The Present; or, Fragments from Celebrated Modern Poets. (Haverhill: np, 1815)

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[written inside front cover; cover page 2]

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[title page]

THE PRESENT;
OR
FRAGMENTS
FROM CELEBRATED MODERN POETS.

.....
HAVERHILL:
.....
1815

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THE person who selected these Fragments, takes the liberty to present them to his friends, reminding them, however, that they are not meant for critics [sic] ken. Indeed he makes no pretensions to taste, or a knowledge of Poetry—he knows nothing of those fine wraught [sic] rules existing in the craniums of the learned. He has selected such as pleased him, without knowing why they did so—satisfied with their effect he leaves to others the unproffitable [sic] task of seeking defects, or of caviling about the particular beauties which are the cause.

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[p. 3]

FRAGMENTS.

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FROM SCOTT’S ROKEBY.

—

WO to the youth whom Fancy gains,

Winning from Reason’s hand the reins,

Pity and wo! for such a mind

Is soft, contemplative, and kind;

And wo to those who train such youth,

And spare to press the rights of truth,

The mind to strengthen and anneal,

While on the stithy glows the steel!

O teach him, while your lessons last,

To judge the present by the past;

Remind him of each wish pursued,

How rich it glowed with promised good;

Remind him of each wish enjoyed,

How soon his hopes possession cloyed!

Tell him, we play unequal game,

Whene’er we shoot by Fancy’s aim;

And, ere he strip him for her race,

Sow the conditions of the chace.

Two sisters by the goal are set,

Cold Disappointment and Regret;

One disenchants the winner’s eyes,

And strips of all its worth the prize,

While one augments its gaudy show,

More to enhance the loser’s wo.

The victor sees his fairy gold

Transformed, when won, to drossy mould,

But still the vanquish’d mourns his loss,

And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.

More would’st thou know? yon tower survey,

Yon couch unpressed since parting day,

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Yon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam

Is mingling with the cold moon-beam,

And yon thin form: the hectic red

On his pale cheek unequal spread;

The head reclin’d the loosen’d hair,

The limbs relax’d, the mournful air.

See, he looks up; a woful smile

Lighten’s his wo-worn cheek a while;

’Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought,

To gild the ruin she has wrought;

For, like the bat of Indian brakes,

Her pinions fan the wound she makes,

And sothing [sic] thus the dreamer’s pain,

She drinks his life-blood from the vein.

Now to the lattice turn his eyes,

Vain hope! to see the sun arise.

The moon with clouds is still o’ercast,

Still howls by fits the stormy blast;

Another hour must wear away,

Ere the east kindle into day,

And, hark! to waste that weary hour,

He tries the minstrel’s magic power.

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FROM THE WEST-INDIES, BY MONTGOMERY.

—

THERE is a spot of earth supremely blest,

A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,

Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside

His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,

While in his soften’d looks benignly blend

The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend;

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,

Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;

Around her knees domestic duties meet,

And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.

‘Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?’

Art thou a man?—a patriot?—look around;

O, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,

That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

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TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.

BY LORD BYRON.

—

FEW years have pass’d since thou and I

Were firmest friends, at least in name,

And childhood’s gay sincerity

Preserv’d our feelings long the same.

But now, like me, too well thou know’st

What trifles oft the heart recall:

And those who once have lov’d the most

Too soon forget they lov’d at all.

And such the change the heart displays,

So frail is early friendship’s reign,

A month’s brief lapse, perhaps a day’s,

Will view thy mind estrang’d again.

If so, it never shall be mine

To mourn the loss of such a heart;

The fault was Nature’s fault not thine,

Which made thee fickle as thou art.

As rolls the o’cean’s [sic] changing tide,

So human feelings ebb and flow;

And who would in a breast confide

Where stormy passions ever glow?

It boots not, that together bred,

Our childish days were days of joy;

My spring of life has quickly fled;

Thou, too hast ceas’d to be a boy.

And when we bid adieu to youth,

Slaves to the precious world’s controul, [sic]

We sigh a long farewell to truth;

That world corrupts the noblest soul.

