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Portrait of Mary Robinson leaned against a rock, looking out to sea. Rectangular engraving after a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Mrs. Mary Robinson,

Engraved by Mr. Page
from the picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds
London. Published by Jones & Co 1826-02-18Feb.yFebruary 18, 1826.

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The
Poetical Works
of the Late
Mrs. Mary Robinson:


including
the Pieces Last Published.

The Three Volumes Complete in One.

London:
Published by Jones & Company,
3, Acton Place, Kingsland Road. 18241824.

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Preface.

In an age when no publication can be presented
to the world, unembellished by a life of the
author, however trite and recent that life may
be, it is to be hoped that compliance with the
fashion of the times will exonerate the editor
from the intention of uttering a twice told tale.

The principal, and, in some estimations, perhaps
the most interesting events of the Author’s
days have already been given from her own memoirs,
yet it may be no unreasonable supposition,
that this brief account which accompanies
the most excellent part of her character may be
justly appreciated when the mere annals of a
beautiful woman are no more remembered.

Mrs. Robinson is descended from a respectable
and ancient Irish family. Her father, Mr.
Darby
, was nephew of the celebrated American,
Dr. Franklin, by the marriage of Miss Hester
Franklin
with the grandfather of Mrs. Robinson.

Mr. Darby lived at Bristol at the period of
the author’s birth, and filled the situation of one
of the most respectable merchants in that city,
in partnership with the house of Miller and
Elton
. With the restless spirit of research which
but too universally characterized his undertakings,
he lost that fortune, in promoting a scheme
for the commercial advantage of his country, by
the proposal of a whale fishery, since brought to
perfection at Newfoundland, which would have
been better employed in securing independence
to his infant family. Disgusted with the frowns
of former friends, and the triumphs of his more
prudent commercial brethren, he accepted the
command of a seventy-four gun ship in the Russian
service, and died in 1785-12December, 1785, universally
esteemed by his brother officers, particularly
by his friend admiral Greig, at whose immediate
request he entered the service of the
empress. His widow, who resided with Mrs.
Robinson
till the moment of her death, was
grand-daughter of Catharine Seys of Boverton
Castle
in Glamorganshire, whose sister, Ann
Seys
, married lord King, then high chancellor
of England, of whom see an account in Collins’s
peerage. Mrs. Robinson received the first rudiments
of her education at Bristol, where she
gave many striking specimens of future genius,
by an early and astonishing admiration of letters,
of which poetry seemed her favourite literature.
At six years of age she could write
with a feeling far beyond her years, and a degree
of propriety which never could have been instilled
into her young imagination by the singsong
exercises of a country school, had not the
dawn of poetical inspiration, which has since
burst forth with so much splendour, already begun
to display its influence over the mind of the
infant poet.

At ten years of age Mrs. Robinson was removed
to a respectable school near London. At
the early age of fifteen and three months she
married Mr. Robinson, brother of the late commodore
Robinson
, in the service of the East India
company
. This gentleman was then a student
in Lincoln’s Inn. This hasty match, of
which love was the only basis, was, as may be
supposed, attended by no great share of fortune’s
smiles.

Shortly after Mrs. Robinson’s marriage her
misfortunes commenced, as her family augmented,
and the independence of her mind soon determined
her to seek, within the capabilities
of her own talents, to support herself and infant
family. With this intention, after having undergone
a variety of vicissitudes, she made her
first appearance on the stage, under the immediate
patronage of the dutchess of Devonshire,
and the acknowledged pupil of the immortal
Garrick. For three years she continued at
Drury-Lane theatre, performing all the principal
parts of tragedy and sentimental comedy.

At this, perhaps most unfortunate moment of
her destiny, it was her fate to attract the attention
of a distinguished personage, whose unceasing
importunities obliged her, with reluctance,
to quit a profession, by which she might have
secured, to her latest hour, both independence
and admiration.

In the spring of 17831783 our poet was attacked
with a violent and dangerous fever, occasioned
by travelling all night in a damp post-chaise, to
do an office of pecuniary friendship, for one who
has since repaid her with neglect and ingratitude. A2v 4
The langour which remained on the abatement
of the disease terminated in a rheumatic fever,
which, at the age of twenty-three, in the pride
of youth and the bloom of beauty, reduced the
frame of this lovely and unfortunate woman to
the feebleness of an infant, which obliged her to
be carried in the arms of her attendants to the
last moment of her life.

About the period above mentioned Mrs. Robinson
quitted England, in order to try the baths
of Aix la Chapelle; from thence she removed to
Paris, for the purpose of procuring better medical
advice; every effort of the healing art having
proved ineffectual, our poet once more resolved
to return to her native home, and, by the exercise
of mental acquirements, endeavour to alleviate
the calamity of an agonizing and incurable
disease.

To the muse, as the only solace to a mind of
exquisite sensiblility, blended with more than
female fortitude, did this lovely and unfortunate
being retire for consolation. The strain of
plaintive tenderness which pervades her earlier
productions fully exemplified the impressions of
an afflicted mind, striving to wander from itself;
and, in the mazes of fiction, lose for a time
the melancholy objects which fate had so early
presented before her.

In the year 17901790, Mrs. Robinson produced
her first prose work, entitled Vancenza, or
the Dangers of Credulity
. The small degree of
fame she had already acquired by a few poetical
works, which from time to time had found their
way into the newspapers, naturally increased
the demand for this new proof of Mrs. Robinson’s
talents.

The whole edition of Vancenza was sold in
one day. The work has since gone through five
editions.

Shortly after this publication Mrs. Robinson,
at the earnest request of her literary friends,
amongst whom may be particularly classed the
late Sir Joshua Reynolds and Edmund Burke,
consented to publish the poems she had written,
at intervals of pain, by subscription; a most
splendid list, collected in sixteen weeks, fully
exemplified the estimation in which her talents
were held by this country, and by the splendid
proofs of approbation which accompanied her
subscribers’ letters, Mrs. Robinson may be justly
said to “have brought golden opinions from
all sorts of people.”

In the same year the death of our immortal
Reynolds afforded a mournful, yet pleasing opportunity
to our poet, of uniting her talents
with the more interesting feelings of affectionate
regret. The monody to the memory of one of
the earliest admirers of her muse was dedicated
to the members of the Royal Academy.

About 17941794, Mrs. Robinson brought out a
small novel, in two volumes, entitled The
Widow.
This work is certainly by no means
equal to those which she has since published.

To The Widow may be added Mrs. Robinson’s
prose publications of Angelina, a novel,
Hubert de Sevrac, a romance, Walsingham,
The False Friend, and The Natural
Daughter,
any of which might have done infinite
credit to an author who had not so materially
excelled in a far superior branch of literature.

In the autumn of 17951795, Mrs. Robinson finished
her tragedy of The Sicilian Lover, and
presented it for representation. This, more
properly named, blank verse dramatic poem,
having been laid by, in that pandemonium of
genius and dulness, the prompter’s closet, for
several months, was returned with a promise of
representation early in the next season, but not
before one of the most striking situations had
been pilfered for another tragedy, which appeared
shortly after. Digusted with the delay, and
universal negative which, for some unknown
cause, she ever experienced from managers, she
resolved to print the tragedy, and leave its merits
and defects to the decision of the public.

Mrs. Robinson continued thus growing in
literary fame till the moment of her decease.
At length her declining health becoming daily
more visible and alarming, our poet retired to a
cottage belonging to her daughter, near Windsor,
where, after three months’ lingering agony,
which she endured with that strength of fortitude
that had marked every action of her life,
she expired.

Mrs. Robinson is, by her own express desire,
interred in Old Windsor Church-Yard.

Of Mrs. Robinson’s general character, it can
only be added that she possessed a sensibility of
heart and tenderness of mind which very frequently
led her to form hasty decisons, while
more mature deliberation would have tended to
promote her interest and worldy comfort; she
was liberal even to a fault; and many of the
leading traits of her life will most fully evince,
that she was the most disinterested of human
beings. As to her literary character, the following
pages, it may be presumed, will form a
sufficient testimony.

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Tributary Poems.

To Mrs. Robinson,

by the Late General Burgoyne,
Author of The Heiress, a Comedy, &c. &c. &c.

Laura! Mrs. Robinson’s most distinguished Poems appeared
in the periodical prints of the day, under the
fictitious signatures of Laura, Laura-Maria, Julia,
Daphne, Oberon, Echo, and Louisa.
when from thy beauteous eyes,

The tear of tender anguish flows;

Such magic in thy sorrow lies,

That ev’ry bosom shares thy woes.

When on thy lovely perfect face,

The sportive dimpled smile we see;

With eager hope the cause we trace,

And wish to share the bliss with thee.

For in thine highly gifted mind,

Superior charms so sweetly blend;

In each such gentle grace we find,

That Envy must thy worth commend.

Oh! who could gaze upon that lip,

That coral lip of brightest hue;

Nor wish the honied balm to sip;

More fresh, more sweet, than morning dew?

But when thy true poetic lays,

Pierce to the heart’s remotest cell;

We feel the conscious innate praise,

Which feeble language fails to tell.

So melting is thy lute’s soft tone,

Each breast unused to feel desire,

Confesses bless before unknown,

And kindles at the sacred fire.

So chaste, so eloquent thy song,

So true each precept it conveys,

That e’en the sage shall teach the young

To take their lesson from thy lays.


And when thy pen’s delightful art

Paints with soft touch Love’s tender flame;

Thy verse so melts and mends the heart,

That, taught by thee, we prize his name.

Or, when in plaintive melody,

Thou mourn’st the friend thy soul held dear;

Charm’d by thy power, we join with thee,

And weep in sadness o’er his bier.

Sweet mistress of each yielding heart!

Accept the verse to genius due;

No flattery can that bard impart

Who dares address his vows to you.

1791-02-01February 1, 1971.

To Mrs. Robinson,

by James Boaden, Esq.
Author of Fountainville Forest, The Secret Tribunal, The Fruits of
Faction, a Poem
, &c.

“But Laura still shall dress the lay,

In all the lustre of the day,

With such sweet pensiveness complain,

That mortals are in love with pain;

And while the tender notes they scan,

Scarce see the writer is a man.”

Laura! This little poem was occasioned by a most malignant
and unwomanly attack on the authenticity of
Mrs. Robinson’s productions, by a sister poet, whose
name we forbear to mention.
the lightnings of thy scorn

That pierced the timid breast of morn,

Borne through the vap’ry fields of air,

Struck, and roused me to a tear.

It fell, for who unmoved could be

When the muse sings, and sings by thee?

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What wretch, by every muse disclaim’d,

Can speak of verse when thou art named,

And not as liberal as the day,

Pour forth the pæan of thy lay?

Does it not fall like fleecy snow

Upon the bright’ning plain below?

Is it not mild as the blest morn,

That empties Amalthæa’s horn?

Sure in some niggard barren soil

Of vexing stubbornness and toil,

With scanty sustenance scarce fed,

This rude barbarian must be bred,

Whose soul its tribute can refuse,

To heavenly beauty and the muse!

But thou, pursue thy radiant way,

Cheer’d by thy own meridan ray;

Around thee let the beams be hurl’d,

That shed a lustre on our world.

Blest, that the flashes of thy fire,

That souls congenial best admire:

The beamy splendours that they give,

No fool can bear to see, and live.

To Mrs. Robinson,

by the Late Robert Merry, Esq.
Member of the Academe della Crusca at Florence.

Blest daughter of gentleness! child of the muse!

Restrain the sweet lay, that so meltingly flows,

Though its breathings a transport diviner
diffuse

Than the nightingale’s prayer for the kiss of
the rose!

Yet, alas! there is anguish and danger to hear;—

The spells of the fatal enchanter I prove,

His magic dominion in thee I revere,

For I know thou art beauty, and feel thou
art love.

I feel that thy charms can enrapture the view,

Thy thought so expansive, so richly refined,

Has power to disorder, has force to subdue—

And I die in adoring thy heart and thy mind.

Yet though the rich tribute of merit and fame

From taste and discernment thou ever must
share,

Pale Folly and Rancour shall fix on thy name,

And Envy, distracted, be turned to Despair!

When the eagle majestically sails through the
sky,

The owl and the raven are shock’d at the sight,

To the caverns of darkness in anguish they fly,

And curse with dismay the bold bird of the
light.


Then, daughter of Gentleness, child of the
Muse!

By Pity the wretches’ resentment control,

Let the dull and the dastard apsire to abuse,

Be it mine, thou sweet Minstrel! to give thee
my soul.

To Mrs. Robinson,

by the Rev. William Tasker,
Translator of the Classics, and Author of Aviragus, a tragedy,

When Sappho, from the lofty steep

O’erwhelmed with dire despair,

Plunged headlong in the foaming deep,

To end her hopeless care,

Venus, who saw the tuneful maid

Bend o’er the yawning wave,

Sent her own son, the nymph to aid—

He came too late to save!

But as her trembling spirit rose,

To seek its calm abode,

Venus in pity to her woes,

This gentle boon bestow’d:

No more the victim of despair

Shall Sappho’s spirit rove,

But on the earth, divinely fair,

Claim every gazer’s love!

And see! the wondrous nymph appears!

More tuneful, more divine;

She brings new music from the spheres,

And her blest lyre is thine!

To Mrs. Robinson,

by the Honourable John St. John,
Author of Mary queen of Scots, an historical Tragedy, The Island
of St. Marguerite,
an Opera, &c. &c. &c.

Congenial spirits own congenial fires,

Where vivid fancy every thought inspires;

The taste of Reynolds we behold again

In every beauty of thy mournful strain.

No envy dims the lustre of thy lays,

No mean disguise obscures thy generous praise;

But as the tuneful line mellifluous flows,

Still, still pursue the lesson truth inspires,

Still tune thy harp, amidst exulting fires.

And when thy gentle form in death is laid,

And all thy wondrous attributes shall fade,

The grateful tributary song of woe,

Transcendent Sappho! round thy tomb shall flow.

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There Middleton’s Vide Mrs. Robinson’s elegy to Lady Middleton. meek shade shall hover near.

