BOOK II.

When shall the laurel and the vocal string

Resume their honours? When shall we behold

The tuneful tongue, the Promethéan band

Aspire to ancient praise? Alas! how faint,

How slow the dawn of Beauty and of Truth

Breaks the reluctant shades of Gothic night

Which yet involves the nations! Long they groan'd

Beneath the furies of rapacious force;

Oft as the gloomy north, with iron swarms

Tempestuous pouring from her frozen caves,

Blasted the Italian shore, and swept the works

Of Liberty and Wisdom down the gulf

Of all-devouring night. As long immured

In noontide darkness, by the glimmering lamp,

Each Muse and each fair Science pined away

The sordid hours: while foul, barbarian hands

Their mysteries profaned, unstrung the lyre,

And chain'd the soaring pinion down to earth.

At last the Muses rose, and spurn'd their bonds,

And, wildly warbling, scatter'd as they flew,

Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers

To Arno's myrtle border and the shore

Of soft Parthenopé. But still the rage

Of dire ambition and gigantic power,

From public aims and from the busy walk

Of civil commerce, drove the bolder train

Of penetrating Science to the cells,

Where studious Ease consumes the silent hour

In shadowy searches and unfruitful care.

Thus from their guardians torn, the tender arts

Of mimic fancy and harmonious joy,

To priestly domination and the lust

Of lawless courts, their amiable toil

For three inglorious ages have resign'd,

In vain reluctant: and Torquato's tongue

Was tuned for slavish pasans at the throne

Of tinsel pomp: and Raphael's magic hand

Effused its fair creation to enchant

The fond adoring herd in Latian fanes

To blind belief; while on their prostrate necks

The sable tyrant plants his heel secure.

But now, behold! the radiant era dawns,

When freedom's ample fabric, fix'd at length

For endless years on Albion's happy shore

In full proportion, once more shall extend

To all the kindred powers of social bliss

A common mansion, a parental roof.

There shall the Virtues, there shall Wisdom's train,

Their long-lost friends rejoining, as of old,

Embrace the smiling family of Arts,

The Muses and the Graces. Then no more

Shall Vice, distracting their delicious gifts

To aims abhorr'd, with high distaste and scorn

Turn from their charms the philosophic eye,

The patriot bosom; then no more the paths

Of public care or intellectual toil,

Alone by footsteps haughty and severe

In gloomy state be trod: the harmonious Muse

And her persuasive sisters then shall plant

Their sheltering laurels o'er the bleak ascent,

And scatter flowers along the rugged way.

Arm'd with the lyre, already have we dared

To pierce divine Philosophy's retreats,

And teach the Muse her lore; already strove

Their long-divided honours to unite,

While tempering this deep argument we sang

Of Truth and Beauty. Now the same glad task

Impends; now urging our ambitious toil,

We hasten to recount the various springs

Of adventitious pleasure, which adjoin

Their grateful influence to the prime effect

Of objects grand or beauteous, and enlarge

The complicated joy. The sweets of sense,

Do they not oft with kind accession flow,

To raise harmonious Fancy's native charm?

So while we taste the fragrance of the rose,

Glows not her blush the fairer? While we view

Amid the noontide walk a limpid rill

Gush through the trickling herbage, to the thirst

Of summer yielding the delicious draught

Of cool refreshment, o'er the mossy brink

Shines not the surface clearer, and the waves

With sweeter music murmur as they flow?

Nor this alone; the various lot of life

Oft from external circumstance assumes

A moment's disposition to rejoice

In those delights which, at a different hour,

Would pass unheeded. Fair the face of Spring,

When rural songs and odours wake the morn,

To every eye; but how much more to his

Round whom the bed of sickness long diffused

Its melancholy gloom! how doubly fair,

When first with fresh-born vigour he inhales

The balmy breeze, and feels the blessed sun

Warm at his bosom, from the springs of life

Chasing oppressive damps and languid pain!

Or shall I mention, where celestial Truth

Her awful light discloses, to bestow

A more majestic pomp on Beauty's frame?

