The Wreath. THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. BOOK I. AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war; In life's low vale remote hath pin'd alone, 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 appal. 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. B The rolls of fame I will not now explore; 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. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; 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. Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul, O how canst thou renounce the boundless store The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare, You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth, And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy. Silent when glad; affectionate though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad, And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad; Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled : Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head; Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary teain, The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah! no he better knows great Nature's charms, to prize. And oft he trac'd the uplands to survey, When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn, But, lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. |