The Library | Page 6

form are seen,
Now in disgrace: what though by time is spread

Polluting dust o'er every reverend head;
What though beneath yon
gilded tribe they lie,
And dull observers pass insulting by:
Forbid it
shame, forbid it decent awe,
What seems so grave, should no
attention draw!
Come, let us then with reverend step advance,
And
greet--the ancient worthies of ROMANCE.
Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread,
A thousand visions float
around my head:
Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound,

And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round;
See! moats and
bridges, walls and castles rise,
Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before
our eyes;
Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate,
And bloody
hand that beckons on to fate:-
"And who art thou, thou little page,
unfold?
Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold?
Go tell him
straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign
The captive queen;--for Claribel
is mine."
Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds,
Black suits of
armour, masks, and foaming steeds;
The giant falls; his recreant
throat I seize,
And from his corslet take the massy keys:-
Dukes,
lords, and knights, in long procession move,
Released from bondage
with my virgin love:-
She comes! she comes! in all the charms of
youth,
Unequall'd love, and unsuspected truth!
Ah! happy he who
thus, in magic themes,
O'er worlds bewitch'd, in early rapture dreams,

Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand,
And Fancy's
beauties fill her fairy land;
Where doubtful objects strange desires
excite,
And Fear and Ignorance afford delight.
But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys,
Which Reason scatters, and
which Time destroys;
Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls

My busied mind from tales and madrigals;
My doughty giants all are
slain or fled,
And all my knignts--blue, green, and yellow--dead!

No more the midnight fairy tribe I view,
All in the merry moonshine
tippling dew;
E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,
The
churchyard ghost, is now at rest again;
And all these wayward

wanderings of my youth
Fly Reason's power, and shun the light of
Truth.
With Fiction then does real joy reside,
And is our reason the delusive
guide?
Is it then right to dream the syrens sing?
Or mount
enraptured on the dragon's wing?
No; 'tis the infant mind, to care
unknown,
That makes th' imagined paradise its own;
Soon as
reflections in the bosom rise,
Light slumbers vanish from the clouded
eyes:
The tear and smile, that once together rose,
Are then divorced;
the head and heart are foes:
Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious
plan,
And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.
While thus, of power and fancied empire vain,
With various thoughts
my mind I entertain;
While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,

Pleased with the pride that will not let them please,
Sudden I find
terrific thoughts arise,
And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes;
For,
lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,
I see the CRITIC army
ranged around.
Foes to our race! if ever ye have known
A father's fears for offspring
of your own;
If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line,
Ye thought the
sudden sentiment divine,
Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of
doubt,
With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out;-
If, after fearing
much and pausing long,
Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song,

And from the crusty critics of those days
Implored the feeble
tribute of their praise;
Remember now the fears that moved you then,

And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen.
What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foes
Lie waiting all around
them to oppose!
What treacherous friends betray them to the fight!

What dangers threaten them--yet still they write:
A hapless tribe! to
every evil born,
Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn:

Strangers they come, amid a world of woe,
And taste the largest
portion ere they go.

Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;
The roof, methought,
return'd a solemn sound;
Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds,
like smoke,
From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke;
Gathering
above, like mists condensed they seem,
Exhaled in summer from the
rushy stream;
Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine

Round the large members of a form divine;
His silver beard, that
swept his aged breast,
His piercing eye, that inward light express'd,

Were seen,--but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest.
Fear chill'd my
heart: to one of mortal race,
How awful seem'd the Genius of the
place!
So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw
His parent-shade, and
shrunk in pious awe;
Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,

When from the pitying power broke forth a solemn sound:-
"Care
lives with all; no rules, no precepts save
The wise from woe, no
fortitude the brave;
Grief is to man as certain as the grave:

Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,
And hope shines
dimly through o'erclouded skies.
Some drops of comfort on the
favour'd fall,
But showers of sorrow are the lot of ALL:
Partial to
talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw
Th' afflicting rod, or break the
general law?
Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,
Life's
little cares and little pains refuse?
Shall he not rather feel a double
share
Of mortal woe, when doubly arm'd to bear?
"Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind
On the precarious
mercy of mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary