All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves ; Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread: But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The parted wave no furrow from the keel, So dies in human hearts the thought of death: Even with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their
FOR A STATUE OF CHAUCER, AT WOODSTOCK.
Such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony informed The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life: through each estate and age, The fashions and the follies of the world,
With cunning hand pourtraying. Though perchance From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come, Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold To him, this other hero; who, in times Dark and untaught, began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land.
Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved, So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, То pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? O! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd Which flies impatient from the village walk, To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurled upon the coast Some helpless bark; while sacred pity melts The general eye, or terrors icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair, While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam through the shattered vessel, shrieks aloud, As some poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallowed by the roaring surge, As now another, dashed against the rock, Drops lifeless down. O, deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by nature given To mutual terror and compassion's tears? No sweetly melting softness which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers, To this their proper action and their end?
PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION.
Oh! blest of heaven, whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the Syren! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour can seduce to leave
Those ever blooming sweets, which from the store Of nature fair imagination culls
To charm the enlivened soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing marble and the sculptured gold Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn, Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
FOR A MONUMENT AT RUNNYMEDE.
Thou, who the verdant plain doth traverse here, While Thames among his willows from thy view Retires; O stranger, stay thee, and the scene Around contemplate well. This is the place Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms, And stern in conquest, from their tyrant king (Then rendered tame) did challenge and secure The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on, Till thou hast blessed their memory, and paid Those thanks which God appointed the reward Of public virtue, and if chance thy home Salute thee with a father's honoured name, Go, call thy sons: instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.
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