For man loves knowledge, and the beams of Truth

More welcome touch his understanding's eye,

Than all the blandishments of sound his ear,

Than all of taste his tongue. Nor ever yet

The melting rainbow's vernal-tinctured hues

To me have shown so pleasing, as when first

The hand of Science pointed out the path

In which the sunbeams, gleaming from the west,

Fall on the watery cloud, whose darksome veil

Involves the orient; and that trickling shower

Piercing through every crystalline convex

Of clustering dewdrops to their flight opposed,

Recoil at length where concave all behind

The internal surface of each glassy orb

Repels their forward passage into air;

That thence direct they seek the radiant goal

From which their course began; and, as they strike

In different lines the gazer's obvious eye,

Assume a different lustre, through the brede

Of colours changing from the splendid rose

To the pale violet's dejected hue.

Or shall we touch that kind access of joy,

That springs to each fair object, while we trace,

Through all its fabric, Wisdom's artful aim,

Disposing every part, and gaining still,

By means proportion'd, her benignant end?

Speak ye, the pure delight, whose favour'd steps

The lamp of Science through the jealous maze

Of Nature guides, when haply you reveal

Her secret honours: whether in the sky,

The beauteous laws of light, the central powers

That wheel the pensile planets round the year;

Whether in wonders of the rolling deep,

Or the rich fruits of all-sustaining earth,

Or fine-adjusted springs of life and sense,

Ye scan the counsels of their Author's hand.

What, when to raise the meditated scene,

The flame of passion, through the struggling soul

Deep-kindled, shows across that sudden blaze

The object of its rapture, vast of size,

With fiercer colours and a night of shade?

What, like a storm from their capacious bed

The sounding seas o'erwhelming, when the might

Of these eruptions, working from the depth

Of man's strong apprehension, shakes his frame

Even to the base; from every naked sense

Of pain or pleasure, dissipating all

Opinion's feeble coverings, and the veil

Spun from the cobweb fashion of the times

To hide the feeling heart? Then Nature speaks

Her genuine language, and the words of men,

Big with the very motion of their souls,

Declare with what accumulated force

The impetuous nerve of passion urges on

The native weight and energy of things.

Yet more: her honours where nor Beauty claims,

Nor shows of good the thirsty sense allure,

From passion's power alone our nature holds

Essential pleasure. Passion's fierce illapse

Rouses the mind's whole fabric; with supplies

Of daily impulse keeps the elastic powers

Intensely poised, and polishes anew

By that collision all the fine machine:

Else rust would rise, and foulness, by degrees

Encumbering, choke at last what heaven design'd

For ceaseless motion and a round of toil.—

But say, does every passion thus to man

Administer delight? That name indeed

Becomes the rosy breath of love; becomes

The radiant smiles of joy, the applauding hand

Of admiration: but the bitter shower

That sorrow sheds upon a brother's grave;

But the dumb palsy of nocturnal fear,

Or those consuming fires that gnaw the heart

Of panting indignation, find we there

To move delight?— Then listen while my tongue

The unalter'd will of Heaven with faithful awe

Reveals; what old Harmodius wont to teach

My early age; Harmodius, who had weigh'd

Within his learned mind whate'er the schools

Of Wisdom, or thy lonely-whispering voice,

O faithful Nature! dictate of the laws

Which govern and support this mighty frame

Of universal being. Oft the hours

From morn to eve have stolen unmark'd away,

While mute attention hung upon his lips,

As thus the sage his awful tale began:—

‘'Twas in the windings of an ancient wood,

When spotless youth with solitude resigns

To sweet philosophy the studious day,

What time pale Autumn shades the silent eve,

Musing I roved. Of good and evil much,

And much of mortal man my thought revolved;

When starting full on fancy's gushing eye

The mournful image of Parthenia's fate,

That hour, O long beloved and long deplored!

When blooming youth, nor gentlest wisdom's arts,

Nor Hymen's honours gather'd for thy brow,

Nor all thy lover's, all thy father's tears

Avail'd to snatch thee from the cruel grave;

Thy agonising looks, thy last farewell

Struck to the inmost feeling of my soul

As with the hand of Death. At once the shade

More horrid nodded o'er me, and the winds

With hoarser murmuring shook the branches. Dark

As midnight storms, the scene of human things

Appear'd before me; deserts, burning sands,

Where the parch'd adder dies; the frozen south,

And desolation blasting all the west

With rapine and with murder: tyrant power

Here sits enthroned with blood; the baleful charms

Of superstition there infect the skies,

And turn the sun to horror. Gracious Heaven!

