The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius

The voice of chearful Labour filled the dale;
And dove-eyed Plenty smiled, and waved her liberal horn.

III. 2

Yon ruins, sable from the wasting flame,
But mark the once resplendent dome;
The frequent corse obstructs the sullen stream,
And ghosts glare horrid from the sylvan gloom.
How sadly silent all!
Save where, outstretched beneath yon hanging wall,
Pale Famine moans with feeble breath,
And Anguish yells, and grinds his bloody teeth.
Though vain the Muse, and every melting lay,
To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse!
Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the way;
I see, I see the years begin their mighty course.

III. 3

What scenes of glory rise
Before my dazzled eyes!
Young zephyrs wave their wanton wings,
And melody celestial rings.
All blooming on the lawn the nymphs advance,
And touch the lute, and range the dance:
And the blithe shepherds, on the mountain’s side,
Arrayed in all their rural pride,
Exalt the festive note,
Inviting Echo from her inmost grot —
But ah! the landscape glows with fainter light;
It darkens, swims, and flies for ever from my sight.

IV. 1

Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside
Where sordid gold the breast alarms,
Where Cruelty inflames the eye of Pride,
And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure’s arms?
Ambition, these are thine!
These from the soul erase the form divine;
And quench the animating fire,
That warms the bosom with sublime desire.
Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel,
And Hatred triumphs on the o’erwhelming brow,
And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel;
Blaze the blue flames of death, and sound the shrieks of woe.

IV. 2

From Albion fled, thy once beloved retreat,
What regions brighten in thy smile,
Creative Peace! and underneath thy feet
See sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil?
In bleak Siberia blows,
Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose?
Waved over by thy magic wand,
Does life inform fell Lybia’s burning sand?
Or does some isle thy parting flight detain,
Where roves the Indian through primæval shades;
Haunts the pure pleasures of the sylvan reign,
And, led by Reason’s light, the path of Nature treads?

IV. 3

On Cuba’s utmost steep,
Far leaning o’er the deep,
The Goddess’ pensive form was seen:
Her robe, of Nature’s varied green,
Waved on the gale; grief dimmed her radiant eyes,
Her bosom heaved with boding sighs.
She eyed the main; where, gaining on the view,
Emerging from the ethereal blue,
Midst the dread pomp of war,
Blazed the Iberian streamer from afar:
She saw; and, on refulgent pinions borne,
Slow winged her way sublime, and mingled with the morn.

THE TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY

Memory, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes so deeply stained with sorrow’s dye?
Is there in all thy stores no cheerful draught,
To brighten yet once more in Fancy’s eye?

Yes – from afar a landscape seems to rise,
Embellished by the lavish hand of spring;
Thin gilded clouds float lightly through the skies,
And laughing loves disport on fluttering wing.

How blest the youth in yonder valley laid!
What smiles in every conscious feature play!
While, to the murmurs of the breezy glade,
His merry pipe attunes the rural lay.

Hail, Innocence! whose bosom all serene,
Feels not, as yet, the internal tempest roll.
Oh, ne’er may care distract thy placid mein!
Ne’er may the shades of doubt o’erwhelm thy soul!