Bless.

CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains,

Chills the warm, tide which flows along the veins

When Health,affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,

And flies with every changing gale of spring;

Not to the aching frame alone confined,

Unyielding pangs avail the drooping mind:

What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,

Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow

With Resignaion wage relentless strife,

While Hope retires appall’d, and clings to life!

Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,

Remembrance sheds around her genial power,

Calls back the vanish’d days to rapture given,

When love was bliss, and Beauty form’d our heaven;

Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene,

Those farry bowers, where all in turn have been.

As when through clouds that pour the sumrner storm

The orb of day unveils his distant form,

Gilds with faiht beams the crystal dews of rain,

And dimly twinkles o’er the watery plain;

Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams

The sun of memory, glowing through my drearns

Though sunk’ the radiance of his former blaze,

To scenes far distant points his paler rays;

Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,

The past confounding with the present day.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,

Which still recurs, uniook’d for and Unsought

My soul to Fancy’s fond suggestion yields,

And roams romantic o’er her airy fields.

Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view,

To which I long have bade a last adieu!

Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;

Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams;

Some who in marble prematurely sleep.

Whose forms I now remember but to weep;

Some who yet urge the same scholastic course

Of early science, future fame the source;

Who, still contending in the studious race,

In quick rotation fill the senior place.

These with a thousand visions now unite,

To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight

Ida blest spot, where science holds her reign,

How joyous once I join’d thv youthful train!

Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire,

Again I mingle with thy playful quire;

Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,

Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same.

Through winding paths along the glade, I trace

The social smile of every welcome face;

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe,

Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,

Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past,-

I bless the former and forgive the last.

Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my breast,

To love a stranger, friendship made me blest

Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth

When every artless bosom throbs with truth

Untaught my worldly wisdom how to feign,

And check each impulse with prudential rein;

When all we feel, our honest souls disclose

In love to friends, in open hate to toes;

No varnish’d tales the lips of youth repeat,

No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit,

Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen’d years,

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears.

When now the boy is ripen’d into man,

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan;

Instructs his son from candour’s path to shrink,

Smoothly to speak, and cauautiously to think;

Still to assent, and never to deny –

A patron’s praise can well reward the lie:

And who, when Fortune’s warning voice is heard,

Would lose his opening prospects for a word,

Although against that word his heart rebel,

And truth indignant all his bosom swell.

Away with themes like this! not mine the task

From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;

Let keener bards delight in satire’s sting;

My fancy soars not on Detraction’s wing:

Once, and but once, she aim’d a deadly blow,

To hurl defiance on a secret foe;

But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,

The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,

Warn’d by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,

With this submission all her rage expired.

From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,

She hush’d her young resentment, and forgave;

Or, my muse a pedant’s portrait drew,

POMPOSUS’ virtues are but known to few:

I never fear’d the young usurper’s nod,

And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.

If since on Granta’s failings, known to all

Who share the converse of a college hall,

She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,

‘Tis past, and thus she will not sin again;

Soon must her early song for ever cease,

And all may rsii when I shall rest in peace.

Here first remember’d be the joyous band,

Who hail’d me chief, obedient to command;

Who join’d with rne in every boyish sport –

Their first adviser, and their last resort;

Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant’s frown,

Or all the sable glories of his gown;

Who, thus transplanted from his father’s school –

Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule –

Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,

The dear preceptor of my early days!

PROBUS, the pride of science,and the boast,

To IDA now, alas! for ever lost,

With him, for years, we search’d the classic page,

And fear’d the master, though we loved the sage:

Retired at last’ his small yet peacefull seat

From learning’s labour is the blest retreat,

POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;

POMPOSUS governs,- but, my muse, forbear:

Contempt, in silence, be the pedant’s lot;

His name and precepts be alike forgot;

No more his mention shall my verse degrade

To him my tribute is already paid.

High through those elms, with hoary branches crown’d,

Fair Ida’s bower adorns the landscape round;

There Science, from her favour’d seat, surveys

The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;

To her awhile resigns her youthful train,

Who move in joy, and dance along the plain.

