Thou Phantom!— who art said to dwell

Within the Hermit’s hallow’d Cell;

Remote from where the worldly Train

Their Homage pay at Fortune’s Fane:—

Thee I have sought with suppliant Eye,

When bursting with the pent up Sigh,

My aching Heart hath learn’d to muse,

And feed on Sorrow’s bitter Dews!

When keen Affliction charg’d the Blow,

That struck each finer nerve with Woe;

I’ve call’d upon thy Aid in vain,

To strew thy Roses on my Pain:—

No friendly hand the Balsam brought,

To drop it on the wounded Thought!

Thus kindred with the fiend Despair,

I’ve fed the goading Worm of Care;

Have hied me at the Noon of Night,

To steal pale Grief from Cynthia’s melancholy Light!

I’ve sought Thee on my native Shore,

Where prowling Billows wildly roar:—

Have run thro’ Pleasure’s mazy Dance,

And gaz’d upon the fleeting Trance

Of splendid Fetes, and courtly Pride,

To English Luxury allied:

Turn’d giddy at the varied Scene

Of Dissipation’s shining Mein!

E’en in Retirement’s vapid Bow’rs,

I’ve watch’d the solitary Hours;

Observ’d the Primrose shoot its Head,

And decorate its mossy Bed;

The fleecy Herd too skip and play,

Delighted with the noon-tide Day:—

I’ve tasted all the Joys that Spring

In vegetation’s Bloom could bring;

Yet Happiness!—thou wert not there,

For jealous Love prey’d deeply on a Heart of Care!

From Greenland’s bleak unfriendly Coast,

Where oft the Mariner is lost;

Where sternest Winter loves to reign,

White rob’d upon the frozen Main:—

To where the Majesty of Day

Beams on the World his fiery Ray;

Through all the habitable Space,

Man’s penetrating Eye can trace,

Thy mocking Form I still pursue,

That Form of fascinating hue;

O’er which the radiant Genius throws,

A magic Scarf ’gainst human Woes:—

Yet thou false Friend, ne’er deign’st to rest

Upon Maria’s troubled Breast;

But like the swift resentful Wind,

Do’st leave me in the Vale behind:—

Then bring kind Apathy Relief,

Or soothe my weary Mind with Luxury of Grief!

I call thee from the ivy Bow’r,

At Ev’ning’s sad and pensive Hour;

When Silence throws her witching Spell,

Around where thou art wont to dwell;

Or, if by fainting Moonlight’s Wane,

Thou musest on the fairy Plain;

Or, on the Sea’s responsive Shore,

Thou listen’st to the wild Wind’s roar;

Oh!—light upon my timid Sight,

And chase the visionary Spright,

That in the air-blue Flame now plays,

Regardless of my tender Lays!

Dear Sensibility, impart

Thy chasten’d Feeling to my Heart;

Convey me ’mid the Storms of Night,

To the brown Mountain’s giddy Height;

Where ’tentive to the sweeping Blast,

I’ll meditate on Sorrows past;

And as the Cascade’s Waters roll,

Their hollow Murmurs shall delight my Soul!

Oft as I stray the dewy Lawn,

At Day’s refreshing early Dawn;

I feel thy virtuous Pow’r dispense,

Religion’s meekness o’er my Sense;

Thy soft Infatuation throw

A transient Calm o’er bursting Woe;

And as I drink the Breeze of Spring,

Or trace the Linnet’s flutt’ring Wing;

Sweet Contemplation deigns to shed,

Her placid Glories o’er my Head;—

Whilst Thou, with mild enquiring Eye,

Return’st the sympathizing Sigh.—

Each fine Emotion of my Soul,

Expanded by thy pure Controul,

Disdains to blot from Mem’ry’s Leaf,

Th’ Impressions of her early Grief:

Thus Sensibility, I raise

To Thee my sad devoted Lays;

Around thy Temples I’ll entwine,

The Myrtle, Laurel, and the Cypress Vine!

In vain shall sparkling Mirth advance,

With Folly in the rosy Dance;

Gay Pleasure with her Summer Crew,

Now fades before my pensive View;

No Joys illume my weary Eye,

Save the proud Tear—the parting Sigh;

Ah! what’s to me the jocund Hour,

Of Gaiety or Wealth, the Pow’r;

The splendid Scene no Charm can find,

To cure my Lassitude of Mind.—

Oh! Sensibility, thy starting Tear

Obeys the Impulse of corrosive Fear;

Thy fine thin Form, with fervid Feeling wrought,

Points to th’ attentive Gaze the Bliss of Thought!—

The conscious Vigil on thy burning Lids,

The Calmy Purposes of Sleep forbids;

And thy sweet Voice such Melody conveys,

As far excells the Muse’s softest Lays;

Then let me live to feel thy Force divine,

And oh! the Taste of Sympathy be mine!—

Once more with Passion’s lambent Fire,

Maria sweep the golden Wire;

Once more the lyric Grace assume,

The laurel Wreath—the starry Plume;

Young Clio beams with lucid Ray,

And o’er Thee sheds poetic Day.—

Yes—I will soar the rapid Flight,

Nor dazzled with the Flood of Light;

The lustrous Spheres of purest Space,

For Virgin Images I’ll trace.—

Gay Fancy, from whose brilliant Thought,

Attention’s raptur’d Eye is caught,

Shall fling her Beauties o’er the Waste,

And charm with Ease and polish’d Taste:

While from chaste Ida’s sacred Bow’rs,

Where bloom the everlasting Flow’rs,

I’ll pluck the fairest blushing Rose,

That never fading as it blows,

Shall deck my lovely Muse’s Breast,

The glowing Seat of Harmony and Rest.