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Ah, joyous season! when the mind

Dares all things boldly but to lie;

When thought ere spoke is unconfin’d,

And sparkles in the placid eye.

Not so in Man’s maturer years,

When Man himself is but a tool,

When interest sways our hopes and fears,

And all must love and hate by rule.

With fools in kindred vice the same,

We learn at length our faults to blend,

And those, and those alone may claim

The prostituted name of friend.

Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then ’scape from folly free?

Can we reverse the general plan,

Nor be what all in turn must be?

No, for myself so dark my fate

Through every turn of life hath been;

Man and the world I so much hate,

I care not when I quit the scene.

But thou, with spirit frail and light,

Wilt shine awhile and pass away,

As glow worms sparkle through the night,

But dare not stand the test of day.

Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet,

(For cherish’d first in royal halls,

The welcome vices kindly greet.

E’en now thou’rt nightly seen to add

One insect to the flattering crowd,

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And still thy trifling heart is glad,

To join the vain and court the proud.

There dost thou glide from fair to fair,

Still simpering on with eager haste,

As flies along the gay parterre,

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame

Which seems, as marshy vapors move,

To flit along from dame to dame,

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe’er inclin’d,

Will deign to own a kindred care?

Who will debase his manly mind,

For friendship every fool may share.

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BY MONTGOMERY.

ROUND Love’s Elysian bowers,

The softest prospects rise;

There bloom the sweetest flowers,

There shine the purest skies;

And joy and rapture gild awhile

The cloudless heaven of Beauty’s smile.

Round Love’s deserted bowers

Tremendous rocks arise;

Cold mildews blight the flowers,

Tornadoes rend the skies;

And Pleasure’s waning moon goes down,

Amid the night of Beauty’s frown.

When Youth, thou fond believer!

The wily Syren shun:

Who trusts the dear deceiver

Will surely be undone!

When Beauty triumphs, ah! beware,

Her smile is hope!—her frown despair!

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BEAUTY’S GRAVE.

TREAD softly, Stranger! This is ground

Which no rude footstep should impress;

With tender pity gaze around,

Let sadness all thy soul possess.

Tread softly! lest thou crush the flowers

That o’er this turf are taught to wave,

Transplanted from their native bowers,

To shed their sweets o’er “Beauty’s Grave.”

And, Stranger, let your melting heart

Mark well this fresh and verdant sod;

And ere you from the scene depart,

O! let your soul commune with God.

Thus fade the fragile buds of earth!

Thus fade the lovely and the brave!

Come here, ye thoughtless sons of mirth!

And pause awhile o’er “Beauty’s Grave.”

Sweet wither’d Rose! May thy pale doom

Call tears into the Virgin’s eye!

O! may the prospect of the tomb

Remind her, “all that live must die!”

And warn her in the days of youth,

To think of Him who Being gave,

And bid her seek the ways of Truth,

Like her who sleeps in “Beauty’s Grave.”

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THE GRAVE.

THERE is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary Pilgrims found,

They softly lie and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground.

I long to lay this painful head

And aching heart beneath the soil,

To slumber in that dreamless bed

From all my toil.

For misery stole me at my birth,

And cast me helpless on the wild;

I perish!—Oh my Mother Earth!

Take home thy Child [sic]

On thy dear lap these limbs reclin’d,

Shall gently moulder into thee;

Nor leave one wretched trace behind,

Resembling me.

“The Soul, of origin divine,

GOD’s glorious image, freed from clay,

In heaven’s eternal sphere shall shine,

A star of day!

“The SUN is but a spark of fire,

A transient meteor in the sky;

The SOUL, immortal as its Sire,

SHALL NEVER DIE

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THE WHITE CLOVER.

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BY A LADY OF NEW-HAMPSHIRE.

THERE is a little perfum’d flower,

It well might grace the loveliest bower,

Yet poet never deign’d to sing

Of such a humble rustic thing.

Nor is it strange, for it can show

Scarcely one tint of Iris’ bow.

Nature per chance, in careless hour,

With pencil dry, might paint the flower;

Yet quickly blush’d her fault to see,

So gave a double fragrancy;

Rich recompense for aught denied!

