He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives, Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd, And blended with his own.--No more she lives! No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives His thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious wind The Future's darkling maze!--His wish refin'd, The wish to please, exists no more, that gives The will its energy, the nerves their tone!-- He feels the texture of his quiet torn, And stopt the settled course that Action drew; Life stands suspended--motionless--till thrown By outward causes, into channels new;-- But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!
[1]In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay, Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade, Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray. Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid, Starts;--and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd, Slides in his half-clos'd hand;--and speeds away.-- “Ye eyes, ye human stars!--if, thus conceal'd By Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart, Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd Your rays had shone!”--Bright Nymph, thy strains impart Hopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove, Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.
1: This romantic circumstance of our great Poet's juvenility was inserted, as a well known fact, in one of the General Evening Posts in the Spring 1789, and it was there supposed to have formed the first impulse of his Italian journey.
He found her not;--yet much the POET found, To swell Imagination's golden store, On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore, Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound, Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round Her ruin'd towers and temples;--classic lore Breathing sublimer spirit from the power Of local consciousness.--Thrice happy wound, Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair “Hung over them enamour'd,” the desire Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there, Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre, Might haply fan the emulative flame, That rose o'er DANTE's song, and rival'd MARO's fame.
THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].
Lo! modern Critics emulously dare Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone And massy words their true _no meaning_ down! But while their envious eyes on Genius glare, While axioms false assiduously they square In arrogant antithesis, a frown Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown The _kindred malice_ with its mimic air. Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endure The incrustation hard without the _gem_? Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour, The Oak's rough knots on every _Osier_'s stem? The dark contortions of the Sybil bear, Whose inspirations never meet our ear?