What is the life of man? Or cannot these,

Not these portents thy awful will suffice,

That, propagated thus beyond their scope,

They rise to act their cruelties anew

In my afflicted bosom, thus decreed

The universal sensitive of pain,

The wretched heir of evils not its own?’

Thus I impatient: when, at once effused,

A flashing torrent of celestial day

Burst through the shadowy void. With slow descent

A purple cloud came floating through the sky,

And, poised at length within the circling trees,

Hung obvious to my view; till opening wide

Its lucid orb, a more than human form

Emerging lean'd majestic o'er my head,

And instant thunder shook the conscious grove.

Then melted into air the liquid cloud,

And all the shining vision stood reveal'd.

A wreath of palm his ample forehead bound,

And o'er his shoulder, mantling to his knee,

Flow'd the transparent robe, around his waist

Collected with a radiant zone of gold

Aethereal: there in mystic signs engraved,

I read his office high and sacred name,

Genius of human kind! Appall'd I gazed

The godlike presence; for athwart his brow

Displeasure, temper'd with a mild concern,

Look'd down reluctant on me, and his words

Like distant thunders broke the murmuring air:

‘ Vain are thy thoughts, O child of mortal birth!

And impotent thy tongue. Is thy short span

Capacious of this universal frame?—

Thy wisdom all-sufficient? Thou, alas!

Dost thou aspire to judge between the Lord

Of Nature and his works — to lift thy voice

Against the sovereign order he decreed,

All good and lovely — to blaspheme the bands

Of tenderness innate and social love,

Holiest of things! by which the general orb

Of being, as by adamantine links,

Was drawn to perfect union, and sustain'd

From everlasting? Hast thou felt the pangs

Of softening sorrow, of indignant zeal,

So grievous to the soul, as thence to wish

The ties of Nature broken from thy frame,

That so thy selfish, unrelenting heart

Might cease to mourn its lot, no longer then

The wretched heir of evils not its own?

O fair benevolence of generous minds!

O man by Nature form'd for all mankind!’

He spoke; abash'd and silent I remain'd,

As conscious of my tongue's offence, and awed

Before his presence, though my secret soul

Disdain'd the imputation. On the ground

I fix'd my eyes, till from his airy couch

He stoop'd sublime, and touching with his hand

My dazzling forehead,‘ Raise thy sight,’ he cried,

‘ And let thy sense convince thy erring tongue.’

I look'd, and lo! the former scene was changed;

For verdant alleys and surrounding trees,

A solitary prospect, wide and wild,

Rush'd on my senses.‘ Twas a horrid pile

Of hills with many a shaggy forest mix'd,

With many a sable cliff and glittering stream.

Aloft, recumbent o'er the hanging ridge,

The brown woods waved; while ever-trickling springs

Wash'd from the naked roots of oak and pine

The crumbling soil; and still at every fall

Down the steep windings of the channel'd rock,

Remurmuring rush'd the congregated floods

With hoarser inundation; till at last

They reach'd a grassy plain, which from the skirts

Of that high desert spread her verdant lap,

And drank the gushing moisture, where confined

In one smooth current, o'er the lilied vale

Clearer than glass it flow'd. Autumnal spoils

Luxuriant spreading to the rays of morn,

Blush'd o'er the cliffs, whose half-encircling mound

As in a sylvan theatre enclosed

That flowery level. On the river's brink

I spied a fair pavilion, which diffused

Its floating umbrage‘ mid the silver shade

Of osiers. Now the western sun reveal'd

Between two parting cliffs his golden orb,

And pour'd across the shadow of the hills,

On rocks and floods, a yellow stream of light

That cheer'd the solemn scene. My listening powers

Were awed, and every thought in silence hung,

And wondering expectation. Then the voice

Of that celestial power, the mystic show

Declaring, thus my deep attention call'd:—

‘ Inhabitant of earth, to whom is given

The gracious ways of Providence to learn,

Receive my sayings with a steadfast ear —

Know then, the Sovereign Spirit of the world,

Though, self-collected from eternal time,

Within his own deep essence he beheld

The bounds of true felicity complete,

Yet by immense benignity inclined

To spread around him that primeval joy

Which fill'd himself, he raised his plastic arm,

And sounded through the hollow depths of space

The strong, creative mandate. Straight arose

These heavenly orbs, the glad abodes of life,

Effusive kindled by his breath divine

Through endless forms of being. Each inhaled

From him its portion of the vital flame,

In measure such, that, from the wide complex

Of coexistent orders, one might rise,

One order, all-involving and entire.

