Posts tagged ‘1800’

Saturday, 3 January 2015

Prologue by Anne Bannerman

Turn from the path, if search of gay delight
Lead thy vain footsteps back to ages past!
Frail are the blighted flowers, and thinly cast
O’er the dim regions of monastic night.

Yet, in their cavern’d dark recesses, dwells
The long-lost Spirit of forgotten times,
Whose voice prophetic reach’d to distant climes,
And rul’d the nations from his witched cells;

That voice is hush’d! — But still, in Fancy’s ear,
Its first unmeasur’d melodies resound!
Blending with terrors wild, and legions drear,
The charmed minstrelsy of mystic sound,
That rous’d, embodied, to the eye of Fear,
Th’ unearthly habitants of faery ground.

From: Bannerman, Anne, Poems. A New Edition, 1807, Mundell, Doig, & Stevenson: Edinburgh, p. 138.
(https://archive.org/stream/poems00banngoog#page/n158/mode/2up)

Date: 1800

By: Anne Bannerman (1765-1829)

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Tuesday, 26 March 2013

On Revisiting the Place of My Nativity by Robert Bloomfield

Though Winter’s frowns had damp’d the beaming eye,
Through Twelve successive Summers heav’d the sigh,
The unaccomplish’d wish was still the same;
Till May in new and sudden glories came!
My heart was rous’d; and Fancy on the wing,
Thus heard the language of enchanting Spring:—

‘Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields!
Thou know’st the fragrance that the wild-flow’r yields;
Inhale the Breeze that bends the purple bud,
And plays along the margin of the Wood.
I’ve cloth’d them all; the very Woods where thou
In infancy learn’d’st praise from every bough.
Would’st thou behold again the vernal day?
My reign is short;—this instant come away:
Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn;
She hails the green, but not the rip’ning corn.
Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow’rs:
Come now; with heart as jocund as the hours.’

Who could resist the call?—that, Giles had done,
Nor heard the Birds, nor seen the rising Sun;
Had not Benevolence, with cheering ray,
And Greatness stoop’d, indulgent to display
Praise which does surely not to Giles belong,
But to the objects that inspir’d his song.
Immediate pleasure from those praises flow’d:
Remoter bliss within his bosom glow’d!
Now tasted all:—for I have heard and seen
The long-remember’d voice, the church, the green;—
And oft by Friendship’s gentle hand been led
Where many an hospitable board was spread.
These would I name,… but each, and all can feel
What the full heart would willingly reveal:
Nor needs be told; that at each season’s birth,
Still the enamell’d, or the scorching Earth
Gave, as each morn or weary night would come,
Ideal sweetness to my distant home:—
Ideal now no more;—for, to my view
Spring’s promise rose, how admirably true!!
The early chorus of the cheerful Grove,
Gave point to Gratitude; and fire to Love.
O Memory! shield me from the World’s poor strife;
And give those scenes thine everlasting life!

London, May 30, 1800

From: http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/9092/pg9092.html

Date: 1800

By: Robert Bloomfield (1766-1823)