EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
At length to bless our tranquil dome,
At friendship's call, dear maid, you come;
And, pleas'd, exchange the outline grand
Of mountainous Northumberland,
For scenes, though not unknown to fame,
Where all is spiritless and tame.
Though, through our valleys softly flowing,
His waves in the bright sun beams glowing,
The silver Thames in classic pride,
And Kennet's mingled waters glide
And meads in richest verdure green,
Hedge rows and straw-roof'd cots are seen,
And spires high tap'ring to the skies,
And graceful villas frequent rise.
At friendship's call, dear maid, you come;
And, pleas'd, exchange the outline grand
Of mountainous Northumberland,
For scenes, though not unknown to fame,
Where all is spiritless and tame.
Though, through our valleys softly flowing,
His waves in the bright sun beams glowing,
The silver Thames in classic pride,
And Kennet's mingled waters glide
And meads in richest verdure green,
Hedge rows and straw-roof'd cots are seen,
And spires high tap'ring to the skies,
And graceful villas frequent rise.
Full smoothly flows the lay that tells,
Of smiling vales and gentle swells;
But how can I, a lowland maid,
Rear'd in fair Berkshire's softest shade;
Us'd to the slowly-weeping rill,
The forest rich, the fertile hill,
The balmy gale that gently blows,
Scarce ruffling the expanded rose:
How, my sweet mountain nymph, can I
Sing the dark grandeur, stern and high,
That frowns beneath your northern sky?
Yet well I love that rocky strand.
That proudly fair Northumberland;
For there, amid their mountains wild,
Your venerable parents smil'd;
There, still to kindred friendship true,
My noble cousins first I knew;
And with a sister's love was prest,
Sweet Mary! to thy glowing breast;
There, too, the last and dearest tie,
My father op'd his infant eye;
Play'd on those hills, a sportive boy,
And found the day too short for joy.
And oft parental fondness told,
The treasur'd tales of days of old;
Oft Tyne's fair banks his mem'ry drew,
For well those pleasant banks he knew;
Knew where the fairest flow'rets spread,
And where the timid bullfinch bred,—
And ever with the landscape gay,
Mix'd tales of childhood's happy day;
And ever on the darling theme
Threw May's bright sun, and fancy's beam
Then, pausing, view'd his ardent child,
And smil'd to hear her projects wild;
Yet cherish'd still her wish to see
The scenes of his lone infancy.
Of smiling vales and gentle swells;
But how can I, a lowland maid,
Rear'd in fair Berkshire's softest shade;
Us'd to the slowly-weeping rill,
The forest rich, the fertile hill,
The balmy gale that gently blows,
Scarce ruffling the expanded rose:
How, my sweet mountain nymph, can I
Sing the dark grandeur, stern and high,
That frowns beneath your northern sky?
Yet well I love that rocky strand.
That proudly fair Northumberland;
For there, amid their mountains wild,
Your venerable parents smil'd;
There, still to kindred friendship true,
My noble cousins first I knew;
And with a sister's love was prest,
Sweet Mary! to thy glowing breast;
There, too, the last and dearest tie,
My father op'd his infant eye;
Play'd on those hills, a sportive boy,
And found the day too short for joy.
And oft parental fondness told,
The treasur'd tales of days of old;
Oft Tyne's fair banks his mem'ry drew,
For well those pleasant banks he knew;
Knew where the fairest flow'rets spread,
And where the timid bullfinch bred,—
And ever with the landscape gay,
Mix'd tales of childhood's happy day;
And ever on the darling theme
Threw May's bright sun, and fancy's beam
Then, pausing, view'd his ardent child,
And smil'd to hear her projects wild;
Yet cherish'd still her wish to see
The scenes of his lone infancy.
!How true the wish! how pure the glow!
My lovely friend, full well you know.
Oft have you said, one heart, one mind,
The father and the daughter join'd,
In more than filial union twin'd.
Twas flatt'ry that; but to my ear
Was never flatt'ry half so dear.
Oh! who can e'er his virtues tell,
That loves so truly and so well?
When I would say how firm his mind,
I only think, to me how kind!
When I would tell the playful wit,
With which his radiant eyes are lit;
I only see the soften'd rays,
That fondly beam his Mary's praise.
When I would tell the satire keen,
That pierces dark corruption's scene;
I only hear his stifled breath,
When, hov'ring on the verge of death;
In speechless agony I lay,
By him restor'd to life and day.