He too, beholding in the sacred light

Of his essential reason, all the shapes

Of swift contingence, all successive ties

Of action propagated through the sum

Of possible existence, he at once,

Down the long series of eventful time,

So fix'd the dates of being, so disposed,

To every living soul of every kind

The field of motion and the hour of rest,

That all conspired to his supreme design,

To universal good: with full accord

Answering the mighty model he had chose,

The best and fairest of unnumber'd worlds

That lay from everlasting in the store

Of his divine conceptions. Nor content,

By one exertion of creative power

His goodness to reveal; through every age,

Through every moment up the tract of time,

His parent hand with ever new increase

Of happiness and virtue has adorn'd

The vast harmonious frame: his parent hand,

From the mute shell-fish gasping on the shore,

To men, to angels, to celestial minds,

For ever leads the generations on

To higher scenes of being; while, supplied

From day to day with his enlivening breath,

Inferior orders in succession rise

To fill the void below. As flame ascends,

As bodies to their proper centre move,

As the poised ocean to the attracting moon

Obedient swells, and every headlong stream

Devolves its winding waters to the main;

So all things which have life aspire to God,

The sun of being, boundless, unimpair'd,

Centre of souls! Nor does the faithful voice

Of Nature cease to prompt their eager steps

Aright; nor is the care of Heaven withheld

From granting to the task proportion'd aid;

That in their stations all may persevere

To climb the ascent of being, and approach

For ever nearer to the life divine.—

‘ That rocky pile thou seest, that verdant lawn

Fresh-water'd from the mountains. Let the scene

Paint in thy fancy the primeval seat

Of man, and where the Will Supreme ordain'd

His mansion, that pavilion fair-diffused

Along the shady brink; in this recess

To wear the appointed season of his youth,

Till riper hours should open to his toil

The high communion of superior minds,

Of consecrated heroes and of gods.

Nor did the Sire Omnipotent forget

His tender bloom to cherish; nor withheld

Celestial footsteps from his green abode.

Oft from the radiant honours of his throne,

He sent whom most he loved, the sovereign fair,

The effluence of his glory, whom he placed

Before his eyes for ever to behold;

The goddess from whose inspiration flows

The toil of patriots, the delight of friends;

Without whose work divine, in heaven or earth,

Nought lovely, nought propitious, conies to pass,

Nor hope, nor praise, nor honour. Her the Sire

Gave it in charge to rear the blooming mind,

The folded powers to open, to direct

The growth luxuriant of his young desires,

And from the laws of this majestic world

To teach him what was good. As thus the nymph

Her daily care attended, by her side

With constant steps her gay companion stay'd,

The fair Euphrosyné, the gentle queen

Of smiles, and graceful gladness, and delights

That cheer alike the hearts of mortal men

And powers immortal. See the shining pair!

Behold, where from his dwelling now disclosed

They quit their youthful charge and seek the skies.’

I look'd, and on the flowery turf there stood

Between two radiant forms a smiling youth

Whose tender cheeks display'd the vernal flower

Of beauty: sweetest innocence illumed

His bashful eyes, and on his polish'd brow

Sate young simplicity. With fond regard

He view'd the associates, as their steps they moved;

The younger chief his ardent eyes detain'd,

With mild regret invoking her return.

Bright as the star of evening she appear'd

Amid the dusky scene. Eternal youth

O'er all her form its glowing honours breathed;

And smiles eternal from her candid eyes

Flow'd, like the dewy lustre of the morn

Effusive trembling on the placid waves.

The spring of heaven had shed its blushing spoils

To bind her sable tresses: full diffused

Her yellow mantle floated in the breeze;

And in her hand she waved a living branch

Rich with immortal fruits, of power to calm

The wrathful heart, and from the brightening eyes

To chase the cloud of sadness. More sublime

The heavenly partner moved. The prime of age

Composed her steps. The presence of a god,

High on the circle of her brow enthroned,

From each majestic motion darted awe,

Devoted awe! till, cherish'd by her looks

Benevolent and meek, confiding love

To filial rapture soften'd all the soul.

Free in her graceful hand she poised the sword

Of chaste dominion. An heroic crown

Display'd the old simplicity of pomp

Around her honour'd head. A matron's robe,

White as the sunshine streams through vernal clouds,

Her stately form invested. Hand in hand

The immortal pair forsook the enamel'd green,

Ascending slowly. Rays of limpid light

Gleam'd round their path; celestial sounds were heard,

And through the fragrant air ethereal dews

Distill'd around them; till at once the clouds,

Disparting wide in midway sky, withdrew

Their airy veil, and left a bright expanse

Of empyrean flame, where, spent and drown'd,

Afflicted vision plunged in vain to scan

What object it involved. My feeble eyes

Endured not. Bending down to earth I stood,

With dumb attention. Soon a female voice,

As watery murmurs sweet, or warbling shades,

With sacred invocation thus began:

‘ Father of gods and mortals! whose right arm

With reins eternal guides the moving heavens,

Bend thy propitious ear. Behold well pleased

I seek to finish thy divine decree.

With frequent steps I visit yonder seat

Of man, thy offspring; from the tender seeds

Of justice and of wisdom, to evolve

The latent honours of his generous frame;

Till thy conducting hand shall raise his lot

From earth's dim scene to these ethereal walks,

The temple of thy glory. But not me,

Not my directing voice he oft requires,

Or hears delighted: this enchanting maid,

The associate thou hast given me, her alone

He loves, O Father! absent, her he craves;

And but for her glad presence ever join'd,

Rejoices not in mine: that all my hopes

This thy benignant purpose to fulfil,

I deem uncertain: and my daily cares

Unfruitful all and vain, unless by thee

Still further aided in the work divine.’

She ceased; a voice more awful thus replied:—

‘ O thou, in whom for ever I delight,

Fairer than all the inhabitants of Heaven,

Best image of thy Author! far from thee

Be disappointment, or distaste, or blame;

Who soon or late shalt every work fulfil,

And no resistance find. If man refuse

To hearken to thy dictates; or, allured

By meaner joys, to any other power

Transfer the honours due to thee alone;

That joy which he pursues he ne'er shall taste,

That power in whom delighteth ne'er behold.

Go then, once more, and happy be thy toil;

Go then! but let not this thy smiling friend

Partake thy footsteps. In her stead, behold!

With thee the son of Nemesis I send;

The fiend abhorr'd! whose vengeance takes account

Of sacred order's violated laws.

See where he calls thee, burning to be gone,

Pierce to exhaust the tempest of his wrath

On yon devoted head. But thou, my child,

Control his cruel frenzy, and protect

Thy tender charge; that when despair shall grasp

His agonising bosom, he may learn,

Then he may learn to love the gracious hand

Alone sufficient in the hour of ill,

To save his feeble spirit; then confess

Thy genuine honours, O excelling fair!

When all the plagues that wait the deadly will

Of this avenging demon, all the storms

Of night infernal, serve but to display

The energy of thy superior charms

With mildest awe triumphant o'er his rage,

And shining clearer in the horrid gloom.’

Here ceased that awful voice, and soon I felt

The cloudy curtain of refreshing eve

Was closed once more, from that immortal fire

Sheltering my eyelids. Looking up, I view'd

A vast gigantic spectre striding on

Through murmuring thunders and a waste of clouds,

With dreadful action. Black as night his brow

Relentless frowns involved. His savage limbs

With sharp impatience violent he writhed,

As through convulsive anguish; and his hand,

Arm'd with a scorpion lash, full oft he raised

In madness to his bosom; while his eyes

Rain'd bitter tears, and bellowing loud he shook

The void with horror. Silent by his side

The virgin came. No discomposure stirr'd

Her features. From the glooms which hung around,

No stain of darkness mingled with the beam

Of her divine effulgence. Now they stoop

Upon the river bank; and now to hail

His wonted guests, with eager steps advanced

The unsuspecting inmate of the shade.

