Amyntas

The strains of young Amyntas, when disease
Prey'd on his frame, and hopeless of relief
With anxious soul He struck the solemn lyre,
I give to those, whose feelings, like his own,
Unwarp'd by dissipation, or the touch
Of morbid sensibility, are true
To genuine pity: who like him retired
Far from the world, but not with him condemn'd
To share the bitter cup, still love the tones
Pleasingly sad, which Nature prompts to flow,
Nor selfish from affliction turn their eye,
Nor scorn th' impassion'd Muse's hallow'd lay.
Thus in his secret haunts He struck the lyre,
And thus in solemn note the strains began.

Hail ye sequester'd rocks! ye pines which shed
Your melancholy horrors o'er my head!
Ye scenes, where Solitude unfolds her wings,
And silence still as death around her flings!
Not that I invocate your darkening glade,
To pour upon my mind a deeper shade:
Superfluous were your help to wake the strain
Of grief, when feeling nature bids complain:
When stern reflection speeds her arrow keen,
And piercing tells me "thus thou once hast been."
No, in the regal dome of festive pride
Where luxury expands her banners wide,
Where noisy riot, and unthinking mirth,
And the whole brood of folly take their birth,
Cheerless would sit the wretch o'erwhelm'd with pain,
And e'en a Siren's note would charm in vain.

Yet hail! for here I may without controul
Indulge the sad emotions of my soul.
Into this lonely place th' insulting eye
Of curious impudence will fail to pry.
From the false voice of harlot pity free,
Here I may give a loose to misery.
Here I may drag my languid seet and slow,
Here I may lay my drooping limbs full low,
On the cold ground in wild diffusion spread,
Nerveless my arms, and unsustain'd my head.

Why was I born? or why did I not come
A blasted Embryo from my mother's womb?
Curst be the moment when the midwife smiled,
And hail'd her parent of a living child.
Yet, I accuse not Heaven: I lived, I grew,
And seem'd as nurst by it's descending dew.
With joy and health thro childhood's paths I ran,
With joy and health thro youth rose up to man.
Yes, in the strength of rosy health array'd,
I've trod with active feet the verdant mead,
Elate, and conscious of her genial glow,
With active feet have climb'd the mountain's brow.
When the high-mettled blood with loosen'd reins,
Fiery and hot rush'd bounding thro the veins.
When every nerve with quick sensation fraught,
Each touch, sound, sight, to the warm seat of thought
Bore swiftly, and with pleasing stamp impress'd:
When sweet content, self-nurtured, in my breast
Fix'd her abode: from whom good-nature sprung,
She tuned each gentle accent of my tongue,
Spread o'er my cheeks her mild complacent air,
My forehead smoothed, and laugh'd at angry care.

Rather be curst the day, when in the pride
Of youth, and prodigal of strength, I tried
My limbs beyond what prudent nature gave:
When I with foolish emulation brave,
Tortured each tendon, every nerve, to gain
A bootless victory on the grassy plain:
Not used to share the wrestler's hardy deed,
Not form'd to bear away th' athletic meed.
Thence the cold sweat which now bedews my limbs,
Thence the damp mist before my eyes which swims,
The hoarse weak voice, and interrupted breath,
Each anxious presage of approaching death
Which terrifies my mind: it's powers decay'd,
No longer in it's wonted robes array'd
Of constancy, of firmness; ere I die
Reason seems dead, and dull fatuity
Threatens her vacant throne. Oh! dreadful thought!
Better have never been, better be nought,
Than just with sense enough to see and rue
The dismal change, to drag on life, and view
Blighted by sickness' harsh and wintery frown
Each intellectual blossom falling down,
Each intellectual fruit, which late so fair
Put forth by health and youth, the balmy air
Promised to ripen: to look round in vain
For gay imagination's vivid train,
The quick-wing'd thought, which gathering knowledge, flew
From Earth, to the blue arch of Heaven, or drew
Whene'er She pleased from her own secret store
Sweet entertainment: ope'd the hidden door,
Most difficult to open, and beheld
Herself in naked entity reveal'd.

What tho the lustre of these eyes is gone,
These eyes which once could gaze upon the sun
When in the centre of his noontide height
He pour'd redundant his strong beams of light!
What tho these nerves, thro which in gladsome tide
I felt the genial happy spirits glide,
With cold obstruction pine! I had not cared
If firm my mental eye, if my soul shared
It's pristine warmth, nor should corporeal pain
Howe'er tormenting, urge me to complain.
Yes, worse than racks or fire it is, to find
Erased the loved ideas of the mind,
Yet still surviving, o'er God's earth to stray
A mere mechanic piece of moving clay.

Tho even this perchance I might have borne,
Had not from out my suffering breast been torn
Her generous offspring; wisdom of the head,
Had not the virtues of the heart been dead
I might have spared. But where, alas! is now
That instantaneous sympathising glow
Which when another's sudden good was known
I felt like lightning o'er my bosom thrown?
Oh! I remember at the tale of grief
My loaded heart in tears hath found relief,
In purest drops from pity's genuine source.
Now self engrosses all, now self by force
Weighs down the nobler passions, in their stead
Suspicion, peevishness, and gloom succeed.
Fain would I fly from their detested sway,
Tho oft rebellious, still I must obey;
My soul is harrass'd out with anxious care,
And each unfriendly passion harbours there.