There Garrick’s Elegy to Garrick. sainted spirit shall appear,

There beauteous Linley Sonnet to Maria Linley. raise her angel tongue,

And Chatterton Monody to Chatterton. shall strike his lyre new
strung!

And ’midst the mingling sounds thy name shall
rise

The brightest planet in its “native skies.”

Impromptu This poem was given to The Honourable John
St. John
in Mrs. Robinson’s Memoirs, through a mistake
of the copyist.

To Mrs. Robinson,

by His Grace the Late Duke of Leeds.

When sensibility and truth unite

To give thy thought with sweet poetic art,

’Tis genuine nature dictates what you write,

And every line’s a transcript of your heart!

’Tis grace, and feeling, polish’d by the muse,

To claim applause, and charm the wond’ring
throng!

Then who the sacred laurel shall refuse

To her whom nature hails the queen of song.

The above little complimentary jeu d’esprit was
sent to Mrs. Robinson inclosed in the following very
flattering letter from its noble and classical author. “Madam, Permit me to thank you for the favour you conferred
on me, by sending me your tragedy. I trust
you will not deem me guilty of flattery when I assure
you that few productions of the present poetical
age have afforded me more pleasure, than the perusal
of the second act; the scene between Honoria and
her father is very well managed, and capable of
much effect; as is the scene with the banditti in the
third.
I imagine many will unite with me in observing

how much your continuing to persevere in this species
of composition would increase your profit, and
enhance your poetical reputation; which has already
much signalized itself in the rich field of English
literature.
I have the honour to remain,
Madam, &c. &c.
(Signed) Leeds.

Sonnet

To Mrs. Robinson,

by the Rev. Dr. Paul Colombine,
of Norwich.
On reading her Legitimate Sonnets.

What voice attuned to the soft Lesbian lute

Breathes in this rugged clime such accents
clear?

What British Sappho warbles thro’ the year,


When every grove in Greece is lorn and mute?

The Muses and the Graces held dispute,

Which at her birth the blooming babe should
rear

Their blended gifts in her so bright appear.

Who would not strive to press the tender suit,

To win the beauteous prize? where’er she moves,

Whene’er she speaks, she fascinates each eye

And winds around each heart; the tender loves,

With genius, taste, and varied harmony,

So breathe in her soft lay, hoar age approves,

While youth, fond youth, dissolves in ecstacy.

Sonnet

To Mrs. Robinson

by John Taylor, Esq.

Think not thy numbers Sappho’s woes declare,

And all her fervid passion’s fond excess,

Though thy rapt Muse’s glowing strains express

Of Love’s sad victims each romantic care,

Warning weak hearts to shun the roseate snare;

Though Phœbus deigns thy towering flights
to bless,

And all his sons thy nobler powers confess

That o’er their highest aims sublimely dare.

No, Laura, thus pre-eminently taught,

Mellifluous warblings of the heavenly train,

With poesy’s delightful magic fraught,

Yet other notes reveal’d the Lesbian’s pain;

For, ah! had Sappho’s Muse such accents caught,

The faithless youth she had not lov’d in vain.

Sonnet

To Mrs. Robinson

by John Taylor, Esq.

Hail, pensive songstress! whose enchanting lay

So sweetly soothes the sadden’d soul to rest;

Pathetic sovereign of the tender breast!

Gentle as eve, and lustrous as the day.

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Whether to plaintive grove thy fancy lead,

To hermit’s cave, or mountain’s trembling
height,

The battle’s sanguine plain, the peaceful mead,

Still the fond Muse attends thy fervid flight.

Description yields her pencil to thy hand,

That pencil fraught with every varying dye,

A new creation springs at thy command,

And brighter beauties catch the ravish’d eye.

Ah! since o’er other hearts so potent known,

Why sadly sink the victim of thy own?

Impromptu

To Mrs Robinson

by John Taylor, Esq.
On receiving her Poems.

Ah! fair, dearest Laura, my thanks would I
pay,

For the treasures of genius thy friendship bestows;

How poor are all thanks to the worth of thy lay,

Where the rich ore of poesy lavishly flows.

To praise that rich ore too were equally vain;

What Muse, but thy own, can its value impart?

Yet, when grateful simplicity offers the strain,

’Tis the only reward that is dear to thy heart.

Then take, dearest Laura, the tribute sincere,

From a friend who admired thee in life’s early
hour;

Who beheld in thy bloom, the sweet promise
appear;

That time has matured to so lovely a flower.

Bouquet
for Mrs. Robinson,

An Impromptu,

by the Late Richard Tickel, Esq.
Written a few months only previous to his death.

The rose is like thy glowing cheek,

When deck’d with tears of pity meek.

The lily, like thy spotless breast,

By love’s delicious pinions prest.

The blue bell like thy azure eyes,

Where Cupid’s wand’ring arrow lies!

The violet like the veins that twine

Along thy oval front divine!


Then, Laura, quick these emblems take,

And wear them for the giver’s sake.

To Mrs. Robinson,

by the same.

As Lesbos Sappho boasted first in fame!

So, peerless muse! thy verse adorns our shore;

So future bards shall celebrate thy name,

E’en till this little isle shall be no more!

Then mock the venal titles of a day,

Nor mourn of worldy gifts— a niggard store;

Thy genius shines with such a vivid ray,

As makes the gems of fortune dimly poor!

For when, in shrouded dust, the dull and the vain

Shall moulder, lost, forgotten, or unknown,

The pensive eye shall pour upon thy strain,

And thy illustrious talents proudly own!

Then smile, and know thyself supremely great,

And leave to little souls the pomp of little state!

To Mrs. Robinson,

by Robert Merry, Esq.
Member of the Academe Della Crusca at Florence.

Sweet is the calmly cheerful hour,

When from mute midnight’s ebon tower

The moon escapes, and sportive hies

O’er the gay garden of the skies;

Where nature’s noblest flowers unfold

Their starry buds of burning gold;

The weary winds pant on the deep,

Or ’mongst the cradling billows sleep;

The streams their lucid lakes display;

The forests shake their sighs away;

Soft lustre every shade pursues,

That darkly drinks the falling dews;

While odour from her silken wings

An aromatic ether flings.

All is delight! but, ah! in vain

These varying glories bless the plain;

For see, the frenzied lover speeds

From the bright groves and glittering meads,

From gaudy hills, enchanted bowers,

And flowing waves and summer showers;

And seeks the lowly pensive cave,

Where he may groan, and weep, and rave;

And wrap his thoughts in sablest gloom,

And lure a transport from the tomb;

Where he may hope to rest at last,

When Passion’s rending pangs are past.

But e’en if then he chance to hear

The warbling of the bird sincere,

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Who loves her secret pangs to throw

In all the melodies of wo,

His heart relents, his trembling lid,

In pity’s lucid veil is hid;

Subjected agonies depart,

And softening sorrow soothes his heart.

So I, dear Laura! long supprest

The thorn of anguish in my breast;

Lost to each social solace gay,

And heedless of the blooms of May,

And heedless of the haughty sun,

When to his mad meridian run,

He lifts his red refulgent shield,

And fires the heaven’s eternal field.

Yes, I from each allurement fled

To where incumbent darkness spread;

Trod the black torrent’s gloomy side,

And held fierce converse with the tide.

Ah! then thy numbers seized my soul,

I found the thrilling sadness roll

In sweet similitue of joy,

That might my direst griefs destroy;

They stole upon my tranced sense,

As the fresh gales of morn dispense

New life to every shrub that fades

In solitude’s neglected shades.

Transcendent Laura! now receive

The tribute gratitude shall give;

Due to thy verse, whose sainted glow

Bade my lost soul renounce its wo:

Then frown not on my daring lay

That strives to paint the golden day;

To tell the lustre of the rose,

And thy resistless charms disclose;

But think, when in the grave’s cold sleep

My wretched eyes shall cease to weep,

And, troubled by the wintry breeze,

This sad, this burning heart shall freeze,

Then shall my lingering verse declare

How much I prized the good and fair!

What tenderness my soul conceived,

How deeply for thy sufferings grieved,

While future poets, future ages join,

To pour in Laura’s praise their melodies divine.

To Mrs. Robinson

This Sonnet appeared in the Oracle, 1798-10-1515th of
October, 1798
.
Signed Il manti timido.

In dreary midnight’s lonely hour,

When wretched lovers only wake,

Ten thousand tears fast dropping pour

And bathe this bosom for thy sake.

When morning’s misty eye uncloses,

And gives the world another day,


For thee (more sweet than vernal roses)

Ten thousand sighs are breathed away.

But he whose scalding tears are flowing,

Whose aching breast heaves many a sigh,

Whose soul with fondest love is glowing,

Must hide his heart’s first wish, and die!

To Mrs. Robinson,

On Her Visiting Bath in Ill Health.

by James Boaden, Esq.

Maria from the busy circle flies,

To breathe the purer bliss of brighter skies,

Forsakes the scenes of her expanding fame,

To renovate the anguish of her frame;

Mentally perfect, her enlighten’d mind,

Superior to disease, springs unconfined;

Ranges the regions of the Muse’s reign,

Exempt from our inheritance of pain;

And, while keen pangs oppress her lovely face,

Wings the pure ether of poetic space;

Floats in the fragrance of the rubied rose,

And shuts its bosom up in rich repose!

So may these lines possess the placid power,

To soothe thy sufferings in some torturing
hour.

To Mrs. Robinson

by the Late
Robert Oliphant, Esq.
Clare Hall, Cambridge.

Admired and lovely as the Paphian maid,

Bright beauty’s model, love’s bewitching
form,

Ah! gentle Laura, thus in smiles array’d,

My flinty heart to tender hopes can warm.

Unpitied must he grieve who loves thee so?

Say, must he steal subdued from every eye?

Ah! if condemn’d to bear this load of wo,

Say but “Despair,” and bid thy victim die.

Some pity then will from thy lips depart,

Some comfort visit him who loves but thee,

Who feels thy beauty wind about his heart,

And struggling pants for death to set him
free;

Yet if thy cruel heart refuse to save,

I only ask one tear to glisten on my grave.

B B1v 10

Lines
Addressed to Mrs. Robinson,

by the Late
John Henderson, Esq.
On reading a little Welsh ballad written by Mrs.
Robinson
, entitled Lewin and Gynniethe.

Thou pride of a nation where genius is bless’d,

Where the muse smiles, by fancy and eloquence
dress’d,

Sweet minstrel, whose plaintive and elegant
mind

Is the temple of wit and of pity combined.

Oh! ne’er let the pen sleep in silence whose lays

Claim the young budding laurel, a nation’s just
praise;

Exert thy soft skill, and from Phœbus receive

That wealth which the god shall to excellence
give.

.

A Stranger Minstrel.

by S.T. Coleridge, Esq.
Written a few weeks before her death.

As late on Skiddaw’s mount I lay supine,

Midway th’ ascent, in that repose divine,

When the soul, centred in the heart’s recess,

Hath quaffed its fill of nature’s loveliness,

Yet still beside the fountain’s marge will stay,

And fain would thirst again, again to quaff;

Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way,

Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh,

In that sweet mood of sad and humorous
thought,

A form within me rose, within me wrought

With such strong magic, that I cried aloud,

“Thou ancient Skiddaw! by thy helm of cloud,

And by thy many-colour’d chasms deep,

And by their shadows, that for ever sleep

By yon small flaky mists that love to creep

Along the edges of those spots of light,

Those sunny islands on thy smooth green height,

And, by yon shepherds with their sheep,

And dogs, and boys, a gladsome crowd,

That rush e’en now with clamour loud

Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud,

And by this laugh, and by this tear,

I would, old Skiddaw, she were here.

A lady of sweet song is she,

Her soft blue eye was made for thee!

O! ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,

I would, I would, that she were here!”

Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,

In sullen majesty replying,

Thus spake from out his helm of cloud,

(His voice was like an echo dying!)


“She dwells belike in scenes more fair

And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.”

I only sigh’d when this I heard,

Such mournful thoughts within me stirr’d,

That all my heart was faint and weak,

So sorely was I troubled!

No laughter wrinkled on my cheek,

But, oh! the tears were doubled!

But ancient Skiddaw green and high,

Heard, and understood my sigh;

And now, in tones less stern and rude,

As if he wish’d to end the feud,

Spake he, the proud response renewing:

(His voice was like a monarch wooing.)

Nay, but thou dost not know her might,

The pinions of her soul, how strong!

But many a stranger in my height

Hath sung to me her magic song,

Sending forth his ecstacy

In her divinest melody,

And hence I know, her soul is free,

She is, where’er she wills to be,

Unfetter’d by mortality!

Now, to the haunted beach can fly,

Beside the threshold scourged with waves,

Now where the maniac wildly raves,

Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!

No wind that hurries o’er my height

Can travel with so swift a flight.

I too, methinks, might merit

The presence of her spirit!

To me too might belong

The honour of her song and witching melody!

Which most resembles me.

Soft, various, and sublime,

Exempt from wrongs of time!

Thus spake the mighty mount! and I

Made answer, with a deep drawn sigh,

“Thou ancient Skiddaw! by this tear,

I would, I would, that she were here!”

Impromptu

On Mrs. Robinson

Being present at the performance of the Merchant
of Venice
at Covent Garden.

by the Late John Henderson, Esq.

Whilst Macklin Shakspeare’s Shylock holds to
view,

See beauteous Robinson out-act the Jew;

B2r 11

One pound of flesh his malice could assuage,

Her Christian charms severer bonds engage;

When love-inspiring eyes their darts dispense,

Who meets the glance must expiate th’ offence;

In vain applause would pay the debt in part,

She claims the sacrifice of every heart.

J. H.

To Mrs. Robinson

by the Reverend B. Beresford.

Full many a conflict hath my bosom proved,

To chase thy image from its dwelling there;

Full many a sorrow, many a tender care,

For thy dear sake I’ve suffer’d, best beloved;

For, since thy beauties did my heart invade,

Oft have I strove my liberty to gain;

Oft, in soft solace to my am’rous pain,

For balm, to heal the wounds which love has
made,

I court the muses; to assuage my grief

Court sage philosophy; for vain relief,

In quest of joy, I rove from fair to fair;

Vain other charms, and vain philosophy!