Who would not homely garb abide,

If gentle soul were breathing there,

Blessings through all its little sphere?

Sweet flower; the lesson thou has taught,

Shall check each proud, ambitious thought,

Teach me internal worth to prize,

Though found in lowliest, rudest guise.

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FROM BYRON’S CHILDE HAROLDE.

TO sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,

Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne’er, or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold

Converse with Nature’s charms, and see her stores unroll’d.

But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world’s tir’d denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Minions of splendor shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought and sued;

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

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THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,

There liv’d a Man: and WHO was he?

Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,

That Man resembled Thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died, unknown:

His name hath perish’d from the earth,

This truth survives alone:

That joy and grief, that hope and fear,

Alternate triumph’d in his breast;

His bliss and woe....a smile, a tear!

Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,

The changing spirits’ rise and fall;

We know that these were felt by him,

For these are felt by all.

He suffer’d....but his pangs are o’er,

Enjoy’d.... ....but his delights are fled;

Had friends....his friends are now no more;

And foes....his foes are dead.

He lov’d....but whom he lov’d the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb:

O she was fair!........but nought could save

Her beauty from the tomb.

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The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon and stars, the earth and main,

Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.

He saw whatever thou hast seen,

Encounter’d all that troubles thee;

He was....whatever thou hast been;

He is....what thou shalt be.

The clouds and sun-beams, o’er his eye,

That once their shade and glory threw,

Have left in yonder sient sky,

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,

Of HIM afford no other trace

Than this......THERE LIV’D A MAN!

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BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA—BY MONTGOMERY.

NOW the Vet’ran Chief drew nigh;

Conquest cowering on his crest,

Valor beaming from his eye,

Pity bleeding in his breast.

Britain saw him thus advance,

In her Guardian Angel’s form:

But he lower’d on hostile France,

Like the Dæmon of the storm.

On the whirlwind of the war,

High he rode in vengeance dire;

To his friends a leading star,

To his foes consuming fire.

Then the mighty pour’d their breath,

Slaughter feasted on the brave,

’Twas the Carnival of Death!

’Twas the Vintage of the Grave!

But the horrors of that fight,

Were the weeping Muse to tell;

O ’twould cleave the womb of night,

And awake the dead that fell!

Gash’d with honorable scars,

Low in Glory’s lap they lie;

Though they fell, they fell like stars,

Streaming splendor through the sky.

From the dust their laurels bloom,

High they shoot, and flourish free;

Glory s [sic] temple is the tomb!

Death is immortality!

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[pasted inside back cover; cover page 3]

THE FALL OF BEAUTY.
—

Once on a lovely day—it was in spring—

I rested on the height of that dread cliff,

That overlooks old Stirling. All was gay:

The birds sang sweet; the trees put forth their leaves

So pale, that in the sun they look’d like blossoms.

The wild thyme and the violet deck’d the sward

On which I lay, scenting the air with sweets.

Some children wandered careless on the hill,

Selecting early flowers. My heart rejoic’d,

For all was glad around me. One sweet maid

Came tripping near, eying [sic] with gladsome smile,

Each little flower that bloom’d upon the hill:

Nimbly she pick’d them, minding me of swan

That feeds upon the waste. I blest the girl!

She was not maid nor child, but of that age,

’Twixt both, when purity of frame and soul

Awaken dreams of beauty drawn in heaven.

Deep within a little den, within the cliff,

A flowret caught her eye—it was a primrose,

Fair flaunting in the sun. With eager haste,

Heedless of risk, she clamber’d down the steep,

Pluck’d the wish’d flower—and sighed; for when she saw

The depth she had descended, then she woke

To sense of danger. All her flowers she dropt,

And tried to gain the height, but tried in vain!

I hasted to her rescue; but, alas!

I came too late!

Anna. O God! and did she fall?

Ran. Yes, lady, far, far down on the rocks below

Her lovely form was found at rest!

I saw her, in mid air, fall like a seraph

From out of the firmament. The rooks and daws,

That fled their roost in thousands at the sight,

Curtain’d her exit from my palsi’d eye

And dizzy brain. O! never will that scene

Part from my heart; whene’er I would be sad,

I think of it.