Dark on the rock, Where the red lightnings burst, shall Wilson stand, Like mighty Shakspeare, whom the imps of fire 240 Await.

Nor oh, sweet Gainsborough! shall thee The Muse forget, whose simple landscape smiles Attractive, whether we delight to view The cottage chimney through the high wood peep; Or beggar beauty stretch her little hand, With look most innocent; or homeward kine Wind through the hollow road at eventide, Or browse the straggling branches.
Scenes like these Shall charm all hearts, while truth and beauty live, 250 And Nature's pictured loveliness shall own Each master's varied touch; but chiefly thou, Great Rubens! shalt the willing senses lead, Enamoured of the varied imagery, That fills the vivid canvas, swelling still On the enraptured eye of taste, and still New charms unfolding; though minute, yet grand, Simple, yet most luxuriant; every light And every shade, greatly opposed, and all Subserving to one magical effect 260 Of truth and harmony.
So glows the scene; And to the pensive thought refined displays The richest rural poem.

Oh, may views So pictured animate thy classic mind, Beaumont, to wander 'mid Sicilian scenes, And catch the beauties of the pastoral bard,[90] Shadowing his wildest landscapes! AEtna's fires, Bebrycian rocks, Anapus' holy stream, And woods of ancient Pan; the broken crag 270 And the old fisher here; the purple vines There bending; and the smiling boy set down To guard, who, innocent and happy, weaves, Intent, his rushy basket, to ensnare The chirping grasshoppers, nor sees the while The lean fox meditate her morning meal, Eyeing his scrip askance; whilst further on Another treads the purple grapes--he sits, Nor aught regards, but the green rush he weaves.
O Beaumont! let this pomp of light and shade 280 Wake thee, to paint the woods that the sweet Muse Has consecrated: then the summer scenes Of Phasidamus, clad in richer light, Shall glow, the glancing poplars, and clear fount; While distant times admire (as now we trace This summer-mantling view) hoar AEtna's pines, The vine-hung grotts, and branching planes, that shade The silver Arethusa's stealing wave.
[89] The landscape is on so large a scale, that all these circumstances are most accurately delineated.
[90] Theocritus.

Alluding to a design of illustrating the _picturesque character_ of the venerable Sicilian, by paintings of Sir George, from new translations of Messrs Sotheby, Rogers, Howley, W.Spencer, and the author.
THE HARP, AND DESPAIR, OF COWPER.
Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve, And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere, Turning to the sound his ear, Bend down a look of sympathy and love; Oh, swell the lyre again, As if in full accord it poured an angel's strain! But oh! what means that look aghast, Ev'n whilst it seemed in holy trance, On scenes of bliss above to glance! Was it a fiend of darkness passed! Oh, speak-- Paleness is upon his cheek-- On his brow the big drops stand, To airy vacancy Points the dread silence of his eye, And the loved lyre it falls, falls from his nerveless hand! Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Oh, come, and make thy downy nest Once more on his sad heart! Meek Faith, a drop of comfort shed; Sweet Hope, support his aged head; And Charity, avert the burning dart! Fruitless the prayer--the night of deeper woes Seems o'er the head even now to close; In vain the path of purity he trod, In vain, in vain, He poured from Fancy's shell his sweetest hermit strain-- He has no hope on earth: forsake him not, O God! STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
I trust the happy hour will come, 1 That shall to peace thy breast restore; And that we two, beloved friend, Shall one day meet to part no more.
It grieves me most, that parting thus, 2 All my soul feels I dare not speak; And when I turn me from thy sight, The tears in silence wet my cheek.
Yet I look forward to the time, 3 That shall each wound of sorrow heal; When I may press thee to my heart, And tell thee all that now I feel.{e} MUSIC.
O Music! if thou hast a charm That may the sense of pain disarm, Be all thy tender tones addressed To soothe to peace my Harriet's breast; And bid the magic of thy strain So still the wakeful throb of pain, That, rapt in the delightful measure, Sweet Hope again may whisper pleasure, And seem the notes of Spring to hear, Prelusive to a happier year! And if thy magic can restore The shade of days that smile no more, And softer, sweeter colours give To scenes that in remembrance live; Be to her pensive heart a friend, And, whilst the tender shadows blend, Recall, ere the brief trace be lost, Each moment that she prized the most.
Perhaps, when many a cheerful day Hereafter shall have stolen away, If then some old and favourite strain Should bring back to her thoughts again The hours when, silent by her side, I listened to her song and sighed; Perhaps a long-forgotten name, A thought, if not a tear may claim; And when in distant plains away, Alone I count each lingering day, She may a silent prayer prefer For him whose heart once bled for her.
ABSENCE.
OCTOBER 26, 1791.
How shall I cheat the heavy hours, of thee Deprived, of thy kind looks and converse sweet, Now that the waving grove the dark storms beat, And wintry winds sad sounding o'er the lea,[91] Scatter the sallow leaf! I would believe, Thou, at this hour, with tearful tenderness Dost muse on absent images, and press In thought my hand, and say: Oh do not grieve, Friend of my heart! at wayward fortune's power; One day we shall be happy, and each hour Of pain forget, cheered by the summer ray.
These thoughts beguile my sorrow for thy loss, And, as the aged pines their dark heads toss, Oft steal the sense of solitude away.
So am I sadly soothed, yet do I cast A wishful glance upon the seasons past, And think how different was the happy tide, When thou, with looks of love, wert smiling by my side.
[91] Summer-Lees, near Knoyle.
FAIRY SKETCH.
SCENE--NETLEY ABBEY.
There was a morrice on the moonlight plain, And music echoed in the woody glade, For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train, Upon a summer eve, beneath the shade Of Netley's ivied ruins, to the sound Of sprightly minstrelsy did beat the ground:-- Come, take hands! and lightly move, While our boat, in yonder cove, Rests upon the darkening sea; Come, take hands, and follow me! Netley! thy dim and desolated fane Hath heard, perhaps, the spirits of the night Shrieking, at times, amid the wind and rain; Or haply, when the full-orbed moon shone bright, Thy glimmering aisles have echoed to the song Of fairy Mab, who led her shadowy masque along.
Now, as to the sprightly sound Of moonlight minstrelsy we beat the ground; From the pale nooks, in accent clear, Now, methinks, her voice I hear, Sounding o'er the darksome sea; Come, take hands, and follow me! Here, beneath the solemn wood, When faintly-blue is all the sky, And the moon is still on high, To the murmurs of the flood, To the glimpses of the night, We perform our airy rite;-- Care and pain to us unknown, To the darkening seas are flown.
Hear no more life's fretful noise, Heed not here pale Envy's sting, Far from life's distempered joys; To the waters murmuring, To the shadows of the sky, To the moon that rides on high, To the glimpses of the night, We perform our airy rite, While care and pain, to us unknown, To the darkening seas are flown.
INSCRIPTION.
Come, and where these runnels fall, Listen to my madrigal! Far from all sounds of all the strife, That murmur through the walks of life; From grief, inquietude, and fears, From scenes of riot, or of tears; From passions, cankering day by day, That wear the inmost heart away; From pale Detraction's envious spite, That worries where it fears to bite; From mad Ambition's worldly chase, Come, and in this shady place, Be thine Contentment's humble joys, And a life that makes no noise, Save when fancy, musing long, Turns to desultory song;[92] And wakes some lonely melody, Like the water dripping by.
Come, and where these runnels fall, Listen to my madrigal! BREMHILL GARDEN, _Sept.