My vagrant heart must still return to thee,

And one dear smile is worth an age of care!

Lines
Addressed to Mrs. Robinson.

Written by the Author of Hartford Bridge,
&c. &c. in 17801780. It is a singular fact, that this Author was unknown
to Mrs. Robinson for some years after the
above elegant lines were written.

The seaman, from winds and the fury of seas,

Each harbour will bless where he anchors at
ease;

Yet with fonder regard will he eye the wish’d
strand

Where his vessel is destined and cargo must land.

—So I, dear Maria, on life’s ocean tost,

When I cannot keep sea, veer about for the
coast,


And praise every harbour where shelter is found;

But thou art the port where my wishes are
bound.

Those wishes accept, and abhorr’d may I be,

If I e’er fram’d a wish that meant evil to thee!

While, restless, from region to region I roam,

My heart, still untravell’d, seeks thee for its
home.

Oh! yield it abode! and, believe me, my fair,

Of this breast thou art tenant, none else harbours
there;

There, sweet star of beauty, thy dear image
dwells,

Wings the fond pulse of passion, the sigh ever
swells,

Gives a tide to the current that bathes the warm
heart,

Till, grown to the soul, it becomes e’en a part!

Then yield it abode. Bow, ye monks, and be
blest,

The Heaven I crave is a place in her breast;

And say, breathes a monk who’d in secret reprove

A devotion so true to the altar of love?

Beshrew the cold being whom, rigid and fell,

Nature forms a recluse and devotes to a cell.

Let him melt o’er his relics, at beauty congeal,

And saints praise his apathy, idiots his zeal

With love in my heart, and with thee in my
eye,

What zeal can divinity equal supply?

To The
Memory of Mrs. Robinson.

by Dr. Wolcot.

Farewell to the nymph of my heart,

Farewell to the cottage and vine,

From thy scenes with a tear I depart,

Where pleasure so often was mine.

Rememberance shall dwell on thy smile,

Shall dwell on thy lute and thy song,

Which often my hours to beguile

Have echo’d the valleys among.

Once more the fair scene let me view,

The cottage, the valley, and grove—

Dear valleys, for ever adieu!

Adieu to the daughter of love!

B2v

Advertisement.

The Reader is requested to observe, that the Poetry is newly arranged, and that those pieces
which composed the first publication are distributed through this volume, according to the different
classes of Poetry.

M. Robinson

B3r

Poems.

Petrarch to Laura.

Supposed to have been written during his retirement
at Vaucluse, a short time before his death.

Ye sylvan haunts, ye close embowering shades,

That hang your dark brows o’er the silent glades;

Ye mountains, black’ning wide the thorny vale;

Ye lucid lakes, that trembling meet the gale;

Ye gloomy avenues of dumb despair,

Ye last asylums of long-cherish’d care;

Eternal solitudes! where Love retires

To bathe his wounds, and quench his fatal fires;

Where frantic, lost, forlorn, and sad, I go.

A wandering pilgrim in a maze of wo;

Oh! to your deepest caverns let me fly,

Breathe a fond prayer, and ’midst your horrors
die.

Ye sparry grots, ye once adored retreats,

Ye tinkling rills, ye consecrated seats,

Whose velvet sod, embroider’d o’er with flowers,

On the charm’d sense celestial odour pours;

Ye roseate banks o’erhung with waving trees,

That moan responsive to the murmuring breeze,

How cold, how desolate your shade appears,

A path of misery, through a vale of tears!

Now pale Despair hangs brooding o’er your
bowers,

Absorbs your sweets, and withers all your
flowers;

Strips the thick foliage from your verdant shades,

And spreads eternal darkness o’er your glades;

No more for me your sunny banks shall pour

In purple tides ripe Autumn’s luscious store;

No more for me your lustrous tints shall glow,

Your forests wave, your silvery torrents flow;

Yet ’midst your heaven my wounded heart shall
crave

One narrow cell, my solace and my grave.

Subdued, o’erwhelm’d, a withering shade I
stray,

Shrink from myself, and shudder at the day:


No more fond Hope sustains my sickening soul,

Resistless passion spurns her meek control;

Corroding anguish o’er each prospect lowers,

Bends my weak frame, my lusty youth devours;

Clings to my breast where every fibre bleeds,

And on its vital throne insatiate feeds.

Where shall I fly? what path untrod explore,

Where love can wound, and memory live no
more;

Where, Laura, shall I turn, what balsam find

To soothe the throbbings of my feverish mind?

What blest relief can life’s dull round impart,

What rapture vivify the hopeless heart?

What pitying star its beamy stream dispense,

To light my soul, and cheer my vagrant sense;

To gild the gloom of desolating woes,

And lead my wandering spirit to repose?

When wild with passion, maddening with
remorse,

From Avignon’s loved walls I bent my course;

While, roll’d in crimson clouds, the orb of day

O’er seas of ether shed his parting ray,

As to his western goal he journey’d forth,

Leaving pale twilight weeping o’er the earth,

Oft did I pause, oft turn my longing eyes

To the tall spire that pierced the evening skies;

All was serene! save when the vespers’ sound

Struck on my pensive heart with knell profound;

While Fancy bade my frantic mind explore

Those scenes of holy joy I taste no more;

Unsullied altars, consecrated shrines,

Where curling incense round each taper twines;

Where, through long aisles, seraphic Pæans ring,

And meek-eyed virgins choral anthems sing!

Where, like a being of celestial mould,

My Laura’s beauteous form I dared behold! “Petrarch first beheld Laura at matins on the
1327-04-06sixth day of April, 1327, in the church of St. Clair at
Avignon.”
See Mrs. Dobson’s Life of Petrarch.

While at the shrine her orisons she pour’d

Pure as the spirits of the saint adored!

B3v 14

Oft as the cross her snowy fingers press’d,

Her auburn tresses veil’d her tranquil breast!

A shade transparent deck’d her brow divine,

And bade her eyes with temper’d lustre shine!

As low she bow’d before the throne of grace,

An angel-softness harmonized her face;

A smile benign reveal’d her tranquil soul,

While from her lips devotion’s fervour stole;

Each conscious triumph to her share was given,

Her form was beauty, and her mind was heaven.

Fix’d to the earth, with trembling zeal I
gazed.

Each passion madden’d, and each sense amazed!

Involuntary sighs too soon confess’d

The struggling tumults labouring in my breast;

No thought sublime on my rapt feelings hung,

No sacred eloquence unchain’d my tongue;

All, all was love! while through my burning
brain

Rush’d a fierce torrent of convulsive pain;

From my dim eyes celestial radiance stole,

While howling demons grasp’d my sinking soul,

Guilt’s writhing scorpions, twining round my
heart,

Enflamed each wound and heightened every
smart;

In vain I sought Religion’s calm domain,

And at her footstool pour’d my hopeless pain;

The priestess, frowning on my impious prayer,

Check’d the bold suit, and hurl’d me to despair.

Ah, Laura! canst thou seal the dread decree

That tears thy Petrarch from his God and thee!

That gives his mental hopes, his fond desires

To conscious anguish and consuming fires?

Canst thou with unrelenting vengeance urge

A trembling soul to fate’s extremest verge;

And, while subdued it supplicates relief,

Dash the doom’d sufferer to eternal grief?

Why, soft enchantress, spread the fatal snare

That lures thy struggling victim to despair?

Why with meek smiles my wandering sense
reclaim?

Why feed with pitying looks my hopeless flame? “Laura wished to be beloved by Petrarch, but
with such refinement, that he should never speak of
his love: whenever he attempted the most distant
expression of this kind, she treated him with excessive
rigour; but when she saw him in despair, his
countenance languishing, and his spirits drooping,
she then re-animated him by some trifling kindness.”
—See Mrs. Dobson’s Life of Petrarch, vol. i.
p. 6.

Ah! rather come in awful lustre drest,

Calm my touch’d sense, and lull the fiends to
rest;

Teach me each rebel passion to disown,

Chill my hot pulse, and freeze my heart to stone:


With contrite sighs devotion’s flame illume;

With holy tear-drops gem this mental gloom:

Come in transcendent Virtue’s sacred form,

Stem the fierce torrent, and appease the storm;

Grasp the dire bolt suspended o’er my head,

And on my quivering heart-strings patience
shed;

Check with thy counsels every madd’ning flight,

Direct me trembling to the paths of light;

Bow my parch’d lip to kiss the chast’ning rod,

And lead me, blushing, to the throne of God!

Where’er I fly, where’er my frenzy roves,

To pine-clad summits of low-bending groves,

Still on my shatter’d brain thy form appears,

Steals to my heart, and glistens through my
tears:

Thy voice I hear in every whispering gale,

Thy fragrant breath from citron buds inhale;

I mark the rose in native sweetness drest,

I snatch the blushing emblem to my breast;

Thy burnish’d ringlets float across my sight,

In the last glowing stream of orient light;

And as the star of morn unfolds its fire,

Stolen from the glances of its burning sire,

Thy beaming eyes emit translucent rays,

The lustrous heralds of thy soul’s rich blaze!

A matron’s purity thy smiles impart,

And Truth’s mild splendours brighten in thy
heart;

Ah! wherefore, Petrarch, wherefore rashly
dare

The dangerous magic of a form so fair?

Why was to thee the fatal moment given

Which bade an angel draw thy soul from
heaven?

Yet ere thy power supreme my soul confess’d,

Ere fainting Virtue fled my burning breast;

While in its veins one lingering spark remain’d,

One heavenly spark by trembling hope sustain’d;

Vaucluse, thy sylvan solitudes I chose

To cure my passion, or conceal my woes

And oft beneath thy melancholy shade

Reluctant, pensive, half-resolved I stray’d;

And trembling, faultering, frequent sighs I
pour’d

Before the shrine of Him but half adored;

While as the sacred Virgin’s form I view’d

A brighter idol every sense subdued!

While holy vows were lost in warm desires

Love dropp’d a tear that quench’d religion’s
fires

Till through my eyes my heart’s true fervour
shone,

And my fond soul, dear saint, was all thy own!

Now o’er some craggy peak when frowning
night

Grasps the last lingering tint of ruby light;

When o’er the vast expanse I seek in vain

The tawny vineyard and the yellow plain;

B4r 15

Heedless I wander, while the tempest flies,

Brave the cold winds, nor heed the threat’ning
skies—

Where from the wild romantic cliffs around

The headlong waters fall with hollow sound;

And stealing through the winding vale below,

Unseen, through mid-day glooms incessant flow;

While sullen echo’s aery tongue betrays

Where round her seat each drawling channel
strays;

While the lone owl, her lurid haunts among,

To the pale moon repeats her nightly song;

While rocks acute my feverish limbs sustain,

Chill’d by the freezing blast and drizzling rain;

While the keen winds in gusts impetuous yell,

O’er the bleak cliff, that guards the shadowy
dell,

When the loud thunder fills the troubled air,

And forests wither by the lightning’s glare;

Maddening I see thy glittering phantom rise,

Spring from the steep, and hover ’midst the
skies.

I rave, I shriek, from point to point I start,

While hell’s worst torments riot in my heart;

I court the fiends my rending pangs to share,

And prove the wildest torments of despair.

When first to these calm shades I bent my
way,

Led by the light of intellectual ray,

I mark’d repose her gentlest balm diffuse,

To soothe the hapless hermit of Vaucluse!

Where, ’midst the foliage of my laurel Petrarch dedicated this tree to his beloved Laura. bowers,

The Muse had sprinkled never-fading flowers;

Where mild Philosophy unveil’d her shrine,

Each care to solace, and each wish refine;

Whole years my studious eye intent explored

The treasured gems by hoary wisdom stored!

Each truth sublime by ancient sages taught,

Graced with the glossy charm of polish’d thought;

And oft the sickly taper’s feeble rays

Shrunk from the splendours of the solar blaze,

While o’er the classic page absorb’d I hung,

Where Homer breathed, or tuneful Virgil sung!

When all was silence, all was peace, my breast

No pang endured, no wayward thought confess’d!

Swiftly thy beauty gleam’d across my sight,

Dimm’d the bright flame of transitory light,

Spurn’d each weak barrier trembling Reason
gave,

And plunged me vanquish’d in affliction’s wave.

Yet, yet once more, my aching bosom sought

A lenient pause from agonizing thought;

I left these bowers o’er foreign realms to stray,

Love lit his torch to guide my thorny way!


Mournful I journey’d o’er Italia’s lands,

And moisten’d with my tears Sicilian sands;

Where the proud Danube’s rushing waters roll,

I pour’d the maddening anguish of my soul.

O’er Alpine hills, in solitary wo,

I wept and wander’d ’midst eternal snow.

Oft did I mark the Rhone’s impetuous stream

By the wan lustre of the moon-light beam;

And as the foamy current curl’d along,

Heard the rocks echo with my frantic song!

Where Rome’s majestic ruins tottering stand

The hourly victims of Time’s mouldering hand,

Whole nights I’ve trode the tesselated stone,

While scarce a glimmering star in pity shone;

Then starting ’midst th’ impenetrable gloom,

Grasp’d the cold fragment of some martyr’s
tomb

And tore the crawling ivy from its bed,

To weave a pillow for my burning head:

Then raised my eyes to God in fervent prayer,

To end my being and my sorrows there.

For O! eternal martyrdom I prove,

Heaven’s doom’d apostate—my fell tyrant, love!

When Rome her proud applause exulting gave,

And round my car her laurels stoop’d to wave!

When borne triumphant o’er the sacred ground,

By holy hands with flowery chaplets crown’d!

While clanking cymbals echo’d through the sky,

And rosy infants bade the censers Small vases suspended by silver or gold chains,
and filled with burning incense: they are generally
carried by children at religious ceremonies in Catholic
countries.
fly!

When nations throng’d thy poet’s fame to share,

And shouts of rapture fill’d the perfumed air!

No flush’d delight from adulation caught,

No selfish joy with false ambition fraught

Could draw my prostrate soul from love and
thee,

Still at thy shrine I bent the trembling knee!

