?

But come, unhappy man! thy fates impend;
Come, quit thy friends, if yet thou hast a friend;
Turn from the poor rewards of guilt like thine,
Renounce thy titles, and thy robes resign;
For see the hand of Destiny display'd
To shut thee from the joys thou hast betray'd!
See the dire fane of Infamy arise!

Dark as the grave, and spacious as the skies;
Where, from the first of time, thy kindred train,
The chiefs and princes of the unjust remain.
Eternal barriers guard the pathless road
To warn the wanderer of the curst abode;
But prone as whirlwinds scour the passive sky,
The heights surmounted, down the steep they fly.
There, black with frowns, relentless Time awaits,
And goads their footsteps to the guilty gates:
And still he asks them of their unknown aims,
Evolves their secrets, and their guilt proclains;
And still his hands despoil them on the road
Of each vain wreath, by lying bards bestow'd,
Break their proud marbles, crush their festal ears,
And rend the lawless trophies of their wars.
At last the gates his potent voice obey;
Fierce to their dark abode he drives his prey,
Where, ever arm'd with adamantine chains,
The watchful demon o'er her vassals reigus,

There laugh, ye witty; and rebuke, ye grave!
For me, I scorn to boast that I'm a slave.
I bid the whining brotherhood be gone,
Joy to my heart! my wishes are my own!
Farewell the female Heaven, the female Hell;
To the great God of Love a glad farewell.
Is this the triumph of thy awful name?

Are these the splendid hopes that urg'd thy aim,
When first my bosom own'd thy haughty sway?
When thus Minerva heard thee, boasting, say,
"Go, martial maid, elsewhere thy arts employ,
Nor hope to shelter that devoted boy.

Go teach the solemn sons of Care and Age
The pensive statesmen, and the midnight sage;
The young with me must other lessons prove,
Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love.
Behold his heart thy grave advice disdains,
Behold I bind him in eternal chains."

Alas! great Love, how idle was the boast!
Thy chains are broken, and thy lessons lost;
Thy wilful rage has tir'd my suffering heart,
And passion, reason, forc'd thee to depart.

But wherefore dost thou linger on thy way? Why vainly search for some pretence to stay, When crowds of vassals court thy pleasing yoke, And countless victims bow them to the stroke? Lo! round thy shrine a thousand youths advance, Warm with the gentle ardours of romance; Each longs to assert thy cause with feats of arms, And make the world confess Dulcinea's charms. Ten thousand girls, with flowery chaplets crown'd, To groves and streams thy tender triumph sound; Each bids the stream in murmurs speak her flame, Each calls the grove to sigh her shepherd's name. But, if thy pride such easy honour scorn, If nobler trophies must thy toil adorn, Behold yon flowery antiquated maid Bright in the bloom of threescore years display'd; Her shalt thou bind in thy delightful chains, And thrill with gentle pangs her wither'd veins, Hor frosty cheek with crimson blushes dye, With dreams of rapture melt her maudlin eye. Turn then thy labours to the servile crowd, Entice the wary, and control the proud; Make the sad miser his best gains forego, The solemn statesman sigh to be a beau; The bold coquette with fondest passion burn, The bacchanalian o'er his bottle mourn: And that chief glory of thy power maintain, "To poise ambition in a female brain." Be these thy triumphs. But no more presume That my rebellious heart will yield thee room. I know thy puny force, thy simple wiles; I break triumphant through thy flimsy toils: I see thy dying lamp's last languid glow, Thy arrows blunted, and unbrac'd thy bow. I feel diviner fires my breast inflame, To active science, and ingenuous fame: Resume the paths my earliest choice began, And lose, with pride, the lover in the man.

A BRITISH PHILIPPIC: OCCASIONED BY THE INSULTS OF THE SPANIARDS, AND THE PRESENT PREPARATIONS FOR WAR.

M. DCC. XXXVIII.

WRENCE this unwonted transport in my breast? Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Muse

Aspire with rapid wing? Her country's cause
Demands her efforts; at that sacred call
She summons all her ardour, throws aside
The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump
She means to thunder in each British ear;
And if one spark of honour or of fame,
Disdain of insult, dread of infamy,
One thought of public virtue yet survive,
She means to wake it, rouse the generous flame,
With patriot zeal inspirit every breast,
And fire each British heart with British wrongs.
Alas, the vain attempt! what influence now
Can the Muse boast? or what attention now
Is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now
The British spirit, generous, warm, and brave,
So frequent wont from tyranny and woe

To free the suppliant nations? Where, indeed!
If that protection, once to strangers given,

Be now withheld from sons? Each nobler thought,
That warm'd our sires, is lost and buried now
In luxury and avarice. Baneful vice!
How it unmans a nation! Yet I'll try,
I'll aim to shake this vile degenerate sloth;
I'll dare to rouze Britannia's dreaming sous
To fame, to virtue, and impart around
A generous feeling of compatriot woes.

Come then the various powers of forceful speech
All that can move, awaken, fire, transport;
Come the bold ardour of the Theban bard!
The arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek!
The soft persuasion of the Roman sage!
Come all! and raise me to an equal height,
A rapture worthy of my glorious cause!
Lest my best efforts failing should debase
The sacred theme; for with no common wing
The Muse attempts to soar. Yet what need these?
My country's fame, my free-born British heart,
Shall be my best inspirers, raise my flight
High as the Theban's pinion, and with more
Than Greek or Roman flame exalt my soul.
Oh! could I give the vast ideas birth
Expressive of the thoughts that flame within,
No more should lazy Luxury detain
Our ardent youth; no more should Britain's sons
Sit tamely passive by, and careless hear
The prayers, sighs, groans (immortal infamy!)
Of fellow Britons, with oppression sunk,
In bitterness of soul demanding aid,
Calling on Britain, their dear native land,
The land of Liberty; so greatly fam'd
For just redress: the land so often dyed
With her best blood, for that arouzing cause,
The freedom of her sons; those sons that now,
Far from the manly blessings of her sway,
Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord.
And dare they, dare the vanquish'd sons of Spain,
Enslave a Briton? Have they then forgot,
So soon forgot, the great, the immortal day,
When rescued Sicily with joy beheld
The swift-wing'd hunder of the British arm
Disperse the'r navies? when their coward bands
fled, like the raven from the bird of Jove,
From swift impending vengeance fled in vain:
Are these our lords? And can Britannia see
Her foes oft vanquish'd, thus defy her power,
Insule her standard, and enslave her sons,
And not arise to justice? Did our sires,
Unaw'd by chains, by exile, or by death,
Preserve inviolate her guardian rights,
To Britons ever sacred! that their sons