In scatter’d groups each favour’d haunt pursue,

Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;

Flush’d with his rays, beneath the noon-tide sun,

In rival bands, between the wickets run,

Drive o’er the sward the ball with active force,

Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.

But these with slower steps direct their way,

Where Brent’s cool waves in limpid currents stray;

While yonder few search out some green retreat

And arbours shade them from the summer heat:

Others, again, a pert and lively crew,

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,

With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,

And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;

Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray

Tradition treasures for a future day:

‘Twas here the gather’d swains for vengeance fought,

And here we earn’d the conquest dearly bought;

Here have we fled before superior might,

And here renew’d the wild tumultuous fight.’

While thus our souls with early passions swell

In lingering tones resounds the distant bell,

Th’ allotted hour of daily sport is o’er,

And Learning beckons from her temple’s door.

No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,

But ruder records fill the dusky wall;

There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro’s name

Secures its owner’s academic fame;

Here mingling view the names of sire and son –

The one long graved, the other just begun:

These shall survive alike when son and sire

Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;

Perhaps their last memorial these alone,

Denied in death a monumental stone,

Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave

The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.

And here my name, and many an early friend’s,

Along the wall in lengthen’d line extends.

Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,

Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,

Who young obey’d their lords in silent awe,

Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;

And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,

To rule, the little tyrants of an hour;

Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day,

They pass the dreary winter’s eve away

‘And thus our former rulers stemm’d the tide,

And thus they dealt the combat side by side;

Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,

Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail’d;

Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,

And here he falter’d forth his last farewell;

And here one night abroad they dared to roam,

While bold POMPOSUS bravely stay’d at home;’

While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,

When names of these, like ours, alone survive:

Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm

The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,

One last long look on what we were before

Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu –

Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.

Through splendid circles, fashion’s gaudy world,

Where folly’s glaring standard waves unfurl’d,

I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,

And all I sought or hoped was to forget.

Vain wish! if chance some well-remember’d face,

Some old companion of my early race,

Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,

My eyes, my heart, proclaim’d me still a boy;

The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around’

Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;

The smiles of beauty–(for, alas! I’ve known

What ’tis to bend before Love’s mighty throne)–

The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,

Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near;

My thoughts bewilder’d in the fond surprise,

The woods of IDA danced before my eyes;

I saw the sprightly wand’rers pour along,

I saw and join’d again the joyous throng;

Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,

And friendship’s feelings triumph’d over love.

Yet why should I alone with such delight

Retrace the circuit of my former flight?

Is there no cause beyond the common claim

Endear’d to all in childhood’s very name?

Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,

Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear

To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,

And seek abroad the love denied at home.

Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee–

A home, a worid, a paradise to me.

Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share

The tender guidance of a father’s care.

Can rank, or e’en a guardian’s name supply

The love which glistens in a father’s eye?

For this can wealth or title’s sound atone,

Made, by a parent’s early loss, my own?

What brother springs a brother’s love to seek?

What sister’s gentle kiss has prest my cheek?

For me how dull the vacant moments rise,

To no fond bosom link’d by kindred ties!

Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream

Fraternal smiles collected round me seem;

While still the visions to my heart are prest,

The voice of love will murmur in my rest:

I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;

I hear again,-but, ah! no brother’s voice.

A hermit, ‘midst of crowds, I fain must stray

Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;

While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine

I cannot call one single blossom mine:

What then remains? in solitude to groan,

To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.

Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,

And none more dear than IDA’S social band.

Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,

Thy name ennobles him who thus commends;

From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;

The praise as his who now that tribute pays.

Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,

If hope anticipate the words of truth,

Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,

To build his own upon thy deathless fame.

Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list

Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,

Oft have we drain’d the font of ancient lore;

Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.

Yet, when confinement’s lingering hour was done,

Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:

Together we impell’d the flying ball;

Together waited in our tutor’s hall;

Together join’d in cricket’s manly toil,

Or shared the produce of the river’s spoil;

Or, plunging from the green declining shore,

Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;

In every element, unchanged, the same,

All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy!

DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy;

For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,

The laughing herald of the harmless pun;

Yet with a breast of such materials made–

Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;

Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel

In danger’s path, though not untaught to feel.

