Epistle The Sixth Poem by Robert Anderson

TO CRITO.

My harp I neglected, and careless threw by;
Its tones became feeble, beguil'd not the night;
And oft as I view'd it, I said, with a sigh,
``Sweet soother of woe, thou'lt no longer delight!
The wild--flow'rs of fancy now charm me no more,
The pictures of hope, and her visions are flown;
When loves, joys, and friendships for ever are o'er,
Remembrance will linger on years that are gone!''

O, Cumbria! thy pine--clad bills rise to my view;
Thy wide--spreading valleys in livery of green;
Thy hoarse--murm'ring streams where enraptur'd I flew,
To mark the romantic, the heart--soothing scene;
These still haunt my pillow, for there with the Muse,
Forgetful of sorrows, I wove the rude song
That nature dictated. Ah! who cou'd refuse
To paint her gay pictures, thy wild woods among?

And oft, in idea, with lingering pace,
Thy landscape enchants, while thy meadows I tread,
And o'er haunts of my youth, still with Spring fondly trace
Her glories, new--born, that so lavish were spread:
I wind Eden's stream, where I first sought the maid,
Whose coy looks of witch'ry cou'd raptures impart;
Or press thy dark woods, and each thrush--haunted glade,
'Mid the smiles of the few, ever dear to my heart.

Ev'n now, when dun evening bedews these bleak vales,
And pensive reflection past pleasure calls forth,
I mark thy blithe groups, care no longer assails,
Assemble, o'erjoy'd, round the neatly--trimm'd hearth.
There wisdom is gather'd, of mortals and states,
O'er heart--cheering liquor, in calumny's spite;
News foreign or local, each freely narrates,
And the song, jest, and story give wings to the night.

But time, the destroyer, hath numbers laid low;
Misfortune hath many to penury driv'n;
And others have tasted the gall--drop of woe,
To whom, when we parted, was happiness giv'n!
There are, who from poverty's gripe have got free,
The scoff of the wise, and the sport of the day:
A thousand such changes, in fancy, I see,
Since the hour when hope flatter'd, and tore me away.

Yes! Cumbria, I mark where thy aged oaks stood;
The groves where I pip'd with a heart free from care;
Or thought, as I trac'd nature's works up to God,
No bow'rs were so fragrant, no fields half so fair.
Then oft would I sigh, but the wish, ah! how vain,
That in youth and in manhood still clung to my breast,
When death gave relief to all sorrow, all pain,
Near the tombs of my fathers, in peace I might rest.

Thus oft have I ponder'd, when day's toil was done,
And Phoebus gave Erin his last ev'ning smile;
When sicken'd with tumult, life's Autumn steals on,
'Tis sweet o'er past pleasures the hours to beguile.
And oft have I said, why forgetful of me,
Are the few sons of science, whose converse I shar'd?
Sings the Bard of the Lyne now no longer with glee,
For whom all the Muses a chaplet prepar'd?

Long, long hath his page pour'd delight o'er the mind,
For sacred to virtue, and sweet are his strains;
O'er fancy's fair regions he roams unconfin'd,
And the wish to instruct in his bosom still reigns:
And fain with my Crito again would I range
The groves and the bow'rs, where each tree seem'd a friend;
And when we beheld, with a sigh, a sad change,
Reflect, soon like them, we must wither and bend.

But the gales to my ears brought the song of the Bard,
That succour'd, like manna, from friendship's abode;
--While flows the red current, the song I'll regard,
That soothes a lone brother on life's flinty road!
Thou chief of the number whose sanction I boast,
Let friendship, long cherish'd, in death but expire;
And whatever my fate on life's perilous coast,
May I copy thy virtues, while list'ning thy lyre!