At Eve on Hougly’s winding Side,

Attentive to the ripling Tide;

I trace the Moon serenely bright,

Pass in full Pomp the splendid Night;

Or mark th’ elusive silv’ry Beam,

Flash faintly o’er the sapphire Stream;

Enraptur’d with the Scene around,

Methinks I tread on fairy Ground;

Ten thousand Elves in Sport advance,

And Fawns and Satyrs flit the Dance;

A fancied World, a sprightly Train,

Appear upon the Diamond Plain;

The Tritons blow their hoarse shrill Note,

And Mermaids on the Water float;

Amid the visionary Throng,

To Thee I raise the wizard Song:—

And Thou fair Syren of my Heart,

The wild Delusion still impart;

My Pow’rs with all thy Fervor trill,

And, oh!—dispense thy fascinating Skill!

Or if pure Morning’s rosy Breath,

Should tempt Thee to the russet Heath;

Ere from his crimson-curtain’d Bed,

The Sun uncanopies his Head;

Oblivions of corrosive Care,

With Thee I’ll drink the dewy Air;

With Thee o’er Nature’s healthy Plains,

I’ll lisp the Music of thy Strains;

And as the sparkling Glories fly,

In bright Effulgence from thine Eye,

The Rays of Genius I’ll absorb,

And fix them in a fainter Orb:—

Thus cherish’d by the Muse’s Fire,

I’ll boldly sweep the trilling Lyre:—

And Gratitude, with Chaplet gay,

Wove by the graceful-finger’d May,

Shall bind my blooming Clio’s Brow,

With this inscriptive hallow’d Vow:—

“While Health and Genius are mine,

The Muse’s Fane with Laurel I’ll entwine”

Tame apathy, whose gelid Eye,

Ne’er moisten’d with a Tear, the Sigh

From Sorrows virgin Heart that flew,

Cherish’d by the pitying Dew,

As on the chilly Ev’ning Air,

It sought the scowling Nymph Despair:—

Who motionless—the sharpen’d Thorn,

From Misery’s weeping Briar torn,

Could’st see the smiling Envies dart.

Within her young and artless Heart!

Shalt Thou—thy languid Spells dispense,

And strew thy Torpor o’er the Sense;

Diffuse the lethean Show’rs of Snow,

O’er the warm Tide of human Woe;

Or, on the Soul’s fine Fervor seize,

And Sympathy to Winter freeze?—

No, Nymph—so baneful to my Sight

I’ll chase Thee to the thick-wove Night;

Where Chaos shall thy Form enshroud,

And Darkness veil Thee in her blackest Cloud.—

Oh!—I have known the subtle Pang

Of Jealousy’s remorseless Fang;

Have own’d Love’s proud despotic Sway,

O’er this poor Tenement of Clay!

Have felt Compassion soothe my Breast,

And lull Anxiety to Rest;

Dear Sensibility too, spread

Her lightsome Vision o’er my Head;

While Tenderness my Thoughts inspir’d,

And the stern Nerve with Feeling fir’d,

Reflection hath enlarg’d her Scope,

Succeeded by the Fairy—Hope;

And young Sincerity, so gay,

Hath kindly shed her Virgin Ray;—

I too have drank the bitter Tears,

Of Anguish and suspensive Fears:—

Yet—will I not their Taste resign,

Although Indifference be thine;

Nor from Life’s Troubles will I fly,

With Thee, cold Nymph, pale Apathy to die.—

Religion’s mild and sacred Truth,

Hath charm’d the Innocence of Youth;

For her, Philosophy hath chid

Misfortune from the burning Lid,

Hath taught the Passions to obey

Reason’s best captivating Sway:

Oh!—She is chaste and rosy as the Dawn,

That on the dewy Bosom of the Morn,

Sheds her light Glories o’er the tepid Earth,

To wake fair Nature to her glowing Birth!

And shall I spurn the pure Instruction giv’n.

By the meek sainted Messenger of Heav’n;

Shall I her plaintive Solaces contemn,

Or dim the Lustre of Life’s brightest Gem?

Ah!—no—thy Rays shall lighten up my Soul,

As the far Lamp illumes the dusky Pole.—

Hence then, mute Nymph, with thy bewitching Spells,

Hence to that Blank where no Creation dwells;

There Apathy insensibly decay,

And into Shade for ever fade away!!

