The shelves are full, all other themes are sped, Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread; Satire has long since done his best, and curst And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst; Fancy has sported all her powers away In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire,
Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal music on his tongue, That He who died below, and reigns above, Inspires the song, and that his name is Love.
[THE DUBIOUS AND THE POSITIVE]
Dubious is such a scrupulous good man,- Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. He would not with a peremptory tone Assert the nose upon his face his own; With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes-presumes-it may be so. His evidence, if he were called by law To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. Through constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense; Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not; What he remembers seems to have forgot; His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centering at last in having none at all.
Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear, He makes one useful point exceeding clear; Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme A sceptic in philosophy may seem, Reduced to practice, his beloved rule Would only prove him a consummate fool;
Useless in him alike both brain and speech, Fate having placed all truth above his reach; His ambiguities his total sum,
He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb. Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay, Their want of light and intellect supplied By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride:
Without the means of knowing right from wrong, They always are decisive, clear, and strong; Where others toil with philosophic force, Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course, Flings at your head conviction in the lump, And gains remote conclusions at a jump; Their own defect, invisible to them, Seen in another, they at once condemn, And, though self-idolized in every case, Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. The cause is plain and not to be denied, The proud are always most provoked by pride; Few competitions but engender spite,
And those the most where neither has a right.
TO A YOUNG LADY
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does. Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosomed as that watery glass And Heaven reflected in her face.
THE SHRUBBERY
O happy shades! to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if anything could please.
But fixed unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness everywhere, And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn While Peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.
The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley, musing, slow, They seek like me the secret shade, But not, like me, to nourish woe!
Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come.
[LOVE OF FAMILIAR SCENES]
Scenes that soothed Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing and of power to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirmed by long experience of thy worth And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou knowest my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While admiration feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, The sturdy swain diminished to a boy.
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear;
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful which, daily viewed, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: Praise justly due to those that I describe.
[MAN'S INHUMANITY]
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not coloured like his own, and, having power T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home: then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime
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