Ye Maids of Memory! who benignly bright
Ope'd your gay visions to my youthful sight:
Led by whose retrospective power I stray'd
Thro darksome shade, or sunny lawn, and play'd
With wild-eyed Fancy: while at her command
A thousand wing'd ideas rose, and fann'd
With light capricious plume my glowing face.
Ye Maids of Memory! wrapt in whose embrace
I've spent all day, and all the livelong night,
Nor wish'd, so ravishing was the delight,
Return of morn, as o'er your sacred page
I hung enamour'd, while with eager rage
I swallow'd as it were your magic lay.
Ye Maids of Memory, to whom I pay,
E'en now, faint adoration, for no more
Is left to pay, each rapturous thought is o'er,
The blaze of love which kindled in my breast
When to my wond'ring eyes you stood confest.
Witness, ye Maids of Memory, how my soul
Expatiated then, no mean controul
Shackled elastic thought, no straiten'd sphere
It's efforts circumscribed; was even air,
All-piercing air more free? then did I live,
Then could I pleasure take, then pleasure give,
Then dwelt I with the gay, or with the grave,
But now my soul is an imprison'd slave;
She strives indeed for freedom, but in vain,
So dark the dungeon, and so strong the chain.

With thee too God of wine, and of delight!
Attentive to the voice, and happy flight
Of inexpressive humour, I with joy
Have often sate; not thee with vile alloy
Of frontless ribaldry debased, but thee,
Where on each side of genuine liberty
Stood the fair forms of decency and sense.
They order'd social gayety dispense
Her blessings; widen'd friendship's raptured heart;
Bade into life each generous feeling start;
Awaken'd native genius; all around
Sincere, colloquial intercourse was found,
Communion sweet of souls. Alas! the hour
Is come, when I no longer own thy power.
Mirth, what art Thou? to me, an empty name.
I own it, tho I blush a crimson shame,
Society I hate: I shun the way
Of converse, as if there infection lay;
Far at a distance by myself I go,
For loneliness well fits the soul of woe.
Nor can I bear to be despised when seen,
Conscious I am not what I once have been,
The world must know the same: I feel, I feel
Contempt, more piercing than the sharpest steel;
Her ever-rankling wound no balm can cure,
The pain no mortal flesh can long endure.

I have not been despised: the listening ear
Hath wish'd again my ended speech to hear:
Not that I ask'd respectful awe to find,
But more, had gain'd the love of human-kind
By those who fully knew me, most carest,
By those who knew the secrets of my breast.
I have not been despised; the partial eye
Of beauty hath on me been cast, the sigh
Hath heaved the bosom of the pitying maid,
When I the sufferings of my heart display'd,
The hidden grief which prey'd upon my frame,
The secret fears, and ill-dissembled flame.

Ah! why was there to me a soul, just Heaven!
Susceptible of tender passion given!
Why did my eyes, which scorn'd the pomp of gold,
Enraptur'd, beauty's angel form behold?
Catch the quick glance? imbibe the gentle smart?
And pour the grateful frenzy o'er my heart?
While still my mind with higher notions fraught,
And a more noble dignity of thought,
Spurn'd each base impulse, nor to gain alone
Corporeal charms desired, but to be one,
One soul with her I loved, t' immingle there.
This, this I cried is only love sincere,
When wishes, passions, sentiments agree;
For such as these ethereal harmony
Starts from her sphere, and ravisht at the sight,
Dwells in their presence with supreme delight.
The joys these only know, these only prove
The feelings worthy the blest name of love.

Thus while I spake, around my youthful head
Delusive hope her flattering pinions spread,
Sprinkled her magic dust before my eyes,
And bade, as true, the airy visions rise.
Each soft domestic bliss methought was mine,
For me did cordial amity entwine
Her ever-florid wreathe. O vainly blind!
Now I perceive the folly of my mind
To plan down aught in this uncertain state:
Yet, who could trace the mazy steps of fate?
No, for me ne'er shall burn the nuptial fire,
No prattling infant e'er shall call me sire,
While sitting on my knee, my warm cheeks glow,
And my fond eyes with tenderness o'erflow.
A solitary being to the tomb
I must descend, snatcht in life's early bloom,
A solitary wretch, nor shall a tear
Of wife, or child wash my funereal bier.
Nor when time's mellowing hand shall bring relief,
And lenient years have soothed the pangs of grief,
With pleasing melancholy shall reflect
Upon my words, my actions recollect,
And keep my memory in their hearts awake
With "thus my Husband did, our Father spake."

Alas! why flow these murmurs from my mind,
When fair Religion whispers, be resign'd?
Resign'd I will be, for resign I must—
But till these limbs are mingled with the dust,
Till my soul takes it's flight, and cold and dead
This corpse is with it's brother reptiles laid,
(Nor is that time far off, with listless pain
The wasting evil creeps thro every vein)
Till I'm no more, within my faithful breast
The stamp by nature's cunning hand imprest
Will still prevail: if I were so inclined,
I can't forget that I'm of human-kind;
Still must look back, and idly wish to stay,
Still must look forward, shuddering with dismay,
Still must regret that I in vain was born,
And weep that I must sink in early morn;
Like a young oak in all his towering pride
Scathed by the lightning on the mountain-side.