For who but thee, transcendent angel! taught

The flame to live, which kindled every thought?

For who, like thee, could heavenly themes inspire,

Or touch the sensate mind with hallow’d fire,

Mingling with mortal dust the spark divine,

That bade my verse with deathless glories shine.

In yon cool grot emboss’d with shells and
flowers,

Where the hot stream of noon-day light scarce
pours;

Where silence reigns, save when the shallow rill

With gurgling sound steals o’er the mossy sill;

While ’midst the shadows of the twilight gleam,

I tuned my lyre—thy fatal charms my theme;

O’er my chill’d form sleep’s sable curtain hung,

Veil’d my sad eyes, and chain’d my faultering
tongue.

B4v 16

Each sense absorb’d, yet my fond soul was free,

Its thoughts, its faculties, all dwelt with thee;

Celestial visions hover’d o’er my breast,

And rose-lip’d angels soothed my pangs to rest;

Their silver harps hung pendent on the sky,

Bound with unfading wreaths of emerald die,

While the wing’d cloisters inscribed thy name

On heaven’s blue tablet with ethereal flame.

In the bland portal of the rosy East

Aurora sat in golden mantle drest;

The silent air, in crystal fetters bound,

Slept on the folded clouds that glisten’d round;

When to my ravish’d sight thy form was
shown,

The guardian spirit of the sphery throne!

A crown of orient rays thy brow compress’d,

A zone of myrtle clasp’d thy snowy breast!

The tear of pity trembled in thine eye

Like a bright planet in the evening sky!

The blush of morning mantled o’er thy cheek,

When thus thy voice seraphic seem’d to speak:

Freed from the goading chain of mortal care,

I rove a bless’d inhabitant of air;

Yet, in delicious ecstacy I wait,

Till my loved Petrarch shall partake my fate:

The soul, once purified, awaits on those

Who toil amidst a wilderness of woes:

It guards the partners of its mortal hours,

When anguish threatens, or despair devours,

Shields the frail bosom of a cherub’s wing,

And robs the tyrant, Death, of every sting.

But see the ruddy dawn’s advancing blaze

Tears my fond shadow from thy eager gaze;

Yet oh! if e’er thy Laura’s virtue charm’d,

Her smile enraptured, or her beauty warm’d,

Let Hope sustain thy sickening soul to prove

“That heaven has joy, beyond the joys of love.”

She smiled and vanish’d, while my frantic
mind

“Awoke to all the griefs it left behind!”

Now driven from each vain gleam of fond delight,

My sun of glory saddens into night;

My once proud laurels doom’d, alas! to fade

On the pale forehead of a lingering shade.

I count my midnight beads, and kneeling, rave,

On the damp sod, my pallet and my grave.

Toiling through tedious years, unseen, unblest,

Eternal thorns corroding in my breast;

I fast, I pray, and yet no comfort find;

Heaven on my lips, but love within my mind!

For thee, oh Laura! restless sorrow pours,

Sighs that still burn, and tears that fall in showers;

The morning breaks; my feverish heart still
mourns,

Till twilight, pensive hour, again returns;


When night’s thick curtain o’er the scene unfurl’d

Throws rest and silence o’er the breathing world;

I feel thee still, within my heated brain;

I weep, I sigh, I supplicate in vain!

Or, if by chance one pitying ray of rest

Warms the sad inmate of my throbbing breast,

’Tis but a gleam of intellectual light

That feebly glances o’er my mental sight,

And, for a moment, dissipates the gloom,

To point my weary footsteps to the tomb.

Ainsi Va le Monde.

Inscribed to a Friend.

Written at the beginning of the French Revolution.

O thou, to whom superior worth’s allied,

Thy country’s honour—and the Muses’ pride;

Whose pen gives polish to the varying line

That blends instruction with the song divine;

Whose fancy, glancing o’er the hostile plain,

Plants a fond trophy o’er the mighty slain; See an Elegy written on the plains of Fontenoy
by Robert Merry, Esq.

Or to the daisied lawn directs its way,

Blithe as the songstress of returning day;

Who deign’d to rove where twinkling glow
worms lead

The tiny legions o’er the glittering mead;

Whose liquid notes in sweet meanderings flow,

Mild as the murmurs of the Bird of Wo;

Who gave Sympathy its softest power,

The charm to wing affliction’s sable hour;

Who in Italia’s groves, with thrilling song,

Call’d mute attention from the minstrel throng;

Gave proud distinction to the poet’s name,

And claim’d, by modest worth, the wreath of
fame—

Accept the verse thy magic harp inspires,

Nor scorn the muse that kindles at its fires.

O, justly gifted with the sacred lyre,

Whose sounds can more than mortal thoughts
inspire,

Whether its strings heroic measures move,

Or lyric numbers charm the soul to love;

Whether thy fancy “pours the varying verse”

In bowers of bliss, or o’er the plumed hearse;

Whether of patriot zeal, or pastoral sports,

The peace of hamlets, or the pride of courts:

Still Nature glows in every classic line—

Still genius dictates—still the verse is thine.

Too long the Muse, in ancient garb array’d,

Has pined neglected in oblivion’s shade;

C1r 17

Driven from the sun-shine of poetic fame,

Stripp’d of each charm, she scarcely boasts a
name:

Her voice no more can please the vapid throng;

No more loud Pæans consecrate her song,

Cold, faint, and sullen, to the grove she flies,

A faded garland veils her radiant eyes:

A withering laurel on her breast she wears,

Fann’d by her sighs, and spangled with her
tears:

From her each fond associate early fled,

She mourn’d a Milton lost, a Shakspeare dead:

Her eye beheld a Chatterton oppress’d,

A famish’d Otway—ravish’d from her breast;

Now in their place a fluttering form appears,

Mocks her fall’n power, and triumphs in her
tears:

A flippant, senseless, aery thing, whose eye

Glares wanton mirth, and low-soul’d ribaldry.

While motley mummery holds her tinsel reign,

Shakspeare might write, and Garrick act in vain:

True wit recedes, when blushing reason views

This spurious offspring of the banish’d Muse.

The task be thine to check the daring hand

That leads fantastic folly o’er the land;

The task be thine with witching spells to bind

The feathery shadows of the fickle mind;

To strew with deathless flowers the dreary
waste;

To pluck the weeds of vitiated taste;

To cheer with smiles the Muse’s glorious toil,

And plant perfection on her native soil:

The Arts, that through dark centuries have pined,

Toil’d without fame, in sordid chains confined,

Burst into light with renovated fire,

Bid envy shrink, and ignorance expire.

No more prim Kneller’s simpering beauties vie,

Or Lely’s genius droops with languid eye:

No more preposterous figures pain the view,

Aliens to Nature, yet to fancy true,

The wild chimeras of capricious thought,

Deform’d in fashion, and with errors fraught:

The Gothic phantoms sickening fade away,

And native genius rushes into day.

Reynolds, ’twas thine with magic skill to
trace

The perfect semblance of exterior grace;

Thy hand, by Nature guided, marks the line

That stamps perfection on the form divine.

’Tis thine to tint the lip with rosy die,

To paint the softness of the melting eye;

With auburn curls luxuriantly display’d,

The ivory shoulder’s polish’d fall to shade;

To deck the well-turn’d arm with matchless
grace,

To mark the dimpled smile on Beauty’s face:

The task is thine, with cunning hand to throw

The veil transparent on the breast of snow:


The statesman’s thought, the infant’s cherub
mien,

The poet’s fire, the matron’s eye serene,

Alike with animated lustre shine

Beneath thy polish’d pencil’s touch divine.

As Britain’s genius glories in thy art,

Adores thy virtues, and reveres thy heart,

Nations unborn shall celebrate thy name,

And waft thy memory on the wings of Fame.

Oft when the mind, with sickening pangs oppress’d,

Flies to the Muse, and courts the balm of rest,

When Reason, sated with life’s weary woes,

Turns to itself—and finds a blest repose,

A generous pride that scorns each petty art,

That feels no envy rankling in the heart,

No mean deceit that wings its shaft at fame,

Or gives to pamper’d vice a pompous name;

Then, calm reflection shuns the sordid crowd,

The senseless chaos of the little proud,

Then, indignation, stealing through the breast,

Spurns the pert tribe in flimsy greatness drest;

Who, to their native nothingness consign’d,

Sink in contempt—nor leave a trace behind.

Then Fancy paints, in visionary gloom,

The sainted shadows of the laurel’d tomb.

The star of virtue glistening on each breast,

Divine insignia of the spirit blest!

Then Milton smiles serene, a beauteous shade,

In worth august—in lustrous fires array’d:

Immortal Shakspeare gleams across the sight,

Robed in ethereal vest of radiant light.

Wing’d ages picture to the dazzled view

Each mark’d perfection—of the sacred few,

Pope, Dryden, Spenser, all that fame shall raise,

From Chaucer’s gloom—till these enlighten d
days:

Then emulation kindles fancy’s fire,

The glorious throng poetic flights inspire

Each sensate bosom feels the god-like flame,

The cherish’d harbinger of future fame.

Yet timid genius, oft in conscious ease,

Steals from the world, content the few to please:

Obscured in shades, the modest muse retires,

While sparkling vapours emulate her fires.

The proud enthusiast shuns promiscuous praise,

The idiot’s smile condemns the poet’s lays.

Perfection wisely courts the liberal few,

The voice of kindred genius must be true.

But empty witlings sate the public eye

With puny jest and low buffoonery,

The buzzing hornets swarm about the great,

The poor appendages of pamper’d state;

The trifling, fluttering insects of a day

Flit near the sun, and glitter in its ray;

Whose subtle fires with charms magnetic burn,

Where every abject fool may have his turn.

C C1v 18

Lull’d in the lap of indolence, they boast

Who best can fawn—and who can flatter most;

Who with obsequious smiles mislead the mind,

And prove most mischievous, by seeming
kind;

Pour on the ear soft adulation’s sound,

And give to infamy the fame they wound;

While with a cunning arrogance they blend

Sound without sense—and wit that stabs a
friend;

Slanders oblique—that check ambition’s toil,

The poisonous weeds, that mark the barren soil.

So the sweet blossoms of salubrious spring

Through the lone wood their spicy odours fling;

Shrink from the sun, and bow their beauteous
heads

To scatter incense o’er their native beds,

While coarser flowers expand with gaudy ray,

Brave the rude wind, and mock the burning
day.

Ah! gentle muse, from trivial follies turn,

Where patriot souls with god-like passions
burn;

So shall thy song to glorious themes aspire,

Rapt in the wonders of the poet’s lyre.

Through all the scenes of nature’s varying
plan,

Celestial Freedom warms the breast of man;

Led by her daring hand, what power can bind

The boundless efforts of the labouring mind.

The god-like fervour, thrilling through the heart,

Gives new creation to each vital part;

Throbs rapture through each palpitating vein,

Wings the wild thought, and warms the fertile
brain.

To her the noblest attributes of Heaven,

Ambition, valour, eloquence, are given.

She binds the soldier’s brow with wreaths sublime,

From her, expanding reason learns to climb,

To her the sounds of melody belong,

She wakes the raptures of the poet’s song;

’Tis god-like Freedom bids each passion live,

That truth may boast, or patriot virtue give.

From her, the arts enlighten’d splendours own,

She guides the peasant—she adorns the throne;

To mild philanthropy extends her hand,

Gives truth pre-eminence, and worth command;

Her eye directs the path that leads to fame,

Lights Valour’s torch, and trims the glorious
flame;

She scatters joy o’er nature’s endless scope,

Gives strength to reason—ecstacy to hope;

Tempers each pang humanity can feel,

And binds presumptuous power with nerves of
steel;

Strangles each tyrant phantom in its birth,

And knows no title but—superior worth.


Enlighten’d Gallia! what were all your toys,

Your dazzling splendours—your voluptuous
joys?

What were your glittering villas—lofty tow’rs,

Your perfumed chambers, and your painted
bowers?

Did not insidious Art those gifts bestow,

To cheat the prying eye—with tinsel show?

Yes; luxury diffused her spells to bind

The deep researches of the restless mind;

To lull the active soul with witching wiles,

To hide pale Slavery in a mask of smiles;

The towering wings of reason to restrain,

And lead the victim in a flowery chain.

When warlike Louis, Louis XIV. arrogant and vain,

Whom worth could never hold, or fear restrain,

The soul’s last refuge in repentance sought,

The artful Maintenon absolved each fault;

She who had led his worldly steps astray

Now “smooth’d his passage to the realms of
day!”

O, monstrous hypocrite!—who vainly strove

By pious fraud to win a people’s love;

Whose coffers groan’d with reliques from the
proud,

The pompous offsprings of the venal crowd,

And yet—so sacred was the matron’s fame,

Nor truth, nor virtue, dared assail her name;

None could approach but with obsequious breath,

To speak was treason—and to murmur, death.

In meek and humble garb, she veil’d command,

While helpless millions shrunk beneath her
hand.

And when ambition’s idle dream was o’er,

And art could blind, and beauty charm no
more;

She, whose luxurious bosom spurn’d restraint,

Who lived the slave of passion—died a saint! Madame de Maintenon died a perfect devotee at
the convent of St. Cyr.WWP note: An incorrect symbol * is used to introduce a footnote whose anchor in the text is †. The correct symbol preceding the footnote should be †.

What were the feelings of the hapless throng,

By threats insulted, and oppress’d with wrong?

While grasping avarice, with skill profound,

Spread her fell snares, and dealt destruction
round;

Each rising sun some new infringement saw,

While pride was consequence—and power was
law;

A people’s sufferings hoped redress in vain.

Subjection curb’d the tongue that dared complain.

Imputed guilt each virtuous victim led

Where all the fiends their direst mischiefs spread;

Where, through long ages past, with watchful
care,

Thy tyrants, Gallia, nursed the witch Despair.

C2r 19

Where in her black Bastile the harpy fed

On the warm crimson drops her fangs had shed;

Where recreant malice mock’d the sufferer’s
sigh,

While regal lightnings darted from her eye.—

Where deep mysterious whispers murmur’d
round,

And death stalk’d sullen o’er the treacherous
ground.

