I GAVE my Harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long,
They will not speak at my command ;-
They warble only to her song.
Of dear departed hours,
Too fondly loved to last,
The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers,
Snapt in their freshness by the blast:
Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering Nature yields her breath, And endless ages of despair,
Beyond the judgment-day or death:
The weeping Minstrel sings;
And while her numbers flow,
My spirit trembles with the strings,
Responsive to the notes of woe.
Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And wake this wild harp's clearest tones,
The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb, or only utter moans.
And yet, to soothe the mind
With luxury of grief,
The soul to suffering all resign'd
In Sorrow's music feels relief.
Thus o'er the light Eolian lyre
The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play ;
Till all the air around,
Mysterious murmurs fill,
A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,-yet mournful still.
O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who has been a stranger long;
O! strike it with sublime command,
And be the Poet's life thy song.
Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled,
Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead;
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close
In some calm sunset hour of peace ;-
Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of Youth,
Unchanging as JEHOVAH's love,
And everlasting as his truth :
Sing, heavenly Hope!-and dart thine hand
O'er my frail harp, untuned so long;
That Harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song.
Ah! then, this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.
Verses written for an Urn made out of the trunk of the Weeping Willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.
ERE Pope resign'd his tuneful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
The minstrel hung his harp in death
Upon the drooping willow;
That Willow, from Euphrates' strand,
Had sprung beneath his training hand.
Long as revolving seasons flew,
From youth to age it flourish'd,
By vernal winds and starlight dew,
By showers and sunbeams nourish'd;
And while in dust the Poet slept,
The Willow o'er his ashes wept.
Old Time beheld its silvery head
With graceful grandeur towering,
Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
The breezy lawn embowering,
Till, arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot
A grove of scions from one root.
Thither, at summer noon, he view'd
The lovely Nine retreating,
Beneath its twilight solitude
With songs their Poet greeting,
Whose spirit in the Willow spoke,
Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.
By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing;
Bright Ariel's troop, on Thames's side,
Around the Willow dancing;
Gay sylphs among the foliage play'd,
And glowworms glitter'd in the shade.
One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree
In beauty green and glorious,
"The hand," he cried, "that planted thee
O'er mine was oft victorious;
Be vengeance now my calm employ,—
One work of Pope's I will destroy."
He spake, and struck a silent blow
With that dread arm whose motion
Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,
And wields o'er land and ocean
The unremitting axe of doom,
That fells the forest of the tomb.
Deep to the Willow's root it went,
And cleft the core asunder,
Like sudden secret lightning, sent
Without recording thunder:
-From that sad moment, slow away
Began the Willow to decay.
In vain did Spring those bowers restore,
Where loves and graces revell'd,
Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,
The thin gray leaves dishevell❜d,
And every wasting Winter found
The Willow nearer to the ground.
Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,
At length the axe assail'd it:
It bow'd before the woodman's rage;
The swans of Thames bewail'd it,
With softer tones, with sweeter breath,
Than ever charm'd the ear of death.
O POPE! hadst thou, whose lyre so long
The wondering world enchanted,
Amidst thy paradise of song
This Weeping Willow planted;
Among thy loftiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green,—
Thy chosen Tree had stood sublime,
The storms of ages braving,
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of Time
Its verdant banner waving,
While regal pyramids decay'd,
And empires perish'd in its shade.
An humbler lot, O Tree! was thine,
-Gone down in all thy glory;
The sweet, the mournful task be mine,
To sing thy simple story:
Though verse like mine in vain would raise
The fame of thy departed days.
Yet, fallen Willow! if to me
Such power of song were given,
My lips should breathe a soul through thee,
And call down fire from heaven,
To kindle in this hallow'd Urn
A flame that would for ever burn.
A WALK IN SPRING.
I WANDER'D in a lonely glade,
Where, issuing from the forest shade,
A little mountain stream
Along the winding valley play'd,
Beneath the morning beam.
Light o'er the woods of dark brown oak
The west-wind wreathed the hovering smoke,
From cottage roofs conceal'd;
Below a rock abruptly broke,
In rosy light reveal'd.
'Twas in the infancy of May,
The uplands glow'd in green array,
While from the ranging eye
The lessening landscape stretch'd away,
To meet the bending sky.
"Tis sweet in solitude to hear
The earliest music of the year,
The blackbird's loud wild note,
Or, from the wintry thicket drear,
The thrush's stammering throat.
In rustic solitude 'tis sweet
The earliest flowers of spring to greet,-
The violet from its tomb,
The strawberry, creeping at our feet,
The sorrel's simple bloom.
Wherefore I love the walks of spring,-
While still I hear new warblers sing,
Fresh-opening bells I see;
Joy flits on every roving wing,
Hope buds on every tree.
That morn I look'd and listen'd long,
Some cheering sight, some woodland song,
As yet unheard, unseen,
To welcome, with remembrance strong
Of days that once had been ;-
When, gathering flowers, an eager child,
I ran abroad with rapture wild;
Or, on more curious quest,
Peep'd breathless through the copse, and smiled, To see the linnet's nest.
Already had I watch'd the flight
Of swallows darting through the light,
And mock'd the cuckoo's call;
Already view'd, o'er meadows bright,
The evening rainbow fall.
Now in my walk, with sweet surprise,
I saw the first spring cowslip rise,
The plant whose pensile flowers
Bend to the earth their beauteous eyes,
In sunshine as in showers.
Lone on a mossy bank it grew,
Where lichens, purple, white, and blue,
Among the verdure crept;
Its yellow ringlets, dropping dew,
The breezes lightly swept.
A bee had nestled on its blooms,
He shook abroad their rich perfumes,
Then fled in airy rings;
His place a butterfly assumes,
Glancing his glorious wings.
O, welcome, as a friend! I cried;
A friend through many a season tried,
Nor ever sought in vain,
When May, with Flora at her side,
Is dancing on the plain.
Sure as the Pleiades adorn
The glittering coronet of
In calm delicious hours,
Beneath their beams thy buds are born, 'Midst love-awakening showers.
Scatter'd by Nature's graceful hand,
In briary glens, o'er pasture land,
Thy fairy tribes we meet ;
Gay in the milkmaid's path they stand,
They kiss her tripping feet.
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