AN ADDRESS TO POETRY. Helen Maria Williams Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Williams, Helen Maria, 1759-1827. Poems on various subjects: with introductory remarks on the present state of science and literature in France. London G. and W. B. Whittaker 1823 pp. [3]-17.

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AN ADDRESS TO POETRY . I. WHILE envious crowds the summit view , Where Danger with Ambition strays ; Or far , with anxious step , pursue Pale Av'rice , thro' his winding ways ; The selfish passions in their train , Whose force the social ties unbind , And chill the love of human kind , And make fond Nature's best emotions vain ; II . O , POESY ! O nymph most dear , To whom I early gave my heart , — Whose voice is sweetest to my ear Of aught in nature or in art ; Thou , who canst all my breast controul , Come , and thy harp of various cadence bring , And long with melting music swell the string That suits the present temper of my soul . III . O ! ever gild my path of woe , And I the ills of life can bear ; Let but thy lovely visions glow , And chase the forms of real care ; O still , when tempted to repine At partial Fortune's frown severe , Wipe from my eyes the anxious tear , And whisper that thy soothing joys are mine ! IV . When did my fancy ever frame A dream of joy by thee unblest ? When first my lips pronounc'd thy name , New pleasure warm'd my infant breast . I lov'd to form the jingling rhyme , The measur'd sounds , tho' rude , my ear could please , Could give the little pains of childhood ease , And long have sooth'd the keener pains of time . V. The idle crowd in fashion's train , Their trifling comment , pert reply , Who talk so much , yet talk in vain , How pleas'd for thee , O nymph , I fly ! For thine is all the wealth of mind , Thine the unborrow'd gems of thought ; The flash of light by souls refin'd , From heav'n's empyreal source exulting caught . VI . And ah ! when destin'd to forego The social hour with those I love , — That charm which brightens all below , That joy all other joys above , And dearer to this breast of mine , O Muse ! than aught thy magic power can give , — Then on the gloom of lonely sadness shine , And bid thy airy forms around me live . VII . Thy page , O SHAKESPEARE ! let me view , Thine ! at whose name my bosom glows ; Proud that my earliest breath I drew In that blest isle where SHAKESPEARE rose ! Where shall my dazzled glances roll ? Shall I pursue gay Ariel's flight ? Or wander where those hags of night With deeds unnam'd shall freeze my trembling soul ? VIII . Plunge me , foul sisters ! in the gloom Ye wrap around yon blasted heath : To hear the harrowing rite I come , That calls the angry shades from death ! Away — my frighted bosom spare ! Let true Cordelia pour her filial sigh , Let Desdemona lift her pleading eye , And poor Ophelia sing in wild despair ! IX . When the bright noon of summer streams In one wide flash of lavish day , As soon shall mortal count the beams , As tell the powers of SHAKESPEARE'S lay ! O , Nature's Poet ! the untaught , The simple mind thy tale pursues , And wonders by what art it views The perfect image of each native thought . X. In those still moments , when the breast , Expanded , leaves its cares behind , Glows by some higher thought possest , And feels the energies of mind ; Then , awful MILTON , raise the veil That hides from human eye the heav'nly throng ! Immortal sons of light ! I hear your song , I hear your high-tun'd harps creation hail ! XI Well might creation claim your care , And well the string of rapture move , When all was perfect , good , and fair , When all was music , joy , and love ! Ere Evil's inauspicious birth Chang'd Nature's harmony to strife ; And wild Remorse , abhorring life , And deep Affliction , spread their shade on earth . XII Blest Poesy ! O , sent to calm The human pains which all must feel , Still shed on life thy precious balm , And every wound of nature heal ! Is there a heart of human frame Along the burning track of torrid light , Or 'mid the fearful waste of polar night , That never glow'd at thy inspiring name ? XIII . Ye Southern Isles , " The song of the bards or minstrels of Otaheite was unpremeditated , and accompanied with music . They were continually going about from place to place ; and they were rewarded by the master of the house with such things as the one wanted , and the other could spare . " — Cook's Voyage . emerg'd so late Where the Pacific billow rolls , Witness , though rude your simple state , How heav'n-taught verse can melt your souls ! Say , when you hear the wand'ring bard , How thrill'd ye listen to his lay , By what kind arts ye court his stay , — All savage life affords his sure reward . XIV . So , when great HOMER'S chiefs prepare , Awhile