Helen Maria Williams - An Address to Poetry lyrics

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 pa**ions 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 d**h! 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,* 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 d**h 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 d**hless 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