O day—transcendent on the page of Fame!

When from her heaven insulted Freedom came;

Glancing o’er earth’s wide space, her beaming
eye

Mark’d the dread scene of impious slavery;

Warm’d by her breath, the vanquish’d, trembling
race,

Wake from the torpid slumber of disgrace;

Roused by oppression, Man his birth-right
claims,

O’er the proud battlements red vengeance
flames;

Exulting thunders rend the turbid skies;—

In sulphurous clouds the gorgeous ruin lies!

The angel Pity now each cave explores,

Braves the chill damps, and fells the ponderous
doors,

Tears from the flinty walls the clanking chains,

Where many a dreadful tale of wo remains,

Where many a sad memorial marks the hour,

That gave the rights of man to ravenous power,

Now, snatch’d from death, the wondering
wretch shall prove

The rapturous energies of social love;

Whose limbs each faculty denied—whose sight

Had long resign’d all intercourse with light;

Whose wasted form the humid earth received,

Who, numb’d with anguish—scarcely felt he
lived;

Who, when the midnight bell assail’d his ears,

From feverish slumbers woke—to shed new
tears:

While slow-consuming grief each sense enthrall’d,

Till Hope expired, and Valour shrunk—appall’d:

Where veil’d suspicion lurk’d in shrewd disguise,

While eager vengeance oped her thousand eyes;

While the hired slave, the fiend of wrath, design’d

To lash, with scorpion-scourges, human-kind—

Dragg’d with ingenious pangs the tardy hour,

To feed the rancour of insatiate Power.

Blest be the favour’d delegates of Heaven,

To whose illustrious souls the task was given

To wrench the bolts of tyranny—and dare

The petrifying confines of despair;

With heaven’s own breeze to cheer the gasping
breath,

And spread broad sun-shine in the caves of death.

What is the charm that bids mankind disdain

The tyrant’s mandate, and th’oppressor’s chain;


What bids exulting liberty impart

Ecstatic raptures to the human heart;

Calls forth each hidden spark of glorious fire,

Bids untaught minds to valiant feats aspire;

What gives to freedom its supreme delight?

’Tis emulation, instinct, nature, right!

When this revolving orb’s first course began,

Heaven stamp’d divine pre-eminence on man;

To him it gave the intellectual mind,

Persuasive eloquence and truth refined;

Humanity to harmonize his sway,

And calm religion to direct his way;

Courage to tempt ambition’s lofty flight,

And conscience to illume his erring sight.

Who shall the natural rights of man deride,

When freedom spreads her fostering banners
wide?

Who shall contemn the heaven-taught zeal that
throws

The balm of comfort on a nation’s woes?

That tears the veil from superstition’s eye,

Bids despots tremble, and oppression die?

Wrests hidden treasure from the sordid hand,

And flings profusion o’er a famish’d land?—

Nor yet, to Gallia are her smiles confined,

She opes her radiant gates to all mankind;

Sure on the peopled earth there cannot be

A foe to liberty—that dares be free?

Who that has tasted bliss will e’er deny

The magic power of thrilling ecstacy?

Who that has breathed health’s vivifying breeze,

Would tempt the dire contagion of disease?

Or, prodigal of joy, his birth-right give

In shackled slavery—a wretch to live?

Yet let ambition hold a temperate sway,

When virtue rules—’tis rapture to obey;

Man can but reign his transitory hour,

And love may bind—when fear has lost its
power.

Proud may he be who nobly acts his part,

Who boasts the empire of each subject’s heart,

Whose worth exulting millions shall approve,

Whose richest treasure is—a nation’s love.

Sight.

Inscribed to John Taylor, Esq. Oculist
to His Majesty.

O thou! all wonderful, all glorious power

That through the soul diffusest light sublime,

And bidst it see the omnipotence of God!

O sight! to man the vivifying lamp,

That, darting through the intellectual maze,

Giv’st to each rising thought the living ray!

As the Promethean touch awoke that source

Whose glory warms the planetary world,

C2v 20

So the Supreme illumed the visual orb,

To mark his works, and wonder at his power!

Transcendent gift! but for thy light divine,

Oh! what a chaos were the mind of man!

Composed of atoms, exquisitely fine,

Each moving in a dark obstructed sphere,

Forlorn, and undelighted! for to him

Whose eye ne’er drank the widely beaming ray,

What are the wonders of the starry worlds;

Creation’s fair domain, its gems, its hues,

And all its bright diversity of charms?

What are his faculties, his passions, thoughts?

He labours through a wilderness obscure,

Each other sense awaken’d, wanting still

That sense divine, which gives to each its charm;

The earth, to him, a solitary speck,

For ever mournful, and for ever drear!

Oblivion horrible! to know no change;

Nor light from darkness! nor the human form,

The image of perfection infinite!

To fashion various phantoms of the brain,

By each amused, and yet by each deceived!

To roll the aching eye, alas! in vain,

And still to find a melancholy blank

Of years, and months, and days and lingering
hours,

All dark alike, eternally obscure!

To such a wretch! whose brightest sense of bliss

Is but the shadow of a waking dream,

The sleep of death, with all its starting fears,

Must teem with prospects of Elysium!

For what is sleep, but temporary death;

Sealing up all the windows of the soul,

And binding every thought in torpid chains?

Yet, only for a time the spell controls,

And soothing visions gild the transient gloom;

For every active faculty of mind

Springs from the numbing apathy of sleep

With renovated lustre and delight!

But he who knows one unenlighten’d void,

One dreary night, unbless’d with cheerful
dreams,

Lives in the midst of death; and, when he
sleeps,

Feeds a perpetual solitude of wo,

Without one ray to dissipate its gloom.

Then what to him avails the varying year,

The orient morn, or evening’s purple shade,

That robes creation in a garb of rest?

What all the beauties of the vast expanse,

The tint cerulean, or the vaulted arch

Of heaven’s eternal dome! Can fancy paint,

With all the vivid magic of her power,

The spangling legions of the sphery plains;

The gaudy-vested summer’s saffron glow,

When proudly gilded by its parent sun,

As through the flaming heavens his dazzling car,

Burnish’d with sparkling light, sheds liquid gold


O’er seas ethereal; while the breezes stay

To kiss the fainting flowers, whose silky heads

Inclining, fade beneath their withering touch?

Can fancy give the rainbow’s lustre pure

To the cold vacuum of the sightless eye?

Insensible to colours, space, or form,

Stumbling and fearful, through a desert shade,

Man gropes forlorn, and labouring like the mole;

He feels the vivifying glow divine,

But, ’midst the blaze of radiance infinite,

An isolated being, wanders still,

Sad, unillumed, disconsolate, and lost!

Nor yet alone the misery extreme

Of the dread gloom opaque involves his mind;

The longing for that something yet unknown,

Whose power he feels, diffusing its warm touch

O’er every sensate nerve! that Power which
marks

The varying seasons in their varying forms,

That tells him there is yet a sense untried,

Ungratified, yet fraught with heavenly bliss,

Distracts beyond the certitude of pain,

Chills the expanding source of mental joy,

And deadens all the faculty of man!

Ah! wo too exquisite for human thought!

Of mortal miseries, the dread Supreme!

How can the soul its energies sustain,

When Reason’s crystal gates are closed in night,

And cold Oblivion hovers o’er the mind?

What are the horrors of the dungeon’s gloom,

The bolts of steel, or the flint-fretted roof,

The temporary spells that shut the wretch

From the bland glories of effulgent day?

While Hope comes smiling on the wings of
Time,

And the small crevice in his loathsome cell,

That promises a glimmering stream of light,

Bids him look forward to the coming joy!

What are the self-created, anxious fears,

That, thronging round the midnight traveller,

Give to his straining eye fantastic forms,

And fills imagination’s boundless scope

With shadowy hosts, scaring his startled mind;

While Silence reigns despotic o’er the plain;

Save where the bird of solitude salutes

The melancholy hour, and pours alone

Her love-bewailing song; yet Hope beguiles,

Nor quits him as he strays, ’till the wan moon,

Peering in silvery panoply of light,

Sails placidly sublime through the still air,

And scatters round her imitative day!

But the unvarying cloud of deepest night!

The blank perpetual of the sightless orb!

The mournful chaos of the darken’d brain!

No hope can animate, no thought illume;

All is eternal solitude profound;

A dreadful shade, that mocks each other sense,

And plunges Reason in its worst abyss!

C3r 21

And yet, in such a mind, so whelm’d in gloom,

The pure affections of the soul still live!

The melancholy void is subject still

To the sweet magic of seraphic sounds;

The soothing eloquence of sacred song;

The whispering gale, that mourns declining day;

Or Philomela’s soul-subduing strain,

That woos lone Echo, from her viewless seat,

To sail aerial-throned upon the breeze!

The lulling murmurs of the wandering stream;

The ever rippling rill; the cataract fierce;

The lowing herds; and the small drowsy tones

That, from the insect myriads, hum around;

The love-taught minstrelsy of plumed throats;

The dulcet strains of gentle Consolation!

But, most of all, to that loved voice, whose thrill,

Rushing impetuous through each throbbing vein,

Dilates the wondering mind, and frees its powers

From the cold chains of icy apathy

To all the vast extremes of bliss and pain!

For, to that voice adored, his quivering pulse

Responsive beats! he marks its every tone,

And finds in each a sympathetic balm!

Ill-fated wretch! he knows not the sweet sense

That feeds upon the magic of a smile!

That drinks the poison of the murderous eye,

Or rushes, in an ecstacy of bliss,

To snatch the living roses from the cheek!

He knows not what it is to trace each charm

That plays about the symmetry of form,

And heightens every timid blushing grace,

More lovely from the wonder it commands!

He never mark’d the soul-expressive tear!

The undescribable and speaking glance,

That promises unutterable bliss.

Then what to him avails the ruby lip,

Or the rich lustre of the silky waves,

That half conceal the azure tinctured eye,

As golden clouds rush on the morning star,

And glow, exulting, o’er its milder ray.

O glorious sight! sublimest gift of God!

Expansive source of intellectual bliss!

By thee we climb to immortality,

Through all the rugged paths of tedious life!

Thy nerve shoots forth a light ineffable,

That marks the fount of science, and reveals

The many-winding paths of wisdom’s maze!

Thou canst within thy narrow vortex grasp

The out-stretch’d ocean, and the landscape wide,

Diversified with craggy cliffs, whose heads

Hang fearfully sublime, half veil’d in clouds,

O’er the low valley’s solitary breast!

’Tis thine upon the mountain’s dizzy edge

To ponder on the wonders of the sky!

Or, bending o’er the margin, trace below

The world of mingling atoms, lessening still

As the dread cavity grows more profound;

Till woods, and lakes, and scatter’d villages,

And stately palaces, and lofty spires,


Fade in the deep impenetrable gloom!

Thou canst avert the storm that gathers round,

And bids thee seek the hospitable roof

Where meek philanthropy unfolds her store!

’Tis thine to contemplate the gorgeous sun

In all its majesty of living light,

Flaming despotic, o’er unnumber’d worlds!

’Tis thine to mark the snowy vested plains,

That, like the glittering stores of avarice,

Dazzle and chill the wretched wanderer’s soul!

Or, midst the wreck of nature, still secure,

Gaze where the ’blackening tempest, bursting
round,

Tears the young branches from the parent trunk,

And strips the forest of its loftiest pride!

And yet! so wonderfully form’d to meet

The cutting blast, the winged lightning’s glare,

The painful radiance of the scorching sun;

To watch the midnight taper’s glimmering flame

O’er the long studious page, or pore intent

Upon the fine-wrought mysteries that lurk

In art mechanical! to trace the stars

Through all their devious labyrinths of air;

To plunge amidst the foamings of the deep;

Or pour the copious torrents from that spring

By pity cherish’d in the human breast!

Yet—so alive is every wondrous part,

In each complete, in all pre-eminent!

So exquisitely delicate each nerve,

So subject to destruction and to pain,

That the minutest particle obscure,

Almost invisible to that it meets,

Obstructs its powers, and o’er the visual ray

Rolls a huge mass of agonizing shade!

Such are the horrors, such the pangs acute,

That shroud the darken’d eye, whose mortal
sense,

Consign’d to one unbless’d and mournful night,

Can by Eternal Day alone be cured.

Where the dim shade shall vanish from its beams,

And, bathing in a sea of endless light,

The renovated orb, awoke from death,

Shall snatch its rays from immortality.

Solitude.

Hail, Solitude serene! thou nurse of thought!

To whom the weary mind retires, to taste

The blissful hour of exquisite repose!

Thou, who delight’st to dwell in shaggy woods,

Whose variegated foliage hangs its shade

O’er the rude margin of the mountain’s brow;

Or, interwoven, down its sloping side,

Spreads the dim horrors of a mid-day night!

Hail, pensive Solitude! whose footsteps stray

Along the pebbly borders of the main,

C3v 22

When from the eastern clouds the Sun darts
forth,

Lifting his glorious canopy of fire

Above the pale horizon, spreading round

A living world of undulating light!

Or seek the cool and unfrequented bower,

The bushy dell, or the dew-spangled grot,

When the fierce lord of noon, with flaming eye,

Rolls furious o’er the sapphire floor of heaven;

Or downward shoots his shaft of glittering fire,

Upon the sultry heath and thirsty mead,

To drink the lingering tears of morn, that shine

On the young violet’s aromatic breast:

Or, when, with humid hand, her purple robe

Meek Twilight draws across the mountain’s
brow,

Veiling its golden crest, in dusky shade

Of cold, oblivious gloom, thou lov’st to sit,

And watch the lamp of night, ethereal borne,

Glide o’er the cavern’d cliff, whose torrents roar

Down its stupendous sides, and foam to reach

The desolated valley, lost below!

Then, Solitude, ’tis thine in every gale

To hear celestial breathings; from each hill

To quaff the balmy essence of the breeze;

To mark, in every magic change of scene,

The grand diversity of nature’s laws,

Yet find in all the ever present God!

Whose power, sublime, with equal wonder
moves

In the small flow’ret bursting from the earth,

As in the sphere-crown’d eagle’s towering wing!

