THE TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY. James Beattie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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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. T116245 1137 K093079.004 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. IV. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 77-86. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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THE TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY . BY THE SAME . MEMORY , be still ! why throng upon the thought These scenes so deeply stain'd with Sorrow's die ? Is there in all thy stores no chearful draught , To brighten yet once more in Fancy's eye ? Yes — from afar a landscape seems to rise , Embellish'd by the lavish hand of Spring ; Thin gilded clouds float lightly o'er the skies , And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing . How blest the youth in yonder valley laid ! What smiles in every conscious feature play ! While to the murmurs of the breezy glade His merry pipe attunes the rural lay . Hail Innocence ! whose bosom all serene Feels not as yet th' internal tempest roll : O ! ne'er may Care distract that placid mien ! Ne'er may the shades of Doubt o'erwhelm thy soul ! Vain wish ! for lo , in gay attire conceal'd Yonder she comes ! the heart-enflaming fiend ! ( Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield ! ) Swift to her destin'd prey see Passion bend ! O smile accurst , to hide the worst designs ! Now with blithe eye she wooes him to be blest ; While round her arm unseen a serpent twines — And lo , she hurls it hissing at his breast ! And instant , lo , his dizzy eye-ball swims Ghastly , and reddening darts a frantic glare ; Pain with strong grasp distorts his writhing limbs , And Fear's cold hand erects his frozen hair . Is this , O Life , is this thy boasted prime ! And does thy spring no happier prospect yield ! Why should the sun-beam pain thy glittering clime , When the keen mildew desolates the field ! How Memory pains ! Let some gay theme beguile The musing mind , and soothe to soft delight : Ye images of Woe , no more recoil ; Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night . Now when fierce Winter , arm'd with wasteful power , Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar : How sweet to sit in the sequester'd bower , To hear , and but to hear , the mingling war ! Ambition here displays no gilded toy , That tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise ; Nor Pleasure's paths to wilds of Woe decoy , Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's proud disguise . Oft has Contentment chear'd this lone abode With the mild languish of her smiling eye ; Here Health in rosy bloom has often glow'd , While loose-rob'd Quiet stood enamour'd by . Even the storm lulls to more profound repose ; The storm these humble walls assails in vain : The shrub is shelter'd , when the whirlwind blows , While the oak's mighty ruin strows the plain . Blow on , ye winds ! thine , Winter , be the skies , And toss th' infuriate surge , and vales lay waste : Nature thy temporary rage defies ; To her relief the gentler Seasons haste . Thron'd in her emerald car , see Spring appear ! ( As Fancy wills the landscape starts to view ) Her emerald car the youthful Zephyrs bear , Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue . Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen . And lo , her rod the rose-lip'd Power extends ! And lo , the lawns are deck'd in living green , And Beauty's bright-ey'd train from Heaven descends ! Haste , happy days , and make all Nature glad — But will all Nature joy at your return ? O can ye chear pale Sickness' gloomy bed , Or dry the tears that bathe th' untimely urn ? Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart , Where groans the dungeon to the captive's wail ? To ease tir'd Disappointment's bleeding heart , Will all your stores of softening balm avail ? When stern Oppression , in his harpy-fangs , From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears , Can ye allay the dying parent's pangs , Whose infant craves relief with fruitless tears ? For ah ! thy reign , Oppression , is not past . Who from the shivering limbs the vestment rends ? Who lays the once rejoicing village waste , Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends ? But hope not , Muse , vain-glorious as thou art , With the weak impulse of thy humble strain , Hope not to soften Pride's obdurate heart , When ERROLL's bright example shines in vain . Then cease the theme . Turn , Fancy , turn thine eye , Thy weeping eye , nor further urge thy flight ; Thy haunts , alas ! no gleams of joy supply , Or transient gleams that flash and sink in night . Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego . Spread then , historic Muse , thy pictur'd scroll ; Bid thy great scenes in all their splendor glow , And rouse to thought sublime th' exulting soul . What mingling pomps rush on th' enraptur'd gaze ! Lo , where the gallant navy rides the deep ! Here glittering towns their spiry turrets raise , There bulwarks overhang the shaggy steep . Bristling with spears , and bright with burnish'd shields . Th' embattled legions stretch their long array ; Discord's red torch , as fierce she scours the fields , With bloody tincture stains the face of day . And now the hosts in silence wait the sign : Keen are their looks whom Liberty inspires : Quick as the Goddess darts along the line , Each breast impatient burns with noble fires . Her form how graceful ! in her lofty mien The smiles of Love stern Wisdom's frown controul ; Her fearless eye , determin'd tho' serene , Speaks the great purpose , and th' unconquer'd soul . Mark , where Ambition leads the adverse band , Each feature fierce and haggard , as with pain ! With menace loud he cries , while from his hand He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain . Lo , at his call , impetuous as the storms , Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven ; Hatred to madness wrought each face deforms , Mounts the black whirlwind , and involves the heaven . Now , Virtue , now thy powerful succour lend , Shield them for Liberty who dare to die — Ah ! Liberty , will none thy cause befriend ! Are those thy sons , thy generous sons that fly ! Not Virtue's self , when Heaven its aid denies , Can brace the loosen'd nerves , or warm the heart ; Not Virtue's self can still the bursts of sighs , When festers in the soul Misfortune's dart . See , where by Terror and Despair dismay'd The scattering legions pour along the plain ! Ambition's car , in bloody spoils array'd , Hews its broad way , as Vengeance guides the rein . But who is he , that , by yon lonely brook Such , according to Plutarch , was the scene of Brutus's death . , With woods o'erhung , and precipices rude , Lies all abandon'd , yet with dauntless look Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood ? Ah , Brutus ! ever thine be Virtue's tear ! Lo , his dim eyes to Liberty he turns , As scarce supported on her broken spear O'er her expiring son the Goddess mourns . Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies , From her dishevell'd locks she rends the plume ; No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes , And on her tear-stain'd cheek no roses bloom . Meanwhile the world , Ambition , owns thy sway , Fame's loudest trumpet labours with thy name ; For thee , the Muse awakes her sweetest lay , And Flattery bids for thee her altars flame . Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone , The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil , Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown , While Guilt's thrill'd bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile . Full oft where Solitude and Silence dwell , Far , far remote amid the lowly plain , Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell , Such is Man's doom ; and Pity weeps in vain . Still Grief recoils — How vainly have I strove Thy power , O Melancholy , to withstand ! Tir'd , I submit ; but yet , O yet remove , Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand ! Yet for a while let the bewilder'd soul Find in society relief from woe ; O yield a while to Friendship's soft controul ! Some respite , Friendship , wilt thou not bestow ! Come then , Philander , whose exalted mind Looks down from far on all that charms the great ; For thou canst bear , unshaken and resign'd , The brightest smiles , the blackest frowns of Fate : Come thou , whose love unlimited , sincere , Nor Faction cools , nor Injury destroys ; Who lend'st to Misery's moan a pitying ear , And feel'st with ecstasy another's joys : Who know'st man's frailty , with a favouring eye , And melting heart , behold'st a brother's fall ; Who , unenslav'd by Fashion's narrow tye , With manly freedom follow'st Nature's call . And bring thy Delia , sweetly-smiling fair , Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform ; Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care , And harmonize the thunder of the storm . Tho' blest with wisdom , and with wit refin'd , She courts no homage , nor desires to shine ; In her each sentiment sublime is join'd To female softness and a form divine . Come , and disperse th' involving shadows drear ; Let chasten'd Mirth the social hours employ : O catch the swift-wing'd moment while 'tis near , On swiftest wing the moment flies of joy . Even while the careless disencumber'd soul Sinks all dissolving into Pleasure's dream , Even then to time's tremendous verge we roll With headlong haste along life's surgy stream . Can Gaiety the vanish'd years restore , Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed , Or soothe the sad inevitable Hour , Or Chear the dark , dark mansions of the Dead ? Still sounds the solemn knell in Fancy's ear , That call'd Eliza to the silent tomb : With her how jocund roll'd the sprightly year ! How shone the nymph in Beauty's brightest bloom ! Ah ! Beauty's bloom avails not in the grave , Youth's lofty mien , nor Age's awful grace : Moulder alike unknown the Prince and Slave , Whelm'd in th' enormous wreck of human race : The thought-fix'd portraiture , the breathing bust , The arch with proud memorials array'd , The long-liv'd pyramid shall sink in dust , To dumb Oblivion's ever-desart shade . Fancy from Joy still wanders far astray ; Ah ! Melancholy , how I feel thy power ! Long have I labour'd to elude thy sway — But 'tis enough ; for I resist no more : The traveller thus , that o'er the midnight waste Thro' many a lonesome path is doom'd to roam , 'Wilder'd and weary sits him down at last For the long night , and distant far his home .