Classic Poem

D ISTINGUISH'D city!—round thy lofty spires
Bellona's spears, and Phœbus' golden lyres,
Threw gleams of glory, whose unfading flame,
Amidst thy country's annals, gilds thy name.

Has Beauty made thee its peculiar care,
Bade thee arise pre-eminently fair?
Or do remember'd days, that swiftly flew,
When life and all her blooming joys were new,
To my thrill'd spirit emulously bring
Illusions brighter than the shining Spring?

Yet, independent of their glowing spell,
Around thy spires exclusive graces dwell;
For there alone the blended charms prevail
Of city stateliness, and rural dale.
High o'er proud towns where Gothic structures rise,
How rare the freshness of unsullied skies!
Oft cling to choral walls the mansions vile,
Unseemly blots upon the graceful pile!
Here not one squalid, mouldering cell appears,
To mar the splendid toil of ancient years;
But, from the basis to the stately height,
One free and perfect whole it meets the sight,
Adorn'd, yet simple, though majestic, light;
While, as around that waving basis drawn,
Shines the green surface of the level lawn,
Full on its breast the spiral shadows tall,
Unbroken, and in solemn beauty, fall.

Near fanes, superb as these, how seldom found
Exemption from the city's mingled sound;
The iron rattling in the heavy drays,
The rumbling coaches, and the whirling chaise;
The clank of weary steeds, released the rein,
That slowly seek the neighbouring pond, or plain;
The town-cries, dinning from the crowded mart,
And the loud hammers of assiduous art!
Here (only when the organ's solemn sound
Shall swell, or sink, the vaulted roofs around,
While, from the full-voiced choir, the echoes bear
The pealing anthem through the circling air,)
No ruder voice the noon-day silence knows,
Than birds soft warbling 'mid luxuriant boughs.
For now in graceful freedom flow the trees,
That skirt the lawn, and wanton in the breeze.
Their light arcades in soft perspective throw
Stowe's shelter'd fields, that gently slope below;—
Th' embosom'd lake, that, curling to the gale,
Shines, the clear mirror of the sylvan vale;
While on its bank, to humble virtue kind,
Where still the poor man's prayers acceptance find,
The mouldering tower, that 'mid the shade appears,
Green with the gather'd moss of countless years.
There his pale corse may quiet shelter crave,
As swells th' unequal turf with many a grave;
And there the suns of summer-evening look,
There tinge the waters of its huddling brook.

We mark the villa, rising near the lake,
And fairer she, that 'midst the verdant brake,
From sultry gleam, and wintry tempest shrill,
Stands softly curtain'd on the eastern hill;
The suburb-cots, that to the right extend,
And, half embower'd in village-semblance, bend
Towards the lone, rustic spire, that stands serene
Upon the south-hill top, and awes the smiling scene;
While, save that to the left, o'er sloping fields,
Her soft, blue glimpse the distant country yields,
Closed are the gentle hills, that curve around,
And form the beauteous valley's early bound;
Throw every single feature it displays
Distinct and forward on the placid gaze;
Where nought disturbs, as soft the landscape glows,
Its silent graces in their sweet repose.

Now blends the liberal Spring thro' all the scene
The blossoms, silvering 'mid their tender green;
With king-cups gay each swelling mead she fills,
And strews them yellow o'er the circling hills.

Yet more majestic fanes may meet my gaze,
And vallies, winding in a richer maze,
But ah! 'tis those remember'd days that flew,
When life and all her golden joys were new,
That, beaming o'er the thrill'd remembrance, bring
Illusions brighter than the lucid Spring.
Compared with them, May's rosy morning spreads
No poignant sweetness from her violet beds;
Dim her bright noon, and rude her softest gale,
And June's purpureal evening cold and pale.

Days, that delight so vivid knew to bring,
Why did ye hasten on so swift a wing?
Ye taught angelic Friendship to impart
Sweets from a lovely sister's feeling heart.
Mild was my S ARAH as the vernal hours
That ope the tender almond's blushing flowers:
And O! blest days of Pleasure's soft increase,
That rose in gladness, and that set in peace,
Ye saw H ONORA , loveliest of the maids
That deck'd our winter dome, our summer shades!
What sweetness beaming o'er that peerless face!
O'er that light form what animated grace!
How did that mind's warm energies disdain
Whate'er allures the haughty and the vain!
How spurn the tinsel claims of wealth and birth!
How cherish every gleam of wit and worth!
What varying charms, in turn, ascendance gain'd,
And in her voice, her air, her glances reign'd!
Ninon's gay spirit, gladness to inspire,
Lucretia's modesty, Cornelia's fire;
O! of all hours was she!—Those hours are past,
And the wide world contains her not!—such haste
Make happy times to join the vanish'd train,
That shadow'd o'er by grief, or rack'd by pain,
In mercy fled:—but you, in light array'd,
Why paused you not in Lichfield's bloomy shade?
Why set your suns so soon, whose kindling rays
Made all the summer of my youthful days?

When first this month, stealing from half-blown bowers,
Bathed the young cowslip in her sunny showers,
Pensive I travell'd, and approach'd the plains,
That met the bounds of Severn's wide domains.
As up the hill I rose, from whose green brow
The village church o'erlooks the vale below,
O! when its rustic form first met my eyes,
What wild emotions swell'd the rising sighs!
Stretch'd the pain'd heart-strings with the utmostforce
Grief knows to feel, that knows not dire remorse;
For there—yes there,—its narrow porch contains
My dear H ONORA'S cold and pale remains,
Whose lavish'd health, in youth, and beauty's bloom,
Sunk to the silence of an early tomb.


Thus, as I journied, grieved Reflection rose
To meet the lone memorial of my woes,
H ONORA'S timeless grave;—then first beheld,
Since, in that little porch, beside the field,
It sunk neglected, while no stone remains
To guard the sacred relics it contains.

The wearied steeds, in languid pace and slow,
Indulged the rising luxury of woe;
With drooping neck, as they had shared my pain,
Lingering they passed the solitary fane.
Swift-rushing tears my straining eye-balls glazed,
And thus my Spirit whispered as I gazed.

“O! fairest among women!—dark and deep,
Beneath that rude stone arch, thy lasting sleep!
With all her woodland choir, resounding clear,
The voice of Morning does not pierce thine ear;
Gay Evening Suns, in Summer-glory drest,
In vain look golden on thy bed of rest,
Since from those rayless eyes their splendours fail
To lift the dim impenetrable veil!

“How early rose the intellectual powers
In bloom, in strength, that shamed maturer hours!
On that dear lip what mute attention hung,
As dropt the precept from the Sage's tongue,
While from his fruitful mind, in Science train'd,
She caught the sense, ere language half explain'd!
How soon did Genius all her soul engage!
How glow'd those eyes along the Poet's page!
What generous goodness taught that now cold heart
To bear in others' joys so warm a part;
Pour o'er another's woe the ready tear;
Watch by the couch of pain with tender fear;
Each wish prevent, each injury forgive,
“And, heedless of herself, for others live!”

“And is this all of my H ONORA'S fate?
O! wasted thus!—O! transient thus the date
Of every excellence, that e'er combined
To breathe perfection on the female mind!

“Serene the day, and balmy is the gale;
Spring's lucid hues are glistening o'er the vale;
Blue gleams the lake the circling trees between,
And one sweet blackbird hymns the smiling scene.
Thus mildly bright the hours of promise shine,
But O! an all-resisting woe is mine;
My soul not e'en the hours of promise cheer,
And vernal music sickens on my ear;
Peace, little warbler! mute forsake thy spray,
Intrusive all the sweetness of thy lay;
Or cease thy strain that cannot sooth my woes!
Or wake H ONORA from her long repose.”

Then roll'd the wheels, descending to the plain,
Swift from the silent hill and rustic fane;
Me to the life-warm scene they soon convey'd,
When glad'ning eyes the mists of grief pervade.

But to this vale restored, where all I see,
My dear H ONORA , seems so full of thee;
Where not indeed thy pale remains are laid,
But, warm with life, thou seem'st to deck the glade,
I half reproach my heart, that gayer hours
Beheld it yielding to the social powers;
When the kind glance, and smile of friendship stole,
At intervals, thy image from my soul!

Ye shades of Lichfield, will ye always bring
Illusions brighter than the shining spring?
O! ere these eyes, that all our haunts explore
With fond affection's gaze, shall ope no more,
Lose not of her one consecrated trace,
Whose image gives you this exclusive grace!
Present it still, by Memory's potent aids,
Ye choral turrets, and ye arching shades!
Waft her remember'd voice in every gale!
Wear her etherial smile, thou lovely vale,
When Spring, in wayward April's veering days,
Shoots the spruce foliage from the naked sprays;
When Summer bids, thro' ev'ry splendid hour,
Consummate beauty glow in ev'ry bower;
When Autumn, turning back her golden eyes,
Of parting Summer asks his varied dyes,
With which she decks, but ah! to vanish soon,
Her saffron morning, her pellucid noon;
Nay, e'en when Winter sheds o'er the dim plains
His shrouding snows, loud winds, and beating rains!

Then, should or Fame, or Pleasure, to my ear
Whisper that Talent blooms neglected here,
Lure to the circles where congenial fire
Might Emulation's generous warmth inspire;
Yet here the spirit of departed joy
Shall chain my step, shall fascinate my eye;
Chace with his local spells awakening powers,
Each languid consciousness of wasted hours;
And o'er the present all that lustre cast
That beams reflected from the fairer past.

D ISTINGUISH'D city!—round thy lofty spires
Bellona's spears, and Phœbus' golden lyres,
Threw gleams of glory, whose unfading flame,
Amidst thy country's annals, gilds thy name.

Has Beauty made thee its peculiar care,
Bade thee arise pre-eminently fair?
Or do remember'd days, that swiftly flew,
When life and all her blooming joys were new,
To my thrill'd spirit emulously bring
Illusions brighter than the shining Spring?

Yet, independent of their glowing spell,
Around thy spires exclusive graces dwell;
For there alone the blended charms prevail
Of city stateliness, and rural dale.
High o'er proud towns where Gothic structures rise,
How rare the freshness of unsullied skies!
Oft cling to choral walls the mansions vile,
Unseemly blots upon the graceful pile!
Here not one squalid, mouldering cell appears,
To mar the splendid toil of ancient years;
But, from the basis to the stately height,
One free and perfect whole it meets the sight,
Adorn'd, yet simple, though majestic, light;
While, as around that waving basis drawn,
Shines the green surface of the level lawn,
Full on its breast the spiral shadows tall,
Unbroken, and in solemn beauty, fall.

Near fanes, superb as these, how seldom found
Exemption from the city's mingled sound;
The iron rattling in the heavy drays,
The rumbling coaches, and the whirling chaise;
The clank of weary steeds, released the rein,
That slowly seek the neighbouring pond, or plain;
The town-cries, dinning from the crowded mart,
And the loud hammers of assiduous art!
Here (only when the organ's solemn sound
Shall swell, or sink, the vaulted roofs around,
While, from the full-voiced choir, the echoes bear
The pealing anthem through the circling air,)
No ruder voice the noon-day silence knows,
Than birds soft warbling 'mid luxuriant boughs.
For now in graceful freedom flow the trees,
That skirt the lawn, and wanton in the breeze.
Their light arcades in soft perspective throw
Stowe's shelter'd fields, that gently slope below;—
Th' embosom'd lake, that, curling to the gale,
Shines, the clear mirror of the sylvan vale;
While on its bank, to humble virtue kind,
Where still the poor man's prayers acceptance find,
The mouldering tower, that 'mid the shade appears,
Green with the gather'd moss of countless years.
There his pale corse may quiet shelter crave,
As swells th' unequal turf with many a grave;
And there the suns of summer-evening look,
There tinge the waters of its huddling brook.

We mark the villa, rising near the lake,
And fairer she, that 'midst the verdant brake,
From sultry gleam, and wintry tempest shrill,
Stands softly curtain'd on the eastern hill;
The suburb-cots, that to the right extend,
And, half embower'd in village-semblance, bend
Towards the lone, rustic spire, that stands serene
Upon the south-hill top, and awes the smiling scene;
While, save that to the left, o'er sloping fields,
Her soft, blue glimpse the distant country yields,
Closed are the gentle hills, that curve around,
And form the beauteous valley's early bound;
Throw every single feature it displays
Distinct and forward on the placid gaze;
Where nought disturbs, as soft the landscape glows,
Its silent graces in their sweet repose.

Now blends the liberal Spring thro' all the scene
The blossoms, silvering 'mid their tender green;
With king-cups gay each swelling mead she fills,
And strews them yellow o'er the circling hills.

Yet more majestic fanes may meet my gaze,
And vallies, winding in a richer maze,
But ah! 'tis those remember'd days that flew,
When life and all her golden joys were new,
That, beaming o'er the thrill'd remembrance, bring
Illusions brighter than the lucid Spring.
Compared with them, May's rosy morning spreads
No poignant sweetness from her violet beds;
Dim her bright noon, and rude her softest gale,
And June's purpureal evening cold and pale.

Days, that delight so vivid knew to bring,
Why did ye hasten on so swift a wing?
Ye taught angelic Friendship to impart
Sweets from a lovely sister's feeling heart.
Mild was my S ARAH as the vernal hours
That ope the tender almond's blushing flowers:
And O! blest days of Pleasure's soft increase,
That rose in gladness, and that set in peace,
Ye saw H ONORA , loveliest of the maids
That deck'd our winter dome, our summer shades!
What sweetness beaming o'er that peerless face!
O'er that light form what animated grace!
How did that mind's warm energies disdain
Whate'er allures the haughty and the vain!
How spurn the tinsel claims of wealth and birth!
How cherish every gleam of wit and worth!
What varying charms, in turn, ascendance gain'd,
And in her voice, her air, her glances reign'd!
Ninon's gay spirit, gladness to inspire,
Lucretia's modesty, Cornelia's fire;
O! of all hours was she!—Those hours are past,
And the wide world contains her not!—such haste
Make happy times to join the vanish'd train,
That shadow'd o'er by grief, or rack'd by pain,
In mercy fled:—but you, in light array'd,
Why paused you not in Lichfield's bloomy shade?
Why set your suns so soon, whose kindling rays
Made all the summer of my youthful days?

When first this month, stealing from half-blown bowers,
Bathed the young cowslip in her sunny showers,
Pensive I travell'd, and approach'd the plains,
That met the bounds of Severn's wide domains.
As up the hill I rose, from whose green brow
The village church o'erlooks the vale below,
O! when its rustic form first met my eyes,
What wild emotions swell'd the rising sighs!
Stretch'd the pain'd heart-strings with the utmostforce
Grief knows to feel, that knows not dire remorse;
For there—yes there,—its narrow porch contains
My dear H ONORA'S cold and pale remains,
Whose lavish'd health, in youth, and beauty's bloom,
Sunk to the silence of an early tomb.


Thus, as I journied, grieved Reflection rose
To meet the lone memorial of my woes,
H ONORA'S timeless grave;—then first beheld,
Since, in that little porch, beside the field,
It sunk neglected, while no stone remains
To guard the sacred relics it contains.

The wearied steeds, in languid pace and slow,
Indulged the rising luxury of woe;
With drooping neck, as they had shared my pain,
Li