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Title: The Triumph Of Melancholy
Author: James Beattie [
More Titles by Beattie]
Memory, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes so deeply stained with sorrow's dye?
Is there in all thy stores no cheerful draught,
To brighten yet once more in Fancy's eye?
Yes--from afar a landscape seems to rise,
Embellished by the lavish hand of spring;
Thin gilded clouds float lightly through the skies,
And laughing loves disport on fluttering wing.
How blest the youth in yonder valley laid!
What smiles in every conscious feature play!
While, to the murmurs of the breezy glade,
His merry pipe attunes the rural lay.
Hail, Innocence! whose bosom all serene,
Feels not, as yet, the internal tempest roll.
Oh, ne'er may care distract thy placid mein!
Ne'er may the shades of doubt o'erwhelm thy soul!
Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire concealed,
Yonder she comes! the heart-inflaming fiend!
(Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield!)
Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend!
O smile accurst, to hide the worst designs!
Now with blithe eye she wooes him to be blest;
While round her arm, unseen, a serpent twines----
And lo, she hurls it hissing at his breast!
And, instant, lo, his dizzy eyeball swims
Ghastly, and reddening darts a frantic glare;
Pain, with strong grasp, distorts his writhing limbs,
And Fear's cold hand erects his frozen hair.
Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime!
And does thy spring no happier prospect yield!
Why should the sunbeam paint thy glittering clime,
When the keen mildew desolates the field!
How memory pains! Let some gay theme beguile
The musing mind, and sooth to soft delight.
Ye images of woe, no more recoil!
Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night.
Now when fierce Winter, armed with wasteful power,
Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar;
How sweet to sit in this sequestered bower,
To hear, and but to hear, the mingling war!
Ambition here displays no gilded toy,
That tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise;
Nor Pleasure's paths to wilds of woe decoy,
Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's proud disguise.
Oft has Contentment cheered this lone abode,
With the mild languish of her smiling eye;
Here Health in rosy bloom has often glowed,
While loose-robed Quiet stood enamoured by.
Even the storm lulls to more profound repose;
The storm these humble walls assails in vain.
The shrub is sheltered, when the whirlwind blows,
While the oak's mighty ruin strows the plain.
Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies;
And toss the infuriate surge, and vales lay waste.
Nature thy temporary rage defies;
To her relief the gentler Seasons haste.
Throned in her emerald car, see Spring appear!
(As Fancy wills, the landscape starts to view.)
Her emerald car the youthful Zephyrs bear,
Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue.
Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen,
And lo, her rod the rose-lip'd Power extends!
And lo, the lawns are decked in living green,
And Beauty's bright-eyed train from Heaven descends!
Haste, happy days, and make all Nature glad----
But will all Nature joy at your return?
O, can ye cheer pale Sickness' gloomy bed,
Or dry the tears that bathe the untimely urn?
Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart,
Where groans the dungeon to the captive's wail?
To ease tired Disappointment's bleeding heart,
Will all your stores of softening balm avail!
When stern Oppression, in his harpy fangs,
From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears,
Can ye allay the dying parent's pangs,
Whose infant craves relief with fruitless tears?
For ah! thy reign, Oppression, is not past.
Who from the shivering limbs the vestment rends?
Who lays the once rejoicing village waste,
Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends!
But hope not, Muse, vain-glorious as thou art,
With the weak impulse of thy humble strain,
Hope not to soften Pride's obdurate heart,
When ERROL's bright example shines in vain.
Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye,
Thy weeping eye, nor further urge thy flight.
Thy haunts, alas! no gleams of joy supply,
Or transient gleams, that flash and sink in night.
Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego:
Spread, then, Historic Muse, thy pictured scroll;
Bid the great scenes in all their splendour glow,
And rouse to thought sublime the exulting soul.
What mingling pomps rush on the enraptured gaze!
Lo, where the gallant navy rides the deep!
Here, glittering towns their spiry turrets raise,
There, bulwarks overhang the shaggy steep.
Bristling with spears, and bright with burnished shields,
The embattled legions stretch their long array;
Discord's red torch, as fierce she scours the fields,
With bloody tincture stains the face of day.
And now the hosts in silence wait the sign.
Keen are their looks whom Liberty inspires!