1808._ [92] "And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song."-- _Parnell._ PICTURES FROM THEOCRITUS.
FROM IDYL I.
[Greek: Ady ti to psthyrisma], _etc._ Goat-herd, how sweet above the lucid spring The high pines wave with breezy murmuring! So sweet thy song, whose music might succeed To the wild melodies of Pan's own reed.
THYRSIS.
More sweet thy pipe's enchanting melody Than streams that fall from broken rocks on high.
Say, by the nymphs, that guard the sacred scene, Where lowly tamarisks shade these hillocks green, At noontide shall we lie?
No; for o'erwearied with the forest chase, Pan, the great hunter god, sleeps in this place.
Beneath the branching elm, while thy sad verse, O Thyrsis! Daphnis' sorrows shall rehearse, Fronting the wood-nymph's solitary seat, Whose fountains flash amid the dark retreat; Where the old statue leans, and brown oaks wave Their ancient umbrage o'er the pastoral cave; There will we rest, and thou, as erst, prolong The sweet enchantment of the Doric song! FROM THE SAME IDYL.
Mark, where the beetling precipice appears, The toil of the old fisher, gray with years; Mark, as to drag the laden net he strains, The labouring muscle and the swelling veins! There, in the sun, the clustered vineyard bends, And shines empurpled, as the morn ascends! A little boy, with idly-happy mien, To guard the grapes upon the ground is seen; Two wily foxes creeping round appear,-- The scrip that holds his morning meal is near,-- One breaks the bending vines; with longing lip, And look askance, one eyes the tempting scrip.
He plats and plats his rushy net all day, And makes the vagrant grasshopper his prey; He plats his net, intent with idle care, Nor heeds how vineyard, grape, or scrip may fare.
FROM THE SAME.
Where were ye, nymphs, when Daphnis drooped with love?
In fair Peneus' Tempe, or the grove Of Pindus! Nor your pastimes did ye keep, Where huge Anapus' torrent waters sweep; On AEtna's height, ah! impotent to save, Nor yet where Akis winds his holy wave! FROM THE SAME.
Pan, Pan, oh mighty hunter! whether now, Thou roamest o'er Lyceus' shaggy brow, Or Moenalaus, outstretched in amplest shade, Thy solitary footsteps have delayed; Leave Helice's romantic rock a while, And haste, oh haste, to the Sicilian isle; Leave the dread monument, approached with fear, That Lycaonian tomb the gods revere.
Here cease, Sicilian Muse, the Doric lay;-- Come, Forest King, and bear this pipe away; Daphnis, subdued by love, and bowed with woe, Sinks, sinks for ever to the shades below.
FROM IDYL VII.
He left us;--we, the hour of parting come, To Prasidamus' hospitable home, Myself and Eucritus, together wend, With young Amynticus, our blooming friend: There, all delighted, through the summer day, On beds of rushes, pillowed deep, we lay; Around, the lentils, newly cut, were spread; Dark elms and poplars whispered o'er our head; A hallowed stream, to all the wood-nymphs dear, Fresh from the rocky cavern murmured near; Beneath the fruit-leaves' many-mantling shade, The grasshoppers a coil incessant made; From the wild thorny thickets, heard remote, The wood-lark trilled his far-resounding note; Loud sung the thrush, musician of the scene, And soft and sweet was heard the dove's sad note between; Then yellow bees, whose murmur soothed the ear, Went idly flitting round the fountain clear.
Summer and Autumn seemed at once to meet, Filling with redolence the blest retreat, While the ripe pear came rolling to our feet.
FROM IDYL XXII.
When the famed Argo now secure had passed The crushing rocks,[93] and that terrific strait That guards the wintry Pontic, the tall ship Reached wild Bebrycia's shores; bearing like gods Her god-descended chiefs.