Till gratitude's too keen excess
Dissolves in melting tenderness.
My lovely friend, full well you know.
Oft have you said, one heart, one mind,
The father and the daughter join'd,
In more than filial union twin'd.
Twas flatt'ry that; but to my ear
Was never flatt'ry half so dear.
Oh! who can e'er his virtues tell,
That loves so truly and so well?
When I would say how firm his mind,
I only think, to me how kind!
When I would tell the playful wit,
With which his radiant eyes are lit;
I only see the soften'd rays,
That fondly beam his Mary's praise.
When I would tell the satire keen,
That pierces dark corruption's scene;
I only hear his stifled breath,
When, hov'ring on the verge of death;
In speechless agony I lay,
By him restor'd to life and day.
Till gratitude's too keen excess
Dissolves in melting tenderness.
Oh! brighter these warm feelings glow'd!
Faster the tide of mem'ry flow'd!
When—vision oft by fancy rear'd—
My father's native home appear'd.
How diff'rent from the blooming bow'rs,
Breathing perfume from sweetest flow'rs,
In never-changing verdure gay,
And sparkling in the beam of May!
Now chill November's low'ring gloom,
Seal'd nature in her annual tomb;
And darksome fog, and misty rain,
Hid hill and valley, wood and plain.
Scarcely we saw the waving Tyne,
Through his rich vales in beauty twine;
Nought met our eyes but giant trees,
Yielding their last leaves to the breeze;
Save, where the sky's grey tinge was broke
By sullen clouds of blacker smoke;
And dusky children, by the cot,
Spoke the dark miner's wretched lot;
Bare was the wood, and damp the ground,
And all was sad,—for nature frown'd.
Faster the tide of mem'ry flow'd!
When—vision oft by fancy rear'd—
My father's native home appear'd.
How diff'rent from the blooming bow'rs,
Breathing perfume from sweetest flow'rs,
In never-changing verdure gay,
And sparkling in the beam of May!
Now chill November's low'ring gloom,
Seal'd nature in her annual tomb;
And darksome fog, and misty rain,
Hid hill and valley, wood and plain.
Scarcely we saw the waving Tyne,
Through his rich vales in beauty twine;
Nought met our eyes but giant trees,
Yielding their last leaves to the breeze;
Save, where the sky's grey tinge was broke
By sullen clouds of blacker smoke;
And dusky children, by the cot,
Spoke the dark miner's wretched lot;
Bare was the wood, and damp the ground,
And all was sad,—for nature frown'd.
Have ye not often dreamt, my fair,
Of bliss that mortals may not share?
Enchanting vales, that seem to rise
Fair as an earthly paradise?
Strains, such as charm the raptur'd ears
Of seraphs hov'ring o'er the spheres?
Such fragrance, as entranc'd the world
When Heaven's immortal gates unfurl'd?
Soft murm'ring breezes, that might calm
Despair's wild rage, with holy balm?
Deem'd all these angel-joys your own,
Then wak'd in darkness, and alone?
Felt a keen pang of sudden pain,
And turn'd, and tried to dream again?
Of bliss that mortals may not share?
Enchanting vales, that seem to rise
Fair as an earthly paradise?
Strains, such as charm the raptur'd ears
Of seraphs hov'ring o'er the spheres?
Such fragrance, as entranc'd the world
When Heaven's immortal gates unfurl'd?
Soft murm'ring breezes, that might calm
Despair's wild rage, with holy balm?
Deem'd all these angel-joys your own,
Then wak'd in darkness, and alone?
Felt a keen pang of sudden pain,
And turn'd, and tried to dream again?
So felt I, when gay fancy's theme
Had vanish'd, like an airy dream;
And still I cling, in reason's spite,
To hope's sweet tales and visions bright
She whispers, that the joy may come
Again with m lov'd sire to roam,
And tread, in summer's rosy hours,
His native fields and verdant bow'rs.
Had vanish'd, like an airy dream;
And still I cling, in reason's spite,
To hope's sweet tales and visions bright
She whispers, that the joy may come
Again with m lov'd sire to roam,
And tread, in summer's rosy hours,
His native fields and verdant bow'rs.
Oh! could I frame my artless lays
To speak, in accents meet, thy praise,
Northumberland! my rustic string
Of many a beauty wild should ring;
Of those fair ruins, which your sire
With all a chieftain's pride inspire,
As pointing to the mould'ring walls:
"Behold," he cries, "our father's halls!"