Remorseless Tyrant, Savage brave,

Lord of the silent, mould’ring Grave,

Unsated Death!—whose Glance severe

Levels the scorpion-pointed Spear;

Oh!—quit the Charnel’s loathsome Gloom,

The baleful Vault—the fretted Tomb;—

One Moment leave thy shrouded Throne,

Where Night’s lorn Birds their Anguish moan:

I charge Thee to the garish Day,

To eke thy venom’d Spleen away!

Ah!—could’st thou not the Shaft recede,

Nor pause upon the barb’rous Deed;

Had blushing Innocence no Pow’r

To lure thee—for a longer Hour!

A Mother’s Storm of Grief no Sway,

To lengthen yet their little Day,

Nor One thine Avarice supply,

But two bright Cherubims must die?

Unfeeling Death—thy Triumph’s great,

Yet Thou, proud Fiend, shall yield to Time and Fate.

Beneath yon aged Yew-tree’s Shade,

The loit’ring Genius of the Glade,

O’er the fresh Sod his wild Gaze throws,

That Gaze impierc’d with sharpest Woes;

By Grief subdued, his Eyes refuse

To shed their pure consoling Dews;

And thus in soft pathetic Strains,

To the lone Mansions he complains:

“Ah me!—whose solitary Breath

Dwells on the faint chill Ear of Death;

In vain does rosy Morning bring,

The Perfumes of the blooming Spring;

In vain do Nature’s Charms appear,

Drest in the Pride of vernal Year;

Alas!—to me, the ruby Light,

Is but the Shadow of the Night!—

Those Joys I fondly strove to keep,

In their cold Cell forever sleep:—

Then Hope no more my Feelings mock,

By thy Delusions tam’d I’ll bear the Shock!—”

Philosophy, thou Saint Divine,

Around each quiv’ring Fibre twine;

The Muse with temper’d Lustre skill,

And calm the Pulse of Passion’s Trill;

O’er Sorrow’s fainting fev’rish Sense

Thy mental Solaces dispense.—

Lo, meek eyed Pity, Virgin bright,

As to her God she wings her Flight,

Drops from her Eye the sacred Tear,

And with it gems the Infant Bier;

To meet her, the celestial Band,

On the Via Lactea stand;

The little Cherubs lead the Maid,

Through the transparent brilliant Glade;

Where Stars on Stars the Concave grace,

The Diamonds of etherial Space:—

And thus the lovely Seraphs sing,

“Return to Earth on Glory’s Wing,

Our Sire this fond Assurance give

That We in Heaven’s fair Realms for ever live!”

Triumphant Bard, my Verse inspire,

With bright Apollo’s sparkling Fire;

To Thee, the wild Delirium runs,

Like Comets to their Centre Suns;

I feel the proud impassion’d Glow

Thro’ every trilling Fibre flow;

My Muse, on Rapture’s rosy Wings,

Her Harmony o’er Passion flings:

For Thee, the vivid Fancies dare,

To range the lustrous Orbs of Air;

From Star to Star their Glories trace,

And with them Della Crusca grace.

Thou liv’st!—my fetter’d Senses seem,

Deluded by some motley Dream,

That on the doubtful Slumbers plays,

Like Fairies in the pale Moon’s Rays:—

Ah!—let me taste thy purer Song,

Where Imagery’s Beauties throng;

And as I scan the polish’d Line,

Steal the rich Fervor from thy Soul divine.—

Induct me through the hallow’d Glade,

Where Learning’s mould’ring Sons are laid;

Where Virgil’s ancient Bust appears,

Gemm’d with mild Ev’ning’s brilliant Tears,

Those Tears, by blue Olympus shed

O’er Rome’s immortal sainted Dead:—

Or where by Midnight’s sparry Gloom,

Fair Sappho bends o’er Phaon’s Tomb;

Or Petrarch’s Shade still loiters nigh,

To lisp his cruel Laura’s Sigh:—

There lead me, thou delightful Muse,

To drink the chaste Olympian Dews;

With Thee to tread the classic Ground,

Where Genius first the Laurel found;

To view the sacred tufted Bow’rs,

Adorn’d with gay ambrosial Flow’rs;

Derive from Thee the lucid Ray,

That dignifies the modern Lay;

My Muse with wild Ambition fire,

And bid the burning Thought to Fame aspire.

Or, I will stray by Night’s pale Orb;

Whose Beams the lesser Lights absorb:

Where India’s God in secret roves,

Through the rich consecrated Groves;

Where Brahma pours his pious Pray’r,

To the religious, list’ning Air;

And from the Fervor of his Lays,

I’ll weave a Wreath of magic Praise;

Shall circle round thy crescent Brows,

Proud Token of far distant Vows!—

And should’st Thou e’er my hapless Verse peruse,

Pause on the Line, and own the simple Muse;

Say, that in Regions far from laurel’d Fame,

Maria wept o’er Della Crusca’s Name;

Say, as thy Death upon the Ev’ning hung,

Unnerv’d the Sense, and petrified the Tongue,

Maria bound her Lyre with Sprigs of Yew,

And bath’d the Chords in Nightshade’s weeping Dew;

While, as the muffled Sounds attun’d her Ear,

On its bright Threshold stood the Genuine Tear!—