from War's rude toils releas'd , The pious hecatomb , and share The flowing bowl , and genial feast : Some heav'nly minstrel sweeps the lyre , While all applaud the poet's native art ; For him they heap the viand's choicest part , And copious goblets crown the Muse's fire . XV. Ev'n here , in scenes of pride and gain , Where faint each genuine feeling glows ; Here , Nature asks , in want and pain , The dear illusions verse bestows ; The poor , from hunger , and from cold , Spare one small coin , the ballad's price , Admire their poet's quaint device , And marvel much at all his rhymes unfold . XVI . Ye children , lost in forests drear , Still o'er your wrongs each bosom grieves , And long the red-breast shall be dear , Who strew'd each little corpse with leaves ; For you my earliest tears were shed , For you the gaudy doll I pleas'd forsook , And heard , with hands uprais'd , and eager look , The cruel tale , and wish'd ye were not dead ! XVII . And still on Scotia's northern shore , " At times , between the rushing blast , " Recording mem'ry loves to pour The mournful song of ages past ; Come , lonely Bard " of other years ! " While dim the half-seen moon of varying skies , While sad the wind along the grey moss sighs , And give my pensive heart " the joy of tears ! " XVIII . The various tropes that splendour dart Around the modern poet's line , Where , borrow'd from the sphere of art , Unnumber'd gay allusions shine , Have not a charm my breast to please Like the blue mist , the meteor's beam , The dark-brow'd rock , the mountain stream , And the light thistle waving in the breeze . XIX . Wild Poesy , in haunts sublime , Delights her lofty note to pour ; She loves the hanging rock to climb , And hear the sweeping torrent roar ! The little scene of cultur'd grace But faintly her expanded bosom warms ; She seeks the daring stroke , the awful charms , Which Nature's pencil throws on Nature's face . XX . O , Nature ! thou whose works divine Such rapture in this breast inspire , As makes me dream one spark is mine Of Poesy's celestial fire ; When doom'd , " in cities pent , " to leave The kindling morn's unfolding view , Which ever wears some aspect new , And all the shadowy forms of soothing eve ; XXI . Then , THOMSON , then be ever near , And paint whatever season reigns ; Still let me see the varying year , And worship Nature in thy strains ; Now , when the wint'ry tempests roll , Unfold their dark and desolating form , Rush in the savage madness of the storm , And spread those horrors that exalt my soul ! XXII . And , POPE the music of thy verse Shall winter's dreary gloom dispel , And fond remembrance oft rehearse The moral song she knows so well ; The sportive sylphs shall flutter here , — There Eloise , in anguish pale , " Kiss with cold lips the sacred veil , " And drop with every bead too soft a tear ! " XXIII . When disappointment's sick'ning pain With chilling sadness numbs my breast , That feels its dearest hope was vain , And bids its fruitless struggles rest ; When those for whom I wish to live , With cold suspicion wrong my aching heart ; Or , doom'd from those for ever lov'd to part , And feel a sharper pang than death can give ; XXIV . Then with the mournful Bard I go , Whom " melancholy mark'd her own , " While tolls the curfew , solemn , slow , And wander amid graves unknown ; With yon pale orb , lov'd poet , come ! While from those elms long shadows spread , And where the lines of light are shed , Read the fond record of the rustic tomb ! XXV . Or let me o'er old Conway's flood Hang on the frowning rock , and trace The characters that , wove in blood , Stamp'd the dire fate of EDWARD'S race ; Proud tyrant ! tear thy laurell'd plume ; How poor thy vain pretence to deathless fame ! The injur'd Muse records thy lasting shame , And she has power to " ratify thy doom . " XXVI . Nature , when first she smiling came , To wake within the human breast The sacred Muse's hallow'd flame , And earth , with heav'n's rich spirit blest ! Nature in that auspicious hour , With awful mandate , bade the Bard The register of glory guard , And gave him o'er all mortal honours power . XXVII . Can Fame on Painting's aid rely ? Or lean on Sculpture's trophy'd bust ? — The faithless colours bloom to die , The crumbling pillar mocks its trust ; But thou , O Muse , immortal maid ! Canst paint the godlike deeds that praise inspire , Or worth , that lives but in the mind's desire , In tints that only shall with Nature fade ! XXVIII . O tell me , partial nymph ! what rite , What incense sweet , what homage true , Draws from thy fount of purest light The flame it lends a chosen few ? Alas ! these lips can never frame The mystic vow that moves thy breast ; Yet by thy joys my life is blest , And my fond soul shall consecrate thy name .