Classic Poem

O Muse, or fancied power, whoe'er thou art,
Dear to the feelings of my faithful heart,
Who to th' autumnal grove and summer mead
My willing steps and thousand times hast led,
Blest in whose love I spent the careless day
While youth and time slid unperceiv'd away;
If bold at length a loftier task to dare,
Now to the lines of tented camps repair:
Tho' the artillery of each rampir'd wing
To thy scar'd thought unusual wonder bring,
And tho' the gleaming front alarm from far,
And all the dread habiliments of war;
Yet, gentle virgin, still thy care shall be,
Tho' far from peace they wander and from thee,
The mind of virtue and the soul sincere;
Nor fear to go, for Talbot meets thee there.
How rare, O Talbot, is thy lot, to live
Blest with each gift that bounteous Heaven can give!
With fortune, health; with youth, a manly mind
By education's genuine lore refin'd!
That guardian genius, who thy conduct guides,
Smil'd on thy birth, and o'er thy life presides,
To Oxford's towers thy young impatience led,
And bound the wreath of science round thy head.
Soon came the wish that won thy willing heart,
To mark thro' Europe each politer art.
First to thy view fair France her charms display'd
Her vales, her plains, her hills in vines array'd;
Her vine-clad hills, where Nature, smiling, pours
A gay profusion and exhaustless stores;
Her vine-clad hills, where every muse might sing,
And poets wanton in perennial spring.
Such were the scenes that charm'd thy amorous sight,
Those fields of joy, those gardens of delight!
Then peace and plenty whisper'd in the gales,
And stretch'd for Gallia's shore the friendly sails,
Then Britain's rocks o'erhung the stormy main,
And ev'n loud ocean roll'd betwixt in vain.
But lo, proud Power, more fierce, more dreadful far,
At length unlocks the brazen gates of war,
Yields to the steeds of Havock's car the reins,
And giant Horror, fatal fiend! unchains,
Whose thirsting vengeance in this dark sojourn
For five long lustrums heaven had doom'd to mourn:
The fatal fiend in thunders rushes forth
Fierce as the tempests of his native north,
Climbs the tall cliffs, and waves with horrid hand
His black broad banner o'er the bleeding strand,
The angry beacon fires, with silent dread
Beheld far-blazing on the mountain's head,
Th' expanded bosom of the deep deforms,
Roars in each surge, and swells the sounding storms.
Commerce and Science, hapless maids! no more
Mount the swift bark, and sail from shore to shore:
They seek their ports; alas, in vain! for there
Dwells death with war, and famine with despair:
Their towns they seek; but there with sad surprise
They mark the towering battlements arise:
Last to their fields, with hopes of peace, they fly,
Till camps and castles strike th' astonish'd eye;
There for the woodland shade and crystal flood,
They mark the groves of steel and streams of blood:
The Harmonies unstring their useless lyres,
And Art's fair empire o'er the realms expires.
But, O my strains, to milder themes return,
Not yet the flaming tides of battle burn;
In gentler, happier scenes, while yet we may,
Awhile forget the dangers of the day,
Each boast, each beauty of the Gallic shore
With curious search, while yet we may, explore.
Soon to thy sight majestic Paris rose,
Where Seine, Burgundian stream, triumphant flows:
Serenely smiling at his sacred side
See Science, tended by the Arts, reside!
Then 'twas thy care a people to survey,
Ingenious, courtly, volatile, and gay:
Theirs is the land, where youthful Fashion strays,
Where Luxury her silken pride displays,
Where Pleasure reigns,—but Freedom is not found,
The plant that only blooms on British ground:
Plant of celestial growth, what honours thine—
Thy flowers immortal, and thy root divine!
But hence we haste to seek the wintry plains,
The land of old Helvetia's hardy swains,
Whose arms the Julian legions long withstood,
And bath'd the chains, that Rome had forg'd, in blood.
They ne'er, with hands in kindred wounds imbrued,
Th' imperial eagle's dreadful track pursued
O'er heaps of dead, with whom they once were free,
(Sad reliques of expiring liberty!)
But still the smiles that Cæsar's brow display'd,
With sullen frowning majesty repay'd.
Like them, their rough Descendants, fam'd in arms,
Whom the same soul of dauntless valour warms,
Still to the charge advance with martial rage,
But, ah! no more in freedom's fields engage:
Intent no more their country's rights to save,
With palms inglorious crown'd, and meanly brave,
From their own Alps and native mountains far,
They wake the rage of mercenary war,
And bend, as onward sweeps their Pyrrhic dance,
The Corsic neck beneath the yoke of France.
Guide of their march, Ambition lifts her eye,
And waves her glitt'ring oriflamb on high.
Meanwhile the faithless Gaul with proud command
Invades the rights of sinking Switzerland;
Ill-fated realm! adorn'd by freedom's reign,
By courage arm'd, by nature fenc'd, in vain!
To vanquish Rome, with conquest's nobler claim,
O'er your rude rocks the son of Carthage came.
But baser Bourbon's avarice of sway,
That stoops with false protection to betray,
With fraudful arts, and vengeance more severe,
Halts on the rock, and plants her standard there.
At length must Rome th' instructive tour complete,
The seat of arts, of empire once the seat.
Hail, lov'd Italia: on thy classic ground
Still, nurs'd by peace, the liberal arts abound.
Here Architecture's regal roofs arise,
And taller temples meet their kindred skies.
Here Music breathes her heavenly airs around,
While Painting lives, and listens to the sound.
But say, doth life inspire that ancient band,
Or the bold fancy of the sculptor's hand?
See Jove and thunder shake th' Olympian throne,
Soft Venus smile, and stern Alcides frown;
See where young Ammon storms proud Perfia's walls,
And, great in death, unconquer'd Julius falls!
Tho' from false fame their forms ideal sprung,
In dreams created, and in fable sung,
Or to the silence of the tomb convey'd
Their mortal frames in dust are long decay'd;
Here still the lasting lineaments we trace,
Nor can the waste of time th' immortal traits deface.
But oh, my faint, unequal lays despair
To speak the praise of Italy the fair:
Those vales where fam'd Florentian Arno slows,
Those groves and plains of plenty and repose,
Whose rich perfumes ambrosial scents diffuse,
Whose fruits nectareous flame with golden hues!
Such are the scenes that Europe's garden yields,
Rival of old Elysium's fabled fields.
Smit with surprise, behold the painter stand,
And his true pencil fail the master's hand!
The chisel oft its patient stroke suspend,
While Art and Nature, rival queens, contend!
Music awhile in wondrous magic bound
Forgets her power of soul-enchanting sound;
But soon, impatient to be silent long,
Declares her transport in a flood of song,
With louder voice resumes her siren strains,
And joins the general chorus of the plains.
And yet, O Talbot, may their charms no more
Withdraw thine eye from Albion's peaceful shore;
No more detain thee from thy native isle,
Blest with thy country's fond, maternal smile.
For thee the nymphs of Cambria's vales shall bring
The fruits of Autumn and the flowers of Spring,
For thee the vine adorn each green alcove,
For thee the orange blush in Margam's breathing grove.
Here shalt thou find the plants exotic rise
Whose vernal bloom with soft Italia vies,
Shalt find, if truth their rival charms compare,
Hills, vales, and groves, and gardens full as fair.
Yon hill, these groves, this garden's cool cascade,
Where erst in youth thy fond affection stray'd,
Of thy long absence from their shades complain,
And court thee to their solitudes again:
Return (they seem with silent voice to say),
Protract no longer thy unkind delay;
Leave the gay courts of Paris and of Rome,
And bring their taste, their arts, and learning home.
If still thy long-reluctant heart refuse,
Deaf to the voice of no unpartial muse,
Lo, soft Compassion wooes thee to her arms,
And sore Distress thy pitying breast alarms;
Distress, that weeps, and points to yonder plain,
Oft hear'd by thee, but never hear'd in vain:
See, to their sheds the trembling peasants fly,
Black thunders roll tempestuous o'er the sky!
See, from the clouds th'impetuous floods descend;
In vain the walls and faithless roofs defend;
Th' unsparing deluge sweeps the ruin'd plain,
And wafts their lost possessions to the main:
On whom shall they now fix their gloomy eyes?
On thee—the grateful multitude replies.
Thy fires in senates and in fields renown'd,
With olive wreaths and war-won laurels crown'd,
True to their prince, and champions of the laws,
They fought and conquer'd in their country's cause;
Oft round their warrior lords the hardy swains
Took arms, and march'd embattled on the plains;
For still, at liberty's inspiring call,
A train of heroes pour'd from Margam's hall,
Now, all alone, all silent in the grave
Repose the good, the eloquent, the brave:
Their fame, their worth, their memory Time invades,
And Fate surrounds them with her tenfold shades.
From the dark vault, where each great Mansel lies,
On thee we turn our all-expecting eyes;
Thee from their tombs the sacred dead implore
Their steps to follow, and their fame restore.
Hard is the task (a task for few design'd),
But heaven hath blest thee with a noble mind:
A mind that prompts the generous tear to flow,
And melting feels the pang of kindred woe;
That sacred deems the bounds of right and wrong,
And with abhorrence shuns the guilty throng;
That knows with hate demerit to pursue,
And glories to reward whene'er rewards are due.
To thee hath heaven the sacred task consign'd,
To introduce the arts that bless mankind,
To seat the liberal arts on Cambria's shore,
The arts, to Cambria little known before.
Led by thy hand, majestic Sculpture deigns
To leave the Tuscan for Glamorgan's plains:
See, Architecture's graceful form appears,
And all the desart with her presence cheers!
The gothic glooms her near approaches flee,
And leave the shades to science and to thee.
Whate'er thy lot assign'd by partial fate,
Fix'd in a public or a private state;
To gain in senates well-deserv'd applause,
And rise a patriot in thy country's cause;
To lead, if Britain call, and George command,
In future fields thy brave domestic band;
Or the dear blessings of a social life,
A blooming offspring and a tender wife:
Whate'er thy purpose, in whate'er degree,
Still virtuous fame shall thy great object be.
So may the Powers, propitious, ever shed
Their choicest, noblest influence on thy head:
So shall thy brows with palms of peace be crown'd,
So shalt thou live—lov'd, honour'd, and renown'd.