MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DR WARTON.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DR WARTON . Oh ! I should ill thy generous cares requite Thou who didst first inspire my timid Muse , Could I one tuneful tear to thee refuse , Now that thine aged eyes are closed in night , Kind Warton ! Thou hast stroked my stripling head , And sometimes , mingling soft reproof with praise , My path hast best directed through the maze Of thorny life : by thee my steps were led To that romantic valley , high o'erhung With sable woods , where many a minstrel rung His bold harp to the sweeping waterfall ; Whilst Fancy loved around each form to call That fill the poet's dream : to this retreat Of Fancy , ( won by whose enticing lay I have forgot how sunk the summer's day ) , Thou first did guide my not unwilling feet ; Meantime inspiring the gay breast of youth With love of taste , of science , and of truth . The first inciting sounds of human praise , A parent's love excepted , came from thee ; And but for thee , perhaps , my boyish days Had all passed idly , and whate'er in me Now live of hope , been buried . I was one , Long bound by cold dejection's numbing chain , As in a torpid trance , that deemed it vain To struggle ; nor my eyelids to the sun Uplifted : but I heard thy cheering voice ; I shook my deadly slumber off ; I gazed Delighted ' round ; awaked , inspired , amazed , I marked another world , and in my choice Lovelier , and decked with light ! On fairy ground Methought I buoyant trod , and heard the sound As of enchanting melodies , that stole , Stole gently , and entranced my captive soul . Then all was life and hope ! 'Twas thy first ray , Sweet Fancy , on the heart ; as when the day Of Spring , along the melancholy tract Of wintry Lapland , dawns ; the cataract , From ice dissolving on the silent side Of some white precipice , with paly gleam Descends , while the cold hills a slanting beam Faint tinges : till , ascending in his pride , The great Sun from the red horizon looks , And wakes the tuneless birds , the stagnant brooks , And sleeping lakes ! So on my mind's cold night The ray of Fancy shone , and gave delight And hope past utterance . Thy cheering voice , O Warton ! bade my silent heart rejoice , And wake to love of nature ; every breeze , On Itchin's brink was melody ; the trees Waved in fresh beauty ; and the wind and rain , That shook the battlements of Wykeham's fane , Not less delighted , when , with random pace , I trod the cloistered aisles ; and witness thou , Catherine , Catherine Hill . upon whose foss-encircled brow We met the morning , how I loved to trace The prospect spread around ; the rills below , That shone irriguous in the gleaming plain ; The river's bend , where the dark barge went slow , And the pale light on yonder time-worn fane ! St Cross Hospital . So passed my days with new delight ; mean time To Learning's tender eye thou didst unfold The classic page , and what high bards of old , With solemn notes , and minstrelsy sublime , Have chanted , we together heard ; and thou , Warton ! wouldst bid me listen , till a tear Sprang to mine eye : now the bold song we hear Of Greece's sightless master-bard : Homer . the breast Beats high ; with stern Pelides to the plain We rush ; or o'er the corpse of Hector slain Hang pitying ; — and lo ! where pale , oppressed With age and grief , sad Priam comes ; See the last book . with beard All white he bows , kissing the hands besmeared With his last hope's best blood ! The oaten reed Theocritus . Now from the mountain sounds ; the sylvan Muse , Reclined by the clear stream of Arethuse , Wakes the Sicilian pipe ; the sunny mead Swarms with the bees , whose drowsy lullaby Soothes the reclining ox with half-closed eye ; While in soft cadence to the madrigal , From rock to rock the whispering waters fall ! But who is he , Μεγαλη μοιρα — Soph . that , by yon gloomy cave , Bids heaven and earth bear witness to his woe ! And hark ! how hollowly the ocean-wave Echoes his plaint , and murmurs deep below ! Haste , let the tall ship stem the tossing tide , That he may leave his cave , and hear no more The Lemnian surges unrejoicing roar ; And be great Fate through the dark world thy guide , Sad Philoctetes ! Philoctetes , see Sophocles . Youthful impressions on first reading it . So Instruction bland , With young-eyed Sympathy , went hand in hand O'er classic fields ; and let my heart confess Its holier joy , when I essayed to climb The lonely heights where Shakspeare sat sublime , Lord of the mighty spell : around him press Spirits and fairy-forms . He , ruling wide His visionary world , bids terror fill The shivering breast , or softer pity thrill Ev'n to the inmost heart . Within me died All thoughts of this low earth , and higher powers Seemed in my soul to stir ; till , strained too long , The senses sunk . Then , Ossian , thy wild song Haply beguiled the unheeded midnight hours , And , like the blast that swept Berrathron's towers , Came pleasant and yet mournful to my soul ! See o'er the autumnal heath the gray mists roll ! Hark to the dim ghosts ' faint and feeble cry , As on the cloudy tempest they pass by ! Saw ye huge Loda's spectre-shape advance , Through which the stars look pale ! Nor ceased the trance Which bound the erring fancy , till dark night Flew silent by , and at my window-grate The morning bird sang loud : nor less delight The spirit felt , when still and charmed I sate Great Milton's solemn harmonies to hear , That swell from the full chord , and strong and clear , Beyond the tuneless couplets ' weak control , Their long-commingling diapason roll , In varied sweetness . Nor , amidst the choir Of pealing minstrelsy , was thy own lyre , Warton , unheard ; — as Fancy poured the song , The measured music flowed along , Till all the heart and all the sense Felt her divinest influence , In throbbing sympathy : — Prepare the car , See Warton's " Ode to Fancy . " And whirl us , goddess , to the war , Where crimson banners fire the skies , Where the mingled shouts arise , Where the steed , with fetlock red , Tramples the dying and the dead ; And amain , from side to side , Death his pale horse is seen to ride ! Or rather , sweet enthusiast , lead Our footsteps to the cowslip mead , Where , as the magic spell is wound , Dying music floats around : — Or seek we some gray ruin's shade , And pity the cold beggar , Alluding to some pathetic lines in Warton's " Ode to Fancy . " laid Beneath the ivy-rustling tower , At the dreary midnight hour , Scarce sheltered from the drifting snow ; While her dark locks the bleak winds blow O'er her sleeping infant's cheek ! Then let the shrilling trumpet speak , And pierce in louder tones the ear , Till , while it peals , we seem to hear The sounding march , as of the Theban's song ; See Warton's " Ode on West's Translation of Pindar . " And varied numbers , in their course , With gathering fulness , and collected force , Like the broad cataract , swell and sweep along ! Struck by the sounds , what wonder that I laid , As thou , O Warton ! didst the theme inspire , My inexperienced hand upon the lyre , And soon with transient touch faint music made , As soon forgotten ! So I loved to lie By the wild streams of elfin poesy , Rapt in strange musings ; but when life began , I never roamed a visionary man ; For , taught by thee , I learned with sober eyes To look on life's severe realities . I never made ( a dream-distempered thing ) Poor Fiction's realm my world ; but to cold Truth Subdued the vivid shapings of my youth . Save when the drisly woods were murmuring , Or some hard crosses had my spirit bowed ; Then I have left , unseen , the careless crowd , And sought the dark sea roaring , or the steep That braved the storm ; or in the forest deep , As all its gray leaves rustled , wooed the tone Of the loved lyre , that , in my springtide gone , Waked me to transport . Eighteen summers now Have smiled on Itchin's margin , since the time When these delightful visions of our prime Rose on my view in loveliness . And thou Friend of my muse , in thy death-bed art cold , Who , with the tenderest touches , didst unfold The shrinking leaves of Fancy , else unseen And shelterless : therefore to thee are due Whate'er their summer sweetness ; and I strew , Sadly , such flowerets as on hillocks green , Or mountain-slope , or hedge-row , yet my hand May cull , with many a recollection bland , And mingled sorrow , Warton , on thy tomb , To whom , if bloom they boast , they owe their bloom !