As when a famish'd wolf, that all night long

Had ranged the Alpine snows, by chance at morn

Sees from a cliff, incumbent o'er the smoke

Of some lone village, a neglected kid

That strays along the wild for herb or spring;

Down from the winding ridge he sweeps amain,

And thinks he tears him: so with tenfold rage,

The monster sprung remorseless on his prey.

Amazed the stripling stood: with panting breast

Feebly he pour'd the lamentable wail

Of helpless consternation, struck at once,

And rooted to the ground. The Queen beheld

His terror, and with looks of tenderest care

Advanced to save him. Soon the tyrant felt

Her awful power. His keen tempestuous arm

Hung nerveless, nor descended where his rage

Had aim'd the deadly blow: then dumb retired

With sullen rancour. Lo! the sovereign maid

Folds with a mother's arms the fainting boy,

Till life rekindles in his rosy cheek;

Then grasps his hands, and cheers him with her tongue:—

‘ Oh, wake thee, rouse thy spirit! Shall the spite

Of yon tormentor thus appal thy heart,

While I, thy friend and guardian, am at hand

To rescue and to heal? Oh, let thy soul

Remember, what the will of heaven ordains

Is ever good for all; and if for all,

Then good for thee. Nor only by the warmth

And soothing sunshine of delightful things,

Do minds grow up and flourish. Oft misled

By that bland light, the young unpractised views

Of reason wander through a fatal road,

Far from their native aim; as if to lie

Inglorious in the fragrant shade, and wait

The soft access of ever circling joys,

Were all the end of being. Ask thyself,

This pleasing error did it never lull

Thy wishes? Has thy constant heart refused

The silken fetters of delicious ease?

Or when divine Euphrosyné appear'd

Within this dwelling, did not thy desires

Hang far below the measure of thy fate,

Which I reveal'd before thee, and thy eyes,

Impatient of my counsels, turn away

To drink the soft effusion of her smiles?

Know then, for this the everlasting Sire

Deprives thee of her presence, and instead,

O wise and still benevolent! ordains

This horrid visage hither to pursue

My steps; that so thy nature may discern

Its real good, and what alone can save

Thy feeble spirit in this hour of ill

From folly and despair. O yet beloved!

Let not this headlong terror quite o'erwhelm

Thy scatter'd powers; nor fatal deem the rage

Of this tormentor, nor his proud assault,

While I am here to vindicate thy toil,

Above the generous question of thy arm.

Brave by thy fears and in thy weakness strong,

This hour he triumphs: but confront his might,

And dare him to the combat, then with ease

Disarm'd and quell'd, his fierceness he resigns

To bondage and to scorn: while thus inured

By watchful danger, by unceasing toil,

The immortal mind, superior to his fate,

Amid the outrage of external things,

Firm as the solid base of this great world,

Rests on his own foundations. Blow, ye winds!

Ye waves! ye thunders! roll your tempest on;

Shake, ye old pillars of the marble sky!

Till all its orbs and all its worlds of fire

Be loosen'd from their seats; yet still serene,

The unconquer'd mind looks down upon the wreck;

And ever stronger as the storms advance,

Firm through the closing ruin holds his way,

Where Nature calls him to the destined goal.’

So spake the goddess; while through all her frame

Celestial raptures flow'd, in every word,

In every motion kindling warmth divine

To seize who listen'd. Vehement and swift

As lightning fires the aromatic shade

In Aethiopian fields, the stripling felt

Her inspiration catch his fervid soul,

And starting from his languor thus exclaim'd:—

‘ Then let the trial come! and witness thou,

If terror be upon me; if I shrink

To meet the storm, or falter in my strength

When hardest it besets me. Do not think

That I am fearful and infirm of soul,

As late thy eyes beheld: for thou hast changed

My nature; thy commanding voice has waked

My languid powers to bear me boldly on,

Where'er the will divine my path ordains

Through toil or peril: only do not thou

Forsake me; Oh, be thou for ever near,

That I may listen to thy sacred voice,

And guide by thy decrees my constant feet.

