who swept by Slaughter’s scythe Stern nurse of Vultures! steam in putrid heaps
1796.
O ye that steaming to the silent Noon,
People with Death red-eyed Ambition’s plains!
O Wretched Widow
When on some solemn Jubilee of Saints
The sapphire-blazing gates of Paradise
Are thrown wide open, and thence voyage forth
Detachments wild of seraph-warbled airs
1796, Watchman.
The SAVIOUR comes! While as to solemn strains,
The THOUSAND YEARS lead up their mystic dance
Old OCEAN claps his hands! the DESERT shouts!
And soft gales wafted from the haunts of spring
Melt the primaeval North!
The Mighty Dead 1796.
Down the fine fibres from the sentient brain
Roll subtly-surging. Pressing on his steps
Lo! PRIESTLEY there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage,
Whom that my fleshly eye hath never seen
A childish pang of impotent regret
Hath thrill’d my heart. Him from his native land
1796.
Up the fine fibres thro’ the sentient brain
Pass in fine surges. Pressing on his steps
Lo! Priestley there
1803.
Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze
Bright as what glories of the jasper throne
Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes
Of Spirits adoring! Ye blest years! must end
1796.
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON
O what a wonder seems the fear of death,
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,
Babes, Children, Youths, and Men,
Night following night for threescore years and ten!
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 5
To sigh and pant with, up Want’s rugged steep.
Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!
Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 10
A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
(That all bestowing, this withholding all)
Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome
Sound like a seeking Mother’s anxious call,
Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home! 15
Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven
Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod!
Thou! O vain word! thou dwell’st not with the clod! 20
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
Thou at the throne of mercy and thy God
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
(Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.
Yet oft, perforce (‘tis suffering Nature’s call), 25
I weep that heaven-born Genius so should fall;
And oft, in Fancy’s saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison’d bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
Thy corse of livid hue; 30
Now Indignation checks the feeble sigh,
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!
Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne’er in vain
Pour’d forth his lofty strain? 35
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment’s shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay’d.
And o’er her darling dead
Pity hopeless hung her head, 40
While ‘mid the pelting of that merciless storm,’
Sunk to the cold earth Otway’s famish’d form!
Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel came.
Lighthearted youth! aye, as he hastes along, 45
He meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray’d the Dacyan foe;
And while the numbers flowing strong
In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
Exulting in the spirits’ genial throe 50
In tides of power his lifeblood seems to flow.
And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim! 55
Wings grow within him; and he soars above
Or Bard’s or Minstrel’s lay of war or love.
Friend
