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helen maria williams - an address to poetry كلمات الأغنية

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 p-ssions in their train
whose force the social ties unbind
and chill the love of human kind
and make fond nature’s best emotions vain;

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!

when did my fancy ever frame
a dream of joy by thee unblest?
when first my lips pr-nounc’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

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

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 g-y 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!

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

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!

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,- 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

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 sh0r-
“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 g-y 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

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 rehe-rs-
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

- helen maria williams

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