English Poets of the Eighteenth Century - Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum
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JAMES MACPHERSON
["TRANSLATIONS" FROM "OSSIAN, THE SON OF FINGAL"]
FROM FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM
[FINGAL'S ROMANTIC GENEROSITY TOWARD HIS CAPTIVE ENEMY]
'King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, 'thy blood flows in the
veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they
loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the
hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face
brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp.
Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy
valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands
when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise
thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca!
Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful
soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared
thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with
slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid.
Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which thy
fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart
renowned, like the sun setting in the west!'
'King of the race of Morven!' said the chief of resounding
Lochlin, 'never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a
thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno:
few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I
said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We
have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the
shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy
halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let
the bards send his name who overcame to future years,
for noble was the strife of Malmour! But many of the
ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take
these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran!
When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells
shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.'
'Nor ship' replied the king, 'shall Fingal take, nor land
of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its
deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble
friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam
of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.'
'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the
dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring.
In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in
friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn
those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to
earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that
the children of the north hereafter may behold the place
where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he
leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought,
the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say,
and our fame shall last for ever!'
'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is
greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound
will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost
in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our
rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it
when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and
Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the
song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound,
and morning return with joy.'
We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed
their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened,
like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds
vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst
of the sky.
FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA
[COLMA'S LAMENT]
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.
The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours
down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn
on the hill of winds.
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love
rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung;
his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone,
by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the
wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why
delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise?
Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring
stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah!
whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from
my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race
have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!
Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a
while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer
hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the
tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why
delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes
forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey
on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come
not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here
I must sit alone!
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and
my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they
give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is
tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords
are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why
hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou
slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall
I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among
thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear
my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent;
silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh!
from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy
steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be
afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of
the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on
the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm!
I sit in my grief? I wait for morning in my tears!
Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till
Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should
I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the
stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the
hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in
the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter
shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my
voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends:
pleasant were her friends to Colma!
[THE LAST WORDS OF OSSIAN]
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song;
when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other
times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills and
heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona
[Ossian], the first among a thousand bards! But age is
now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times
the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But
memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years!
They say as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon
shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise
his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy
on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his
strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest.
My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a
sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark
moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving
trees!
CHRISTOPHER SMART
FROM A SONG TO DAVID
Strong is the lion-like a coal
His eyeball, like a bastion's mole
His chest against the foes;
Strong the gier-eagle on his sail;
Strong against tide th' enormous whale
Emerges as he goes:
But stronger still, in earth and air
And in the sea, the man of prayer,
And far beneath the tide,
And in the seat to faith assigned,
Where ask is have, where seek is find,
Where knock is open wide.
Beauteous the fleet before the gale;
Beauteous the multitudes in mail,
Ranked arms and crested heads;
Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild,
Walk, water, meditated wild,
And all the bloomy beds;
Beauteous the moon full on the lawn;
And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn
The virgin to her spouse;
Beauteous the temple, decked and filled,
When to the heaven of heavens they build
Their heart-directed vows:
Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these,
The shepherd King upon his knees,
For his momentous trust;
With wish of infinite conceit
For man, beast, mute, the small and great,
And prostrate dust to dust.
Precious the bounteous widow's mite;
And precious, for extreme delight,
The largess from the churl;
Precious the ruby's blushing blaze,
And Alba's blest imperial rays,
And pure cerulean pearl;
Precious the penitential tear;
And precious is the sigh sincere,
Acceptable to God;
And precious are the winning flowers,
In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers,
Bound on the hallowed sod:
More precious that diviner part
Of David, even the Lord's own heart,
Great, beautiful, and new;
In all things where it was intent,
In all extremes, in each event,
Proof--answering true to true.
Glorious the sun in mid career;
Glorious th' assembled fires appear;
Glorious the comet's train;
Glorious the trumpet and alarm;
Glorious th' Almighty's stretched-out arm;
Glorious th' enraptured main;
Glorious the northern lights a-stream;
Glorious the song, when God's the theme;
Glorious the thunder's roar;
Glorious, Hosannah from the den;
Glorious the catholic amen;
Glorious the martyr's gore:
Glorious, more glorious, is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down,
By meekness called Thy son;
Thou that stupendous truth believed,
And now the matchless deed's achieved,
Determined, dared, and done.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
FROM THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF
SOCIETY
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts It o'er,
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small,
And oft I wish amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest.
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.
But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
* * * * *
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire,
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew!
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages: dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze;
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore,
So blessed a life these thoughtless realms display;
Thus idly busy rolls their world away.
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here:
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They pleased, are pleased; they give, to get, esteem,
Till, seeming blessed, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise;
For praise, too dearly loved or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought,
And the weak soul, within itself unblessed,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper-lace;
Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year:
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
* * * * *
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind.
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose,
To seek a good each government bestows?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find:
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please:
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:
These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along the glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,
And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs--and God has given my share--
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return--and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How happy he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His Heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;--
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring:
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forget their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The days' disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault:
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.
Wear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place:
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door:
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.