Then wilt thou trace, with fancy’s tearful
eye,

The once delicious scene; the rural cot;

The village house of prayer; the sun-burnt
hind;

The lowly children of the rushy roof;

The flocks; the herds; and all the golden pride

Of glowing autumn whelm’d beneath the flood.

O sacred Solitude! amidst thy scenes

Of rapture infinite, thy ills are these:

The ruthless cataract; the midnight blast;

The death-wing’d tempest; and the withering
bolt

Of heaven-avenging wrath! Nor art thou only

Destined to endure, in solitary shades,

The sad diversity of direful wo!

The sweeping hurricane, the stormy hour,

The fatal lightnings, and the whelming flood,

Are but the emblems of disastrous life!

Then let me court thee in thy gentlest form;

In lonely grottos, and in verdant glens,

Where the slow brook runs babbling from its
source,

And perfumed zephyrs fan the fervid ray!

Where Meditation, like a hermit pure,


With bosom taught by mild philanthropy,

In silence mourns the miseries of man!

Creation’s lord! who, placed amidst the gems,

The luxuries of nature’s vast domain,

Still pants for more; and, still impatient, grasps

The glittering vision of delusive joys;

The gaudy phantoms of a transient day;

The breath of popularity, that turns

Inconstant as the wind; the flatterer’s smile;

The wreath of fame, imbued with human gore;

And, worst of all—O agonizing thought!

The paltry boast of treasure, wrung, alas,

From the torn bosom of the hapless slave,

The wretched offspring of a fiercer sun!

For these, he wields the desolating sword;

Quits the dear mansion of domestic peace;

The loved companions of his native home;

The social comforts, and the calm delights,

That thronging round the blazing hearth, beguile

The tardy winter’s night: for these he dares

The poisonous vapours of infected climes,

The torrid ray, or the pernicious blasts

Of petrifying Lapland’s cheerless skies!

For these he wanders far, o’er unknown seas,

To tame the tribes barbarian, or explore

The sad variety of human woes.

Oh! blind, misguided, and mistaken man!

To leave the garden of luxurious sweets,

And wander ’midst a desert, fraught with
thorns.

Ah! let me, in some shelter’d valley, own

A cottage, lowly, but secure from harm;

From the rude rioter, of caitiff wretch,

Who, prowling by the twinkling starry light,

Assails the houseless traveller, and bares

Against this beating breast the murd’rous knife.

From such as these secure, let sweet repose

Strew on my pillow rude the buds of spring,

The opening treasures of the infant year!

There, let oblivious slumbers lull my mind,

And harmonize the quickly throbbing pulse,

That, through the creeping hour of day, endured

The various thrills of ecstacy and wo.

And you, ye airy phantoms of the brain,

Ye forms fantastical, or fraught with fear,

Oh! fly the blest abode of gentle peace;

Nor with your agonizing spells assail

The weary senses, wrapp’d in balmy sleep!

And when the lark, the harbinger of day,

Sweeps the blue ether with exulting wing,

And welcomes her approach with shrilly song,

With thee I’ll quaff the ever-winding rill,

And feast upon the luxuries that rise

From the warm bosom of the teeming earth!

While Health, the blooming handmaid of Repose,

Shall smile upon my board, and give a zest

To the rich banquet of content and joy.

There the faint wanderer shall be my guest,

With modest mien, and converse undefiled;

C4r 23

Unvarnish’d emblems of the spotless soul!

And there, the legendary tale shall claim

The midnight hour serene; while the pale lamp

Shall feebly gleam upon the frugal board:

Yet, not to these confined; the loftier theme,

The wing’d idea, and the soothing strain

Of heaven-descended song, shall charm the soul,

And give to every nerve a keener sense!

There, shall the hoary sage, Philosophy,

Unfold his sacred lore; while Wisdom’s son

Shall, smiling, smooth the rigid brow austere,

And mingle in the scene of humbler bliss!

Then, welcome Solitude! The sphere is thine,

That gives the purest passions ample scope!

That bids the soul beam with exterior grace

Of light, reflected from the source within!

And when its essence shall evaporate,

Fann’d by the desolating wing of time;

When this dull scene of transitory life,

And all its sorrows, all its joys are o’er;

One sparkling atom, from its prison clay,

Shall soar, to mingle with its native heaven.

The
Progress of Melancholy,

A Fragment.

O! Melancholy! parent of Despair,

Whose pitying power, whose poison fell

Creeps through the sickening brain, the pallid
cheek,

The languid downcast eye, the listless frame,

The desolating toil of ceaseless thought,

Proclaim thy dark and fateful hour at hand!

Absorb’d amidst surrounding revelry,

Thy child, O ruthless Melancholy! steals;

Unheeding the loud laugh, the wanton jest,

The sign mysterious, or the whisper low

Of shrewd, sharp-sighted, prying observation.

Nor magic charm, nor herb medicinal,

Nor all the treasured lore of studious skill,

Can draw thy victim from the numbing spell

That fascinates and chains her yielding soul!

Seldom she speaks: if question’d, she returns

The answer incoherent and unapt,

Mark’d by the frequent pause and vacant eye.

Sometimes she weeps; but nature’s niggard
hand

Denies the copious shower, sweet balmy fount,

That cools and vivifies the burning brain!

And now she starts! and now-and-then, by fits,

She looks aghast, trembles, and deeply sighs;

Then sinks into the torpid dream again.


She loathes the blooms of spring; the glowing
hour

Of feast and minstrelsy, and playful mirth!

Her mind, each active faculty possess’d,

Resigns itself to ever-musing wo:

For her no orient beam adorns the sky;

No balmy wing ethereal through the shade

Flings the refreshing breeze; no limpid brook

Sparkles with noon-tide rays, reflected back

With ten-fold lustre from its glassy breast!

The change of season, and the varying hour,

Serve to make up the dull account of time,

But bring no interval of gleaming joy!

Or, if her sense can aught discriminate,

She ponders on the miseries of life;

The barren mountain, where the tottering hut

Rocks as the whirlwind sweeps its rushy roof,

And hurls it fathoms down the craggy steep!

The chamber, where the paly quivering lamp

Shows the worn sufferer on the bed of death!

For her the woodland nightingale attunes

His song nocturnal, unregarded—lost!

The sad, the sympathetic, plaintive strain,

O’er the dull ear of sorrow passes faint,

If not unheeded; or, if feeling wakes,

Recall’d by memory to long past wo,

Reflection glances o’er the page of time,

And marks its progress with a silent tear!

Pale Melancholy shuns the rural haunt,

Where Peace, and Joy, and Revelry preside!

Bliss-breathing Health, that welcomes young
Desire,

Led on by smiling Hope and blooming Love,

Starts from her withering form, and steals
away,

While apathy, with petrifying hand,

Spreads a dim shadow o’er each faded charm.

The twilight gloom amidst embowering woods

She courts, and bending o’er some wizard stream

That winds among the ever-mouldering heaps,

Strew’d by the touch of time from antique
towers

And arches fretted with fantastic forms,

She sits, the pensive genius of the scene!

Around her cell attentive stillness reigns;

The breezes sleep; and o’er its pebbly bed

The shallow river bends its silent way;

Death seems to triumph o’er the breathing
world,

Save where the bat from the dark ruin flits,

Cleaving the night-mist with its dusky wing.

Nor there alone presides the mournful maid;

She loves to stray, and ponder as she strays,

Along the dreary monumental pile;

Where, from the Gothic roof, with ivy bound,

The whistling wind descends, and through the
aisle

C4v 24

Sweeps the long hoarded dust for ages heaped

On the vain records of th’unconscious dead!

Oft, when the wintry moon o’ertops the hills,

In circling vapour wrapp’d, she wanders forth

O’er the bleak heath; list’ning the rising gale,

Or distant village bell, whose sound, once told,

Proclaims the witching hour. Then Fancy
comes;

But in her train no lovely forms appear,

No blithesome groups, thridding the roseate
wreath,

Or tripping in fantastic measures by;

No sylvan pipe, no rude, yet dulcet note

Of mountain minstrelsy delights her ear;

But the shrill menace of the freezing blast,

(Throned on whose black and desolating wing

Disease and death hurl the destructive shaft)

Howls o’er her breast. Still dauntless, she
proceeds;

The drizzly dew, the sharp and nipping gale,

Pass o’er her cheek unheeded. All alone

She contemplates the solitary scene,

While horror, maddening conjures up an host

Of spectres gaunt; of chiefs, whose mould’ring
bones

Have slept beneath the green-sod where they fell,

Till village legends scarcely say—they died!

Now from their prison-graves again they start,

Hurling the airy javelin on the foe;

And now they rush, in mighty legions, on;

Now from the lengthening columns fiercely
brave;

And now the broken ranks disorder’d fly,

Pale as the silvery beam that marks their course;

And now the breathless heaps bestrew the plain,

While on their mangled limbs the batter’d shield

Gleams horrible; as through the indented steel

The life-stream gushes from the recent wound!

The groan of death fills up the dreadful pause;

Sad, and more sad, it echoes o’er the scene,

Till, oft repeated, the deep murmur dies!

The cherish’d poison, now more potent grown,

Riots o’er all the faculties at will;

Strong in conceit, with fascination fraught,

Painfully pleasing. As the fever burns

The consciousness of misery recedes;

Till, fill’d with horror, Reason’s barrier fails,

And Frenzy triumphs o’er the infected brain!

Now the wan maniac hurries to the bourn

Whose sandy base the frequent surges lave;

Dishevell’d! wild! and fearless of the storm!

There, o’er the dreadful summit she inclines,

While darkness wraps the liquid world below:

She listens, with attention mute, to catch

The mournful murmurs of the distant main;

The tempest wakes; the roused and angry waves

Rise in the mighty elemental strife,

Urged by the howling blast, whose forceful
breath


Repels them, foaming, to their native deep.

Amidst the din terrific, the doomed bark

Strikes on the rocky shore. The wretched crew

Fill the dread chorus with the groans of death,

Till the tired winds moan o’er the shatter’d
wreck,

That sinks amidst the fathomless abyss!

Rous’d from her dream, pale Melancholy
starts;

Shrieks louder than the blast! but shrieks unheard;

Then plunges headlong from the dizzy steep,

And, in the bosom of despair, expires!

Now the faint dawn gleams o’er the eastern
cliff;

The smooth sea brightens with the coming ray,

And not a vestige of the storm is seen!

The Cavern of Wo.

As Reason, fairest daughter of the skies,

Explored the vale, where mortal misery lies;

Led on by Fortitude, with eye serene,

She mark’d each object of the varying scene;

In every maze of busy life she found

Some hidden snare, some agonizing wound;

For each her hand display’d a precious balm,

Whose power divine the tortured soul could
calm;

Till midway, on a rock of dreadful height,

The cave of cureless Wo assail’d her wondering
sight!

On the bleak threshold, withering and forlorn,

Heart-wounded Melancholy sat reclined!

The rude blast scattered her dishevell’d
hair;

Round her cold brow the deadly nightshade
twined!

Near, on a craggy point, stood wild Despair,

Whose pangs supreme all lesser miseries scorn!

And as the gaunt tormenter, smiling, view’d

The pensive child of Sorrow, soul-subdued;

With taunting mien, she beckon’d from
below

The fierce, relentless bands of desolating Wo!

First, swift as lightning up the flinty steep

Impatience flew, barefooted, out of breath;

Scorning the perils of the dreadful sweep;

Heedless of wounding thorns, and threat’ning
death.

Eager to rush the foremost of the train,

She fear’d not danger, and she felt not
pain:

D1r 25

With longing eye she view’d the towering
height;

From peak to peak, quick climbing with delight,

She pass’d the fatal cave; then turning
short,

Fell headlong from the rock, of every fiend the
sport!

Then Horror darted forth, in wild amaze!

Her hair erect, with poisonous hemlock
bound;

Her straining eye-balls flashing fires around,

While Nature trembled at her potent gaze!

Swift to the dizzy precipice she flew,

As, aiming with impetuous force to throw

Her giant form amidst the gulf below!

When, from an ivy’d nook obscure, pale
Fear

Peep’d forth, slow whispering to her startled
ear,

“Think not the power of Death thy miseries
will subdue!”

Then Horror bent her blood-shot eyes below,

Where, by a group of demons compass’d round,

Lay Suicide accursed! from many a wound

On his bare bosom did life’s fountain flow!

Now Shame, with cheeks by burning blushes
fired,

And skulking Cowardice, in haste retired!

While Conscience placed beneath his feverish
head

A pillow dire, with thorns and nettles spread;

And Guilt, with all the scorpions of her train,

Oped to his fainting eyes eternity of pain!

Then Luxury approach’d on couch of down!

Drawn by her offspring, Folly and Disease,

Flush’d Pleasure decking her with roseate
crown,

And bow’d Obedience, ever prone to please,

Waiting her nod! languid she seem’d and
pale,

Restless, and sated with voluptuous fare;

Beside her pillow, hung with trappings rare,

Stood trembling Palsy, ready to assail;

And writhing Agony, and slow Decay,

And hood-wink’d Vice abhorr’d, that shunn’d
the eye of day.

Next, with a solemn, slow, and feeble pace,

Came silent Poverty, in tatter’d vest!

The frequent tears, that glisten’d on her
breast,

Had fretted channels down her meagre face!

A rabble crew of idiots dinn’d her ear:

While mean Reproach came smiling in the
rear.

With firm, yet modest look, she pass’d along;

Nor sought relief, nor mark’d the taunting
throng;


While her wrung heart, still scorning to
complain,

Suppress’d the rending groan, and throbb’d with
proud disdain.

Close at her heels, insidious Envy crept;

The imp, deform’d and horrible in shape,

Mock’d, when the slow-consuming victim
wept,

Pointing, and grinning, like a wither’d ape:

About her throat the asp Detraction clung,

Scattering destructive poisons from her
tongue!

She waved a blasted laurel o’er her head,

Stolen from the sacred ashes of the dead;

Inly she pined; while in her panting breast

Shrunk Ignorance struck its fangs, to banish
gentle rest.