Sill I remember, in the factious strife,

The rustic’s musket aim’d against my life:

High pois’d in air the massy weapon hung,

A cry of horror burst from every tongue;

Whilst I, in combat with another foe,

Fought on, unconscious of th’ impending blow;

Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career–

Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;

Disarm’d and baffled by your conquering hand,

Thc grovelling savage roll’d upon,the sand:

An act like this, can simple thanks repay?

Or all the labours of a grateful lay?

Oh no! whene’er my breast forgets the deed,

That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great:

Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,

To thee alone, unrivall’d would belong.

The feeble efforts of my lengthen’d song.

Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,

A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit:

Though yet in embryo these perfections shine,

Lycus! thy father’s fame will soon be thine.

Where learning nurtures the superior mind,

What may we hope from genius thus re fined!

When time at length matures thy growing years,

How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!

Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,

With honour’s soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS pass by unsung?

From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung:

What though one sad dissension bade us part?

That name is yet embalm’d within my heart;

Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,

And palpitate, responsive to the sound.

Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:

We once were friends, –I’ll think we are so still.

A form unmatch’d in nature’s partial mould,

A heart untainted, we in thee behold:

Yet not the senate’s thunder thou shalt wield,

Nor seek for glory in the tented field;

To minds of ruder texture these be given–

Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.

Haply, in polish’d courts might be thy seat,

But that thy tongue could never forge deceit:

The courtier’s supple bow and sneering smile,

The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,

Would make that breast with indignation burn,

And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.

Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;

Sacred to love, unclouded e’er by hate;

The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;

Ambition’s slave alone would toil for more.

Now last, but nearest of the social band,

See honest, open, generous CLEON stand;

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,

No vice degrades that purest soul serene.

On the same day our studious race begun,

On the same day our studious race was run;

Thus side by side we pass’d our first career,

Thus side by side we strove for many a year;

At last concluded our scholastic life,

We neither conquer’d in the classic strife:

As speakers each supports an equal name,

And crowds allow to both a partial fame:

To soothe a youthful rival’s early pride,

Though Cleon’s candour would the palm divide,

Yet candour’s self compels me now to own

Justice awards it to my friend alone.

Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,

Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!

Drooping, she bends o’er pensive Fancy’s urn,

To trace the hours which never can return;

Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,

And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!

Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,

As infant laurels round my head were twined,

When PROBUS’ praise repaid my lyric song,

Or placed me higher in the studious throng;

Or when my first harangue received applause,

His sage instruction the primeval cause,

What gratitude to him my soul posseat,

While hope of dawning honours fill’d my breast!

For all my humble fame, to him alone

The praise is due, who made that fame my own.

Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,

These young effusions of my early days,

To him my muse her noblest strain would give:

The song might perish, but the theme might live.

Yet why for him the needless verse essay?

His honour’d name requires no vain display:

By every son of grateful IDA blest,

It finds an echo in each youthful breast;

A fame beyond the glories of the proud,

Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,

Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.

How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!

What scenes of childhood still unsung remain!

Yet let me hush this echo of the past,

This parting song, the dearest and the last;

And brood in secret o’er those hours of joy,

To me a silent and a sweet employ,

While future hope and fear alike unknown,

I think with pleasure on the past alone;

Yes to the past alone my heart confine,

And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

IDA! still o’er thy hills in joy preside,

And proudly steer through time’s eventful tide;

Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,

Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,-

That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,

O’er their last scene of happiness below.

Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,

The feeble veterans of some former throng,

Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl’d,

Are swept for ever from this busy world;

Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,

While Care has yet withheld her venom’d tooth;

Say if remembrance days like these endears

Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?

Say, can ambition’s fever’d dream bestow

So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?

Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,

Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,

Can stars or ermine, man’s maturer toys

(For glittering baubles are not left to boys),

Recall one scene so much beloved to view,

As those where Youth her garland twined for you?

Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age

You turn with faltering hand life’s varied page;

Peruse the record of your days on earth,

Unsullied only where it marks your birth;

Still lingering pause above each chequer’d leaf,

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;

Where passion o’er the theme her mantle threw,

Or weeping Virtue sigh’d a faint adieu;

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,

Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;

When Friendship bow’d before the shrine of Truth,

And Love without his pinion, smiled on Youth.

Lord Byron