But say, for ever are my eyes bereft?

Say, shall the fair Euphrosyné not once

Appear again to charm me? Thou, in heaven!

O thou eternal arbiter of things!

Be thy great bidding done: for who am I,

To question thy appointment? Let the frowns

Of this avenger every morn o'ercast

The cheerful dawn, and every evening damp

With double night my dwelling; I will learn

To hail them both, and unrepining bear

His hateful presence: but permit my tongue

One glad request, and if my deeds may find

Thy awful eye propitious, oh! restore

The rosy-featured maid; again to cheer

This lonely seat, and bless me with her smiles.’

He spoke; when instant through the sable glooms

With which that furious presence had involved

The ambient air, a flood of radiance came

Swift as the lightning flash; the melting clouds

Flew diverse, and amid the blue serene

Euphrosyné appear'd. With sprightly step

The nymph alighted on the irriguous lawn,

And to her wondering audience thus began:—

‘ Lo! I am here to answer to your vows,

And be the meeting fortunate! I come

With joyful tidings; we shall part no more —

Hark! how the gentle echo from her cell

Talks through the cliffs, and murmuring o'er the stream

Repeats the accents; we shall part no more.—

O my delightful friends! well pleased on high

The Father has beheld you, while the might

Of that stern foe with bitter trial proved

Your equal doings: then for ever spake

The high decree, that thou, celestial maid!

Howe'er that grisly phantom on thy steps

May sometimes dare intrude, yet never more

Shalt thou, descending to the abode of man,

Alone endure the rancour of his arm,

Or leave thy loved Euphrosyné behind.’

She ended, and the whole romantic scene

Immediate vanish'd; rocks, and woods, and rills,

The mantling tent, and each mysterious form

Flew like the pictures of a morning dream,

When sunshine fills the bed. Awhile I stood

Perplex'd and giddy; till the radiant power

Who bade the visionary landscape rise,

As up to him I turn'd, with gentlest looks

Preventing my inquiry, thus began:—

‘ There let thy soul acknowledge its complaint

How blind, how impious! There behold the ways

Of Heaven's eternal destiny to man,

For ever just, benevolent, and wise:

That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued

By vexing fortune and intrusive pain,

Should never be divided from her chaste,

Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge

Thy tardy thought through all the various round

Of this existence, that thy softening soul

At length may learn what energy the hand

Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide

Of passion swelling with distress and pain,

To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops

Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,

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,

To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?

Oh! 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 hurl'd upon the coast

Some helpless bark; while sacred Pity melts

The general eye, or Terror's 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 shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud

As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms

For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,

As now another, dash'd against the rock,

Drops lifeless down: Oh! 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?—

Ask thy own heart, when, at the midnight hour,

Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye,

Led by the glimmering taper, moves around

The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs

Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame

For Grecian heroes, where the present power

Of heaven and earth surveys the immortal page,

Even as a father blessing, while he reads

The praises of his son. If then thy soul,

Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,

Mix in their deeds, and kindle with their flame,

Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,

When, rooted from the base, heroic states

Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown

Of cursed ambition; when the pious band

Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires,

Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian pride

Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp

Of public power, the majesty of rule,

The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,

To slavish empty pageants, to adorn

A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes

Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns

Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust

And storied arch, to glut the coward rage

Of regal envy, strew the public way

With hallow'd ruins; when the Muse's haunt,

The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk

With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,

Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,

Or female Superstition's midnight prayer;

When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time

Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow

To sweep the works of glory from their base;

Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street

Expands his raven wings, and up the wall,

Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd,

Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds

That clasp the mouldering column; thus defaced,

Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills

Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear

Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm

In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove

To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,

Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;

Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste

The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange

Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot

Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd

Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,

And bears aloft his gold-invested front,

And says within himself, I am a king,

And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe

Intrude upon mine ear?— The baleful dregs

Of these late ages, this inglorious draught

Of servitude and folly, have not yet,

Bless'd be the eternal Ruler of the world!

Defiled to such a depth of sordid shame

The native honours of the human soul,

Nor so effaced the image of its Sire.’