In a lone corner, almost hid in shade,

With downcast eye, sat unrequited Love!

As from their hollow cell the slow tears
stray’d,

A willow garland for his brow he wove!

Low at his feet bare Madness laid his head,

Rattling his chains, upon his flinty bed!

Roused from his stupor by the clanking
sound,

The pensive youth gazed fearfully around;

And wondering to behold such misery near,

Forgot his mournful wreath, and dropp’d a pitying
tear.

Now, labouring up the flinty winding road,

Laden with treasure, bending to the ground,

Appear’d lean Avarice! the ponderous load

Seem’d his weak shoulders every step to
wound:

One thread-bare garb hung on his aged
form;

Scant covering from the bleak and wintry
storm!

Before him Famine went, a thing decay’d;

And dark Suspicion, grasping at a shade!

While Fraud, low crawling, mock’d the
reptile’s art,

Pilfer’d the scatter’d gold, and wrung the miser’s
heart!

Next came Deceit, with smooth and fawning
tongue,

Glozing with praises every thing debased;

To shield her breast a flattering mirror hung;

A tinsel zone shone dazzling round her waist!

Her hand, conceal’d beneath her flimsy vest,

Clasp’d a keen dagger, ready to destroy;

Content she seem’d, though, in her cunning
breast,

Her coward soul shrunk from the touch of joy;

Her humble voice the listening ear beguiled,

While, with infernal art, she murder’d as she
smiled.

D D1v 26

Now through the cavern rush’d with iron
hand

Oppression insolent! his arm he raised,

Waving his spear, with absolute command,

While every subject fiend retired, amazed!

At awful distance, trembling, prostrate
round,

The sons of pining slavery kiss’d the ground;

Till, darting forward, o’er the abject crowd,

With voice exulting, menacing, and loud,

Insatiate Vengeance snatch’d the up-raised
lance,

While bold Oppression’s arm fell nerveless at
his glance.

Next Pride came forward, gorgeously array’d;

His brow a starry wreath of gems compress’d;

In his right hand a sceptre he display’d;

A robe of costly ermine wrapp’d his breast!

Enthroned, sublime, above the wondering
race,

Immortal beauties seem’d to deck his face!

His eye assumed pre-eminence of sway;

He reign’d the gilded idol of the day;

Till Death, his dread supremacy to show,

Struck at the vaunting wretch, and laid his sceptre
low.

Now, rattling o’er the teeming plains afar,

Came glittering Wealth, in his resplendent
car!

His rapid course swift-footed Toil pursued

With sinewy limbs, and brown sun-freckled
breast;

The lord of luxury his vassal view’d,

And, smiling, lifted high his haughty crest!

But, when neglected Toil at length retired,

The short-lived glories of his brow expired;

Around his eager eyes he roll’d in vain;

Ingratitude appeared, and claim’d her turn to
reign!

At her approach, the fatal cavern rung:

Loud shouts of horror rent the vaulted stone!

All lesser fiends their heads in sorrow hung;

Omnipotent in ill, she grasp’d the infernal
throne:

Then Reason mark’d her blest associate fly;

And shuddering at the scene, re-sought her native
sky!

Monody

To the Memory of Marie Antoinette,
Queen of France,

Written immediately after her execution.

When, the dread scene of death and horror o’er,

Reason’s calm eye Time’s tablet shall explore;


When the dark demons of destructive ire

No more shall see devoted hosts expire;

When, o’er the desolated clime, the wise

Shall bid, too late, the sacred olive rise—

Then Justice shall the dreary spot illume

Where Pity lingers on the martyr’s tomb;

And, scattering Sorrow’s incence, sighing, say—

“Thy fame, illustrious soul! shall ne’er decay!”

Oh! then, when wandering on some distant
shore,

Musing o’er scenes of bliss he tastes no more!

The holy exile shall, with up-raised eyes,

Implore, for thee, the rapture of the skies!

Though sad, forlorn, a stranger to repose,

Celestial Faith shall mitigate his woes!

And Patience, smiling from her sphery throne,

Shall bid his throbbing heart some solace own!

Yet, as the pious sufferer bends his way,

Cheer’d by the prospects of eternal day,

Oft shall he pour his orisons divine,

Forget his pangs, and only weep for thine!

The pilgrim who, with tearful eye, shall view

The moon’s wan lustre on the midnight dew,

As through the lonesome labyrinth he strays,

Sooth’d by her lamp, and guided by its rays,

Shall offer up to Heaven an humble prayer,

(For contrite sighs are ever welcome there!)

That in seraphic realms, thy soul may know

That bliss, inhuman rage denied below!

Ah! who can trace, nor feel a pang severe,

The dawn of joy that usher’d thy career!

When, round thy youthful form, divinely gay,

Ecstatic rapture wing’d the hours away?

When, from the perfumed couch of soft repose,

More lustrous than the morn, thy beauty rose!

When all was pleasure, adoration, ease;

For power was temper’d by the wish to please;

Where all around thee charm’d the dazzled view,

For ever splendid, yet for ever new;

Adorn’d with gems to Gallia’s sons unknown,

Domestic virtues, glittering round the throne.

Who can reflect, nor drop the tenderest tear

On the dread progress of thy fate severe!

Hurl’d from the loftiest height of human bliss,

To the worst horrors of Despair’s abyss!

To bear th’insulting cruelty of those

Who, from thy subjects, to thy tyrants rose!

Tore thy pale darlings from thy panting breast,

And made maternal woes the rabble’s jest;

The bonds of wedded virtue rent in twain,

And Truth’s white bosom stampt with Falsehood’s
stain!

Denied the decent aid of female hands!

No kind domestics wait thy meek commands!

On a straw pallet, in a dungeon laid—

By all suspected, and by all betray’d!

D2r 27

Yet, ’midst the tortures of the direful plan,

Which thrills with horror through the breast of
man,

Not all the rage of hell’s abhorr’d decree

Could force one supplicating tear from thee!

As the rich floweret on the mountain’s side

Unfolds its charms, and blooms with harmless
pride;

Raised ’midst the clouds, to combat every blast;

Too high for shelter, and too fair to last;

Awhile, contending with the varying spheres;

Now blushing beauties, now adorn’d with
tears;

Still braves the mid-day sun, the chilling night,

Sweet to the sense, and lovely to the sight;

Nor heeds the torrent, rising o’er its bound;

Or the dark skies, in tempests gathering round;

Till from the flinty steep the waters flow,

Pouring destruction o’er the vale below;

And sweeping, with their desolating powers,

The towering cedars and o’erhanging bowers;

From rock to rock the frothy columns bound,

Deafening calm Nature with the fateful sound;

Till, by no barrier in its course confined,

It whelms the plain, and leaves no trace behind;

No waving forest to adorn the scene;

No hut to tell what once the spot had been;

No sweet diversity enchants the eye;

One liquid space reflects the lowering sky;

While on its troubled surface, spreading wide,

Float the torn fragments of the mountain’s
pride;

Till all, celestial bounty gave, defaced,

One dreadful chaos triumphs o’er the waste!—

Such is thy lot, O Gallia! such the rage

That blurs, with crimson spots, fair Nature’s
page!

That leaps the bounds of Reason, and destroys

The law’s strong barrier, and the subject’s joys;

That roots up all the sacred rights of Truth,

The claims of age, the energies of youth;

Bids Commerce tremble, Justice hide her scale,

Contention revel, and Revenge prevail,

Religion perish in the guilty mind,

And Devastation riot unconfined!

While all are rulers—all, alas! are slaves,

Each dreads his fellow, each his fellow braves;

While in one horrid mass all miseries blend;

Each shuns his brother, and each fears his friend.

The son, with blood-stain’d faulchion, strikes the
sire—

The parent smiles, to see the son expire!

Against his lord the vassal wields his spear,

The vaunting atheist mocks the vestal’s tear!

The lawless idiot lifts his ruthless arm,

To tear from science every graceful charm!

While Genius from the maddening tumult flies,

Weeps o’er her withering bays, and seeks the
skies!


Far o’er the globe, from all his kindred driven,

Behold the sacred minister of Heaven!

The pious pastor, wandering o’er the earth,

Of mind enlightened, and of noblest birth;

With whose proud race the proudest virtues
came,

To prove their rank their secondary claim;

Who, ’midst the duties of religious life,

Shrunk from the clamours of domestic strife.

What is his lot?—To weep in some lone bower,

And count new sorrows with each passing hour;

To view the radiant morn with aching eyes,

O’er the far distant promontory rise;

Diffusing bliss o’er Nature’s children gay,

Who laugh and labour through the peaceful day;

Who fear no ruthless hand to check their joy,

No mandate dire, existence to destroy;

Who, bless’d with conscious innocence, can
smile,

Unstain’d with blood, and unreproach’d with
guile;

All the long day the task of toil endure,

Contented, simple, peaceful, and secure.

To see the infants, like fair branches, rise,

The cherish’d offspring of serenest skies;

While the rough parent, like the oak, shall last,

To nurse their tender beauties ’midst the blast;

Till, nourish’d to perfection, they aspire

To match the sturdy virtues of their sire.—

Turn to the beauteous martyr! Austria’s pride!

Epitome of all—to worth allied!

Mark, in her altered and distracted mien,

The fatal ensigns of the pangs within;

See those fair tresses on her shoulders flow

In silvery waves, that mock the Alpine snow.

Where are their waving braids of glossy gold,

That crown’d her brow, in many a silky fold?

That brow, so wither’d by Affliction’s blast,

So stampt with Age, before her prime was past.

Where are the graces of that ’witching form?

Torn from their home, and scatter’d to the
storm!

Those eyes like sapphire gems were wont to
shine;

Bright beaming samples of their native mine—

What are they now? closed in the sleep of death!

Their blaze extinguish’d by Rebellion’s breath!

Yet, as the tempest threaten’d their abode,

A stream celestial from their radiance flow’d.

Like setting stars, they left their humid spheres,

And their last fainting lustre gleam’d through
tears.

Oh! I have seen her, like a sun, sublime,

Diffusing glory on the wings of Time:

And, as revolving seasons own his flight,

Marking each brilliant minute with delight.

Yet not to pleasure only was she prone;

She made the miseries of the poor her own.

No ostentation lessen’d Pity’s meed—

Unseen she gave, and silence seal’d the deed.

She sought no plaudits from obsequious pride;

She paid herself—for nature was her guide.

D2v 28

For conscious rapture, to the tottering shed

Oft would she fly, to bless the mourner’s bed;

There, bending o’er the aged widow’s form,

With smiles celestial, chase the wintry storm;

Heal the stung bosom with compassion’s tear!

Pour balmy counsel in the startled ear!

Fan, with her signs, the fever of the brain;

And, by partaking, lessen every pain!

Shunn’d be the fiend, who, in these dreadful
times

Would brand her memory with infernal crimes;

Shunn’d be the monster, who, with recreant
art,

Beyond the grave, would hurl detraction’s dart!

With sacrilegious hands, relentless tear

The blood-steep’d laurel, newly planted there!

For, though insulted, massacred, defamed,

The laurel, still, her peerless virtues claim’d!

While, round the rugged sod, dread silence
reigns,

The cherub, Truth, obliterates its stains.

Then let the muse her weary sorrows trace,

And candour blot the records of disgrace!

Nursed in the cradle of imperial state,

Her infant dreams proclaim’d a milder fate!

Enchanting visions soothed her opening mind;

Though young, enlighten’d; and though gay,
refined!

Succeeding years rolled on; and, as she grew,

Each fleeting hour presented raptures new!

Fresh as the breeze that fans the breast of May,

She scatter’d perfumes on the face of day!

Pride of her royal line, in youth’s soft grace,

She bloom’d, the loveliest blossom of her race!

Transplanted from the bower of sweet repose,

With Gallia’s lilies blending Austria’s rose;

Formed to adorn a cottage or a throne;

For all that soothed the senses was her own!

A stranger, from her native land, she came;

Her dowry beauty, and her passport fame!

Too young to play the subtle courtier’s part,

She charm’d all eyes, and gladden’d every heart!

Too innocent, deceptive wiles to plan!

(Her power acknowledged, ere her reign began,)

So exquisitely fair, so mildly gay,

She made the wisest converts to her sway!

To rule, she sought not; for obedience hung

On the soft accents of her tuneful tongue.

Her smile could guide the stubborn heart, or
move

The soul of apathy to thrills of love!

Each playful action spoke the fire of youth;

Her blush was innocence! her voice was truth!

She trod the flowery paths of bliss supreme;

Delight her guide, and gratitude her theme!

Till, ’midst its sweets, the serpent, envy, grew,

Hating her charms, and sickening at their view!

Pre-eminent she shone!—Each lesser light

Shrunk from her radiance, in the glooms of
night:


Yet, like malignant stars, with potent power,

Flamed the fierce demons of the vengeful hour;

And scatter’d ’midst the storm their borrow’d
rays,

To prove the sun was set that bid them blaze!

First, low complaining murmurs echo’d
round,

While pleased Contention caught the sullen
sound;

Then while the mischief conjured up Despair,

Each thought his wrongs too infinite to bear

Too rash to follow Reason’s sober plan,

They marr’d the triumph they had scarce began!

Now, mark the howling tempest far and wide!

Mark, on the winds infuriate spirits ride!

O’er the proud fabric and the painted dome,

Long-threatening shadows spread impervious
gloom;

Death stalks, unmask’d beside the scepter’d
hand,

While round the regal chair dark demons stand;

With cries of murder, now the palace shakes,

And all is ruin, ere Reflection wakes;

Where the rich banquet met the dazzled eye,

A thousand sheathless poniards glittering lie;

While the loud cannons roar destruction round,

Triumphant Mischief smiles at every sound;

And Malice pilfers all the sweets of rest,

And plants the thorn of Woe in beauty’s breast.

For crimes long past, when erst Oppression’s
hand

Drove weeping Freedom from the Gallic land;

When Truth fled, trembling, and subdued with
fears;

And godlike Virtue only shone in tears;

For woes long past, insatiate Ire decreed,

The just should fall; the guiltless heart should
bleed!

That heart which shudder’d at recorded crimes

Stampt on the tablet of disastrous times!

