The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius

The tenderest Daughter, Sister, Parent, Wife.
In thee their patroness the afflicted lost;
Thy friends, their pattern, ornament, and boast;
And I – but, ah! can words my loss declare,
Or paint the extremes of transport and despair?
O Thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell,
My guide, my friend, my best-beloved, farewell!

ODE ON LORD HAY’S BIRTH-DAY

13TH MAY, 1767

A muse, unskilled in venal praise,
Unstained with flattery’s art;
Who loves simplicity of lays
Breathed ardent from the heart;
While gratitude and joy inspire,
Resumes the long-unpractised lyre,
To hail, O Hay, thy natal Morn;
No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves,
But twines with oak the laurel leaves,
Thy cradle to adorn.
For, not on beds of gaudy flowers
Thine ancestors reclined,
Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours,
All energy of mind;
To hurl the dart, to ride the car,
To stem the deluges of war,
And snatch from Fate a sinking land;
Trample the invader’s lofty crest,
And from his grasp the dagger wrest,
And desolating brand:

’Twas this that raised the illustrious line,
To match the first in fame;
A thousand years have seen it shine
With unabated flame:
Have seen thy mighty sires appear
Foremost in Glory’s high career,
The pride and pattern of the brave.
Yet, pure from lust of blood their fire,
And from Ambition’s wild desire,
They triumphed but to save.

The Muse with joy attends their way
The vales of peace along;
There, to its Lord the village gay
Renews the grateful song.
Yon castle’s glittering towers contain
No pit of woe, nor clanking chain,
Nor to the suppliant’s wail resound:
The open doors the needy bless.
The unfriended hail their calm recess,
And gladness smiles around.

There, to the sympathetic heart
Life’s best delights belong,
To mitigate the mourner’s smart,
To guard the weak from wrong.
Ye sons of luxury, be wise;
Know, happiness for ever flies
The cold and solitary breast;
Then let the social instinct glow,
And learn to feel another’s woe,
And in his joy be blessed.

O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare
For unsuspecting youth;
Ere Flattery her song prepare
To check the voice of Truth;
O may his country’s guardian power
Attend the slumbering Infant’s bower,
And bright, inspiring dreams impart;
To rouse the hereditary fire,
To kindle each sublime desire,
Exalt, and warm the heart.

Swift to reward a parent’s fears,
A parent’s hopes to crown,
Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,
That rear him to renown;
When, in his finished form and face,
Admiring multitudes shall trace
Each patrimonial charm combined;
The courteous yet majestic mien,
The liberal smile, the look serene,
The great and gentle mind.

Yet, though thou draw a nation’s eyes,
And win a nation’s love,
Let not thy towering mind despise
The village and the grove.
No slander there shall wound thy fame,
No ruffian take his deadly aim,
No rival weave the secret snare:
For Innocence, with angel smile,
Simplicity, that knows not guile,
And Love and Peace are there.

When winds the mountain oak assail,