From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Thro' the dark cave in, gleamy pageant past. The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy pow'rful verse. In scenes like these, which daring to depart From sober Truth, are still to Nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her TASSO'S art! How have I trembl'd, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd! When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword! How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British FAIRFAX Strung! Prevailing Poet! whose undoubting mind, Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung ! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murm'ring, strong and clear, And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmoni ous ear! All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led; Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! Then will I dress once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade; Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy 's laid! Meantime, ye Pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend lWhere'er HOME dwells, on hill, or lowly moor, To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend! ΤΟ THE TIBER. WRITTEN ABROAD, BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ. HAIL, sacred Stream, whose waters roll His grateful homage pays. And he, who led th' Aonian quire From Mantua's reedy lakes with osier's crown'd, Taught Echo from thy banks with transport to resound. Thy banks-alas! is this the boasted scene, This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain, Where sick'ning Nature wears a fainter green, And Desolation spreads her torpid reign? Is this the scene where Freedom breath'd, Bade all her roseate breezes fly, And make their fields more gay? Where is the villa's rural pride, Along the solitary road, The eternal flint by Consuls trod, For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed? Did here, in after-times of Roman pride, The musing shepherd from Soracte's height Unnumber'd towns and temples sprea,d Yes, Thou and Latium once were great, Her fame and thine triumphant springs. Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast Eternal Music breathes on Fancy's ear, And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead. Thy Cæsars, Scipios, Catos rise, The great, the virtuous, and the wise, In solemn state advance! They fix the philosophic eye, But chief that humbler happier train |