Which shrunk, aghast, at every dreadful view

That show’d past centuries, blackening as they
flew!

When recreant satellites exulting shone,

Their light a meteor, and their sphere the
throne!

Was it for those the last illustrious race

Wash’d, with their blood, the page of dire Disgrace!

Was it for those an Alien’s heart was torn

With taunting Insult’s agonizing thorn!

While low she bow’d, in withering graces drest,

Truth in her eye, and valour in her breast!

Was it for those ill-fated Louis fell,

’Midst the vile clamours of the rabble’s yell?

Forced from his shrieking infants! and denied

A parent’s comfort, and a parent’s pride!

Dragg’d to the fatal agonizing goal;

His only crime—the meekness of his soul!

For, ah! while memory ponders o’er the page

That marks the regal line from age to age,

D3r 29

Distracted Gallia! thou shalt never see

So rare a scion from so frail a tree!

Mark the last scene of his disastrous state,

When patient Virtue braved the lance of Fate!

When, on the scaffold, crimson’d o’er with
blood,

The monarch, husband, parent, martyr, stood

Amidst his subjects, now his foes severe;

No pitying friend his parting sigh to hear!

E’en then, high towering o’er all human woes,

Above himself the smiling victim rose;

And, braving human sorrow’s vengeful rod

Breath’d his last prayer, and gave his soul to
God!

Thus the proud eagle, whose strong pinions
soar,

With dauntless eye day’s sovereign to explore,

Sees all around transcendent glory blaze;

The world beneath, an atom to his gaze:

Yet through the airy regions grandly flies,

And drinks the viewless nectar of the skies:

In the bland space he wields his lordly flight,

And riots in the plenitude of light;

Till thickening vapours choke the fostering
stream,

Veil the faint stars, and shroud the orient beam.

Swift to the world beneath his pinions sail,

Where the tall cliff hangs lowering o’er the
vale;

Where, rock’d upon the forest’s waving crest,

He left his offspring in their mother’s breast.

There, too, he finds the ruthless tempest’s power,

The blue-wing’d lightning, and the whelming
shower;

There, the shrill blast the rifted pine lays low,

While down the rocks the mingling cataracts
flow;

His darling mate, his little unfledged brood,

Dash’d on the foamy bosom of the flood!

Loud thunder mock th’ aerial sovereign’s cries,

Till, ’midst the dreadful din, he soars, and dies!

Now, ere the muse her mournful task resigns,

And the last cypress garland fondly twines;

Ere the faint emblems of her grief sincere

Shall fade beneath Reflection’s frequent tear;—

She turns, with curious eye, the woes to trace,

Heap’d on the breathing sufferers of thy race;

Who, daily pining in a dungeon’s gloom,

Anticipate the silence of the tomb!

Who, all the live-long day, unseen, alone,

Pour the deep cadence of the tottering groan;

Start, if the winds along their prison creep;

Slumber, to dream of death, and wake to weep!

Who, each new dawn, behold a glimmering ray

Shed through their drear abode a doubtful day;

And when the evening sun, with purpling light,

Proclaims the coming shade of fearful night,


Behold, with fancy’s all-creating eyes,

The bleeding spectres of their kindred rise!

Mark, from each bosom gash’d, a crimson tide,

Life’s tepid fountain from its channels glide!

The widowed mother casts a wistful gaze

On the sweet darlings of her splendid days;

On her pale cheek the frozen tear still dwells,

Like April dew upon the snow-drop’s bells;

Her quivering lips, in murmurs, seem to say,

“I come, my cherubs, from the realms of day!

Thy father triumphs in the spheres of rest,

And shares the endless transports of the blest!

There, far removed from Fate’s disastrous
frown,

He lives, possessed of an immortal crown!”

Then, as the feeble infants wondering stand,

The fleeting spectre waves its snowy hand!

The moaning wind through every crevice blows;

Down the damp wall the midnight vapour
flows:

On their cold flinty couch, with tearful eye,

Clasp’d in each other’s arms, the mourners lie;

They tremble, whisper, sigh, yet fear to weep,

Till nature, faint with anguish, sinks in sleep!

See, in the neighbouring cell, Princess Elizabeth, the unoffending victim of popular
frenzy. Her only crime was that of being
sister to the unhappy monarch.
a withering
form

Lists the fierce howlings of the midnight storm;

Till, through her prison lattice, she descries

The opening radiance of the morning skies!

Upon the iron window’s triple grate

The chirping red-breast hails his freezing mate;

Spreads his weak wing to meet the sun’s faint
ray,

And sweetly twitters forth his matin lay:

While the fair victim of supreme despair

Beholds the free-born commoners of air;

Envies their happy lot, and feebly cries,

Ye little harmless travellers of the skies,

Why quit your leafy bowers, your verdant plains,

And wing your flight to Misery’s dread domains?

Why, from the breezy hill’s enamell’d side,

To these sad towers your whirring pinions
guide?

Hence, ye poor minstrels; hence, nor listen here,

Where pining Sorrow drinks her frequent tear;

Where Vengeance bares her never-weary fang,

And smiles, insulting, on the sufferer’s pang;

Where each corroding torment mocks relief,

And death, death only, ends the reign of grief!

Is there, in all the legends of past times,

An era blacken’d with such wanton crimes?

D3v 30

Such barbarous mischiefs! sweeping from the
earth

Religion, talents, innocence, and worth!

The wise, the good, the brave—all feel its force!

Uncheck’d by reason, torpid to remorse.

All smear’d with gore, pale Liberty appears,

Her smiles contending with repentant tears;

No more her hand fair flowerets scatters round;

Her faulchion steams from many a recent
wound:

O’er shatter’d pyramids she maddening flies,

Power in her arm, and murder in her eyes;

Scared by the clamours of the furious rage,

She spares not worth nor genius, sex nor age!

All records perish by her rash decree;

The wreaths of valour, pride of Chivalry;

The sculptor’s art, the boast of many a clime,

(Snatch’d from the desolating grasp of time);

The painter’s glowing canvass, which displays

The finish’d study of laborious days—

Heaped in one sacrilegious ruin lie,

Feeding the flame that menaces the sky;

While Ignorance points the victims of its ire,

And loads with offerings the insatiate fire!

Deep dying murmurs float upon the gale,

And every zephyr bears some wo-fraught tale!

Here, widows pine, not daring to complain;

There, orphans languish for a parent slain;

The mountain peasant quits his lone retreat,

His clay-built cottage and his vineyard neat;

No more, at eve’s approach, his infants run,

While the vale reddens with the sinking sun,

To greet their weary sire, whose labours hard

Meet, in their dear embrace, their sweet reward!

No more, when winter desolates the grove,

He listens to the voice of wedded love;

Trims the clay hearth, and, as the faggots
blaze,

Chants the old ditty of his grandsire’s days;

While his fond mate the homely meal prepares,

Smiles on his board and dissipates his cares;

No more, amidst the simple village throng,

He joins the sportive dance, the merry song;

Now, torn from those, he quits his native wood,

Braves the dread front of war, and pants for blood!

Now, to his reap-hook and his pastoral reed,

The crimson’d pike and glittering sword succeed!

His russet garb, now changed for trappings vain;

His rushy pillow, for the tented plain;

No more his matin song’s melodious note

Along the mountain’s breezy side shall float;

No more his board, with luscious fruits supply’d,

Shall mock the banquet of luxurious pride;

No more sweet slumbers bless his midnight
hours;

No more Hope strews his daily path with
flowers;

From his lorn breast all earthly comforts fly;

He hates to live—yet more, he fears to die!

Now, when the tardy day begins to rise,

And short-lived slumbers quit his feverish eyes,


Fancy with agonizing power, displays

The peaceful comforts of his happier days;

Shows, on the pallet of his former rest,

His infants moaning on their mother’s breast!

Pinch’d by pale Famine, sinking to the grave;

No food to nourish, and no friend to save!

Ah! then, he cries half maddening with despair,

“Is this the freedom I was call’d to share?

Where is my clay-built hut? where wont to
reign

The little monarch of love’s free domain,

My smiling partner clasp’d me to her breast,

My infants bless’d me, ere I sunk to rest!”

Turn to the nobles; there let Pity view

The many suffering for the guilty few.

Perish the wretch who, sanction’d by his birth,

Presumes to persecute the child of worth;

Perish the wretch who tarnishes descent

By the vile vaunting of a life ill spent;

Who sullies proud propinquity of blood,

Yet frowns indignant on the low-born good;

Who shields his recreant bosom with a name,

And first in infamy, is last in fame.

Yet let Reflection’s eye discriminate

The difference ’twixt the mighty and the great.

Virtue is still illustrious, still sublime,

In every station, and in every clime.

Truth can derive no eminence from birth,

Rich in the proud supremacy of Worth;

Its blest dominion vast and unconfined,

Its crown eternal, and its throne the mind.

Then Heaven forbid that Prejudice should scan

With jaundiced eye the dignities of man;

That Persecution’s agonizing rod

Should boldly smite the “noblest work of God;”

That rank should be a crime, and Genius hurl’d

A mournful wanderer on the pitying world.

Yet Heaven forbid that Ignorance should rise

On the dread basis where Religion dies;

That Liberty, immortal as the spheres,

Should steep her laurel in a nation’s tears.

Oh, falsely named! Does Liberty require

The child should perish for the guilty sire?

Does Liberty inspire the atheist’s breast

To mock his God, and make his laws a jest?

Does Liberty with barbarous fetters bind

Her first-born hope, the freedom of the mind?

Hence bold usurper of that heaven-taught power,

Which wings with ecstacy man’s transient hour;

Which bids the eye of Reason cloudless shine,

And gives Mortality a charm divine.

’Midst the wild winds, the lordly cedar towers;

Progressive days invigorate its powers;

The earlier branches, withering as they spread,

Round the firm root their coarsest foliage shed;

While the proud tree its verdant head rears high,

Waves to the blast, and seems to pierce the sky;

Till the rich trunk, matured by lengthening
years,

Through all their wondrous changes, braves the
spheres;

D4r 31

Flings its rich fragrance on the gales that sweep

The humid forehead of the mountain’s steep;

Mocks the fierce rage of elemental war,

The bolt’s red sulphur, and the thunder’s jar;

And, when around the shatter’d fragments lie,

The stricken victims of th’ infuriate sky—

Amidst the wrecks of Nature seems to climb

Supremely grand, and awfully sublime!

So heaven-taught Reason, whispering to the
sense,

In Nature’s pure persuasive eloquence,

Points out, amidst creation’s mazy plan,

The vast, the varying miseries of man:

Then, as Experience comes with piercing eye,

From his stern gaze delusive visions fly;

Then radiant Knowledge rushes to his view,

Spurns the deceptive, and adopts the true;

Tears Folly’s tinsel trappings from his breast,

Which shines in Truth’s invulnerable vest;

Thus arm’d against the shafts of life he goes,

Smiles at their menace, and resists their woes;

While on his mind, in conscious virtue great,

The shield of Reason blunts the lance of fate!

Immortal genius! let the votive line,

The Muse’s laurel, and her fame, be thine;

For thou shalt live when Pride’s indignant eye

Closed in eternal solitude shall lie.

When those who flutter’d through their little
day

Shall, like their follies and their names, decay;

When the faint memory of inferior souls

Down the dark channel of oblivion rolls—

Thou shalt survive. Then let not Envy’s frown

Blast the proud trophies that compose thy
crown:


Let not the poison of a reptile’s sting

Contaminate the lustre of thy wing;

But from each flaming plume indulgent give

A pitying ray, to bid the insects live.

Trace, if thou canst, one straggling spark of
worth,

One gleaming atom to adorn their birth;

For little virtues dazzle in the proud,

As stars shine lustrous ’midst a vast of cloud.

Then, Genius, let the toilsome task be thine,

To labour in the dark precarious mine;

And if, amidst the chaos, thou shouldst find

One great, one beauteous attribute of mind,

To twine round Merit’s brow the wreath of
fame,

And give nobility a loftier name!

Ill-fated Queen! then let the tribute just,

The poet’s numbers consecrate thy bust.

And when new ages shall the tale unfold,

On the red page of massacre enroll’d,

Philanthropy, with shuddering heart shall
trace

The storms that bow’d the lilies of thy race!

Yet, ’midst the desolating gloom descry

Transcendent chaplets that shall never die!

The wonders of thy mind shall History own;

The brightest gems that glisten’d round thy
throne;

Which gave thee charms beyond the glare of
power

To brave thy foes, and gild thy latest hour!

And when thy weary soul, on wings sublime,

Sought its dear partner in a purer clime,

Thy sufferings left on Truth’s recording page

An awful lesson for each future age!

D4v 32

Odes.

Ode

To the Muse.

O, let me seize thy pen sublime

That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme,

The glowing power, the magic art,

Th’ ecstatic raptures of the heart;

Soft Beauty’s timid smile serene,

The dimples of Love’s sportive meiien;

The sweet descriptive tale to trace;

To picture Nature’s winning grace;

To steal the tear from Pity’s eye;

To catch the sympathetic sigh;

O teach me, with swift lightning’s force

To watch wild Passion’s varying course;

To mark th’ enthusiast’s vivid fire,

Or calmly touch thy golden lyre,

While gentle Reason mildly sings

Responsive to the trembling strings.

Sweet nymph, enchanting Poetry!

I dedicate my mind to thee.

Oh! from thy bright Parnassian bowers

Descend, to bless my sombre hours;

Bend to the earth thy eagle-wing,

And on its glowing plumage bring

Blythe Fancy, from whose burning eye

The young ideas sparkling fly:

O come, and let us fondly stray

Where rosy Health shall lead the way,

And soft Favonius lightly spread

A perfumed carpet as we tread;

Ah! let us from the world remove,

The calm forgetfulness to prove,

Which at the still of evening’s close

Lulls the tired peasant to repose;

Repose, whose balmy joys o’er-pay

The sultry labours of the day.

And when the blue-eyed dawn appears,

Just peeping through her veil of tears;


Or blushing opes her silver gate,

And on its threshold stands elate,

And flings her rosy