Of Kirkley's hospitable bow'rs:
Of stately Alnwick's gothic tow'rs;
And Cheviot! of thy mountains grey,
Bedew'd by Linskill's dashing spray:
But all unequal are my lays
To speak, of scenes like these, the praise.
To speak, in accents meet, thy praise,
Northumberland! my rustic string
Of many a beauty wild should ring;
Of those fair ruins, which your sire
With all a chieftain's pride inspire,
As pointing to the mould'ring walls:
"Behold," he cries, "our father's halls!"
Of Kirkley's hospitable bow'rs:
Of stately Alnwick's gothic tow'rs;
And Cheviot! of thy mountains grey,
Bedew'd by Linskill's dashing spray:
But all unequal are my lays
To speak, of scenes like these, the praise.
And see! amid these landscapes wild,
The vale in gentler beauties mild,
Where, rising from the shady wood,
Ascends your sister's bright abode.
Fair tow'rs, to mem'ry ever dear,
How desolate they now appear!
No more, dear mansion! can'st thou boast
The happy guest, the courteous host;
Thy noble master leaves thy halls,
To go where sacred duty calls;
And with lain goes the lovely dame,
Who shares his virtues and his fame;
No more is blooming Charlotte there,
In youthful beauty beaming fair;
No more the cherub infant train,
With fairy steps, trip o'er the plain;
Nor dearest John his sports pursues,
Unmindful of the morning dews!
The vale in gentler beauties mild,
Where, rising from the shady wood,
Ascends your sister's bright abode.
Fair tow'rs, to mem'ry ever dear,
How desolate they now appear!
No more, dear mansion! can'st thou boast
The happy guest, the courteous host;
Thy noble master leaves thy halls,
To go where sacred duty calls;
And with lain goes the lovely dame,
Who shares his virtues and his fame;
No more is blooming Charlotte there,
In youthful beauty beaming fair;
No more the cherub infant train,
With fairy steps, trip o'er the plain;
Nor dearest John his sports pursues,
Unmindful of the morning dews!
Rememb'rest thou, dear Mary, say,
The pleasures of that autumn day,
When through old Bothall's shady wood
We roam'd, by Wansbeck's devious flood?
Oh! never sure was scene so fair!
Scarce wav'd the aspen leaf in air,
The murm'ring of the gentle stream,
That glitter'd in the sunny beam;
The trees, in various foliage seen,
Some deck'd in summer's liv'ry green,
And some in autumn's mellow hue,
Reflected in the waters blue;
At distance seen the shelter'd mill,
Suspended o'er the tinkling rill;—
Sweet was that autumn day! and ne'er
Have I beheld a scene so fair.
The pleasures of that autumn day,
When through old Bothall's shady wood
We roam'd, by Wansbeck's devious flood?
Oh! never sure was scene so fair!
Scarce wav'd the aspen leaf in air,
The murm'ring of the gentle stream,
That glitter'd in the sunny beam;
The trees, in various foliage seen,
Some deck'd in summer's liv'ry green,
And some in autumn's mellow hue,
Reflected in the waters blue;
At distance seen the shelter'd mill,
Suspended o'er the tinkling rill;—
Sweet was that autumn day! and ne'er
Have I beheld a scene so fair.
Yet, though we boast not scenes like these.
Perchance our rustic walks may please;
While, gently fann'd by western gales,
We wander through the fertile vales;
Where blooms each flow'ret of the spring,
And birds their sweetest carols sing:
Or, view the peasant's white-wash'd cot,
And ponder o'er his simple lot;
Or, listen in the shelter'd lane,
To Philomela's tender strain.
Perchance our rustic walks may please;
While, gently fann'd by western gales,
We wander through the fertile vales;
Where blooms each flow'ret of the spring,
And birds their sweetest carols sing:
Or, view the peasant's white-wash'd cot,
And ponder o'er his simple lot;
Or, listen in the shelter'd lane,
To Philomela's tender strain.
Come then, my lovely cousin, come
And share with us our pleasant home!
No splendid fetes, no costly cheer,
Dear Mary! will await you here!
But simple pleasures, rural fare,
And merry rambles we will share;
And still, where'er our steps we bend,
Friendship and peace our paths attend.
And share with us our pleasant home!
No splendid fetes, no costly cheer,
Dear Mary! will await you here!
But simple pleasures, rural fare,
And merry rambles we will share;
And still, where'er our steps we bend,
Friendship and peace our paths attend.