What art thou Death! whose horrors can appall
The daring wicked, and the virtuous soul!
Can terrify the coward and the brave!
Fear'd by the free man, fear'd too by the slave!
If by thy aid when bursting from it's clay,
The soul soars upward to perennial day,
Mixes with angels in the blest abode,
Hymning Heaven's King, itself a Demigod;
Why doth not Nature gladly view thy face,
And yield with pleasure to thy kind embrace?
Why arm'd with an imaginary sting,
Shrinks She beneath thy overshadowing wing?
Why thanks not her deliverer from strife?
And hails thee, Death! the Harbinger of life?

Ah! why thou thinking Substance, if thy flame
From Heaven and Earth's immortal Father came,
Equal in kind, tho not so in degree,
Particle of th' eternal Deity,
Art thou to this vile mould so closely tied,
In chains of such strict unity allied,
As if on it thou solely didst depend,
It's birth thy origin, it's death thy end?
As grow it's members, thy sensations grow,
As flow it's juices, so thy spirits flow,
By age, or sickness as it's nerves decay,
Thou seem'st to languish, fade, and die away
An inmate of a cott, joyous and strong
While gentle gales the summer hours prolong;
But when the stormy gust, and wintry flaw
Pierce thro the crazy door, and roof of straw,
Shivering, and cold, and sad; confined at home,
Able, nor willing o'er the fields to roam:
And when a whirlwind's rage, or torrent's fall,
Shakes o'er thy trembling head the ruin'd wall;
O'erwhelm'd thou liest, or by the furious stream
Swept clean away, like a forgotten dream.

Ah, hold! I stand upon a mountain's brow,
And dark, and deep is the abyss below;
Reason recoils, and upward casts her eye
Where cherub Hope sails thro the azure sky,
Transparent is her vest, and from her wings
Strong-beaming rays of steady light She flings;
Join'd hand in hand with Faith She flys along,
Faith ever blooming, ever fair, and young,
Than fabled Hebe She more blooming far,
Her graceful head with a rependent star
Majestically crown'd; aloft they fly,
The lovely pair; nor can my dazzled eye
Pursue them farther, than to where it's sight
Is overpower'd by th' effulgent light
Of heavenly radiance issuing from above:
Yet sacred strains of rapture and of love
Break on my ear, and the sweet thrilling sounds
Soothe my sad soul, and ease her smarting wounds.

Help me, ye Powers! from out that soul to tear
Each mean, each groveling thought, which harbours there!
To mount on high, your shining track pursue,
Till Heaven unbounded bursts upon my view
By you upborne, oh, teach me to despise
Life's real evils, and imagined joys;
Look down with pity on the human race,
Then view myself, and blush at what I was.
Oh! give me Patience! give me to enfold
The virgin in my arms, give me to hold,
Forever hold her! feast on each sweet grace
Inherent in her never-frowning face;
Her steady eye, ne'er moved with grief, or pain,
Her rosy lips ne'er open'd to complain.
Support me, meek, firm Excellence! inspire
Into my fainting breast thy passive fire,
Which tho deprest, yet unextinguisht reigns,
And mid incumbent damps it's warmth maintains.
Support me while I live, and when I die,
Oh! teach me to depart without a sigh!

It will not be; enthusiast strains away!
I feel the cumbrous load of hateful clay.
A dark, thick cloud is cast before my sight,
Plunged headlong down from my presumptuous height.
Above mortality no man can go;
To do his best, is all that He can do.
Come on then Death! thou all-tremendous power!
Tho much I fear, I'll strive to meet thy hour;
Conflict the native strugglings of my breast,
Do what I may, and leave to Heaven the rest.
All-just! all-merciful! on thee depend
Hereafter's weal and woe; God! Father! Friend!

He ceased; the rocks, and solitary pines
Never received Him in their shades again.
He droop'd—the sable cloud thick veil'd his brow,
Amyntas yielded to the common lot.
No more was seen the Form which breathed around
Attractive animation: mute the tongue
Which pour'd th' harmonious lay, and still the heart
Where every soft sensation dwelt inshrined.
Yet Friendship to the grave his dear remains
Follow'd with unaverted face, and carved
These lines, distinguishing the sacred spot
From earth unsanctified, and vulgar dust.

Stranger! whose wand'ring steps approach this tomb,
Know that here lies in the pale arms of death
The young Amyntas; gentle was his soul
As sweetest music; to the charms of love
Not cold, nor to the social charities
Of mild humanity; in yonder grove
He wooed the willing Muse, Simplicity
Stood by, and smiled; here every night they come,
And with the Graces and the Virtues tune
The note of woe, weeping their Favourite,
Slain in the bloom, in the fair prime of life.
Would He had lived!—Alas! in vain that wish
Escapes thee; never Stranger! must thou see
The Youth; He's dead. The Virtuous soonest die.