Quick as the goddess darts along the line,
Each breast impatient burns with noble fires.
Her form how graceful! In her lofty mien
The smiles of love stern Wisdom's frown controul;
Her fearless eye, determined though serene,
Speaks the great purpose, and the unconquered soul.
Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band,
Each feature fierce and hagard, as with pain!
With menace loud he cries, while from his hand
He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain.
Lo, at his call, impetuous as the storms,
Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven;
Hatred, to madness wrought, each face deforms,
Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the heaven.
Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend,
Shield them, for Liberty who dare to die----
Ah, Liberty! will none thy cause befriend!
Are those thy sons, thy generous sons, that fly!
Not Virtue's self, when Heaven its aid denies,
Can brace the loosened nerves, or warm the heart;
Not Virtue's self can still the burst of sighs,
When festers in the soul misfortune's dart.
See, where by terror and despair dismayed,
The scattering legions pour along the plain!
Ambition's car, in bloody spoils arrayed,
Hews its broad way, as Vengeance guides the rein.
But who is He, that, by yon lonely brook,
With woods o'erhung, and precipices rude,
Lies all abandoned, yet, with dauntless look,
Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood?
Ah, BRUTUS! ever thine be Virtue's tear!
Lo, his dim eyes to Liberty he turns,
As, scarce supported on her broken spear,
O'er her expiring son the goddess mourns.
Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies;
From her dishevelled locks she rends the plume;
No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes,
And on her tear-stained cheek no roses bloom.
Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway;
Fame's loudest trumpet labours with thy name;
For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay,
And Flattery bids for thee her altars flame.
Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone,
The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil,
Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown,
While Guilt's thrilled bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile:
Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,
Far, far remote, amid the lowly plain,
Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell:
Such is man's doom; and Pity weeps in vain.
Still grief recoils--How vainly have I strove,
Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand!
Tired I submit; but yet, O yet remove,
Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand.
Yet, for a while, let the bewildered soul
Find in society relief from woe;
O yield, a while, to Friendship's soft controul;
Some respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow?
Come then, PHILANDER! whose exalted mind
Looks down from far on all that charms the great;
For thou canst bear, unshaken and resigned,
The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate!
Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere,
Nor faction cools, nor injury destroys;
Who lend'st to Misery's moan a pitying ear,
And feel'st with ecstasy another's joys:
Who know'st man's frailty, with a favouring eye
And melting heart, behold'st a brother's fall;
Who, unenslaved by Fashion's narrow tye,
With manly freedom follow'st Nature's call.
And bring thy DELIA, sweetly-smiling fair,
Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform;
Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care,
And harmonize the thunder of the storm.
Though blest with wisdom, and with wit refined,
She courts no homage, nor desires to shine;
In her each sentiment sublime is joined
To female softness, and a form divine.
Come, and disperse the involving shadows drear;
Let chastened mirth the social hours employ.
O catch the swift-winged moment while 'tis near--
On swiftest wing the moment flies of joy.
Even while the careless disencumbered soul
Sinks, all dissolving, into pleasure's dream,
Even then to time's tremendous verge we roll,
With headlong haste, along life's surgey stream.
Can gaiety the vanished years restore,
Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed,
Or soothe the sad INEVITABLE HOUR,
Or cheer the dark, dark mansions of the dead?
Still sounds the solemn knell, in Fancy's ear,
That called ELIZA to the silent tomb;
With her how jocund rolled the sprightly year!
How shone the nymph in beauty's brightest bloom!
Ah! Beauty's bloom avails not in the grave!
Youth's lofty mien, nor Age's awful grace.
Moulder alike unknown the prince and slave,
Whelmed in the enormous wreck of human race.
The thought-fixed portraiture, the breathing bust,
The arch with proud memorials arrayed,
The long-lived pyramid shall sink in dust,
To dumb Oblivion's ever desert shade.
Fancy from joy still wanders far astray.
Ah Melancholy, how I feel thy power!
Long have I laboured to elude thy sway--
But 'tis enough, for I resist no more.
The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight waste,
Through many a lonesome path is doomed to roam,
Wildered and weary sits him down at last;
For long the night, and distant far his home.
[The end]
James Beattie's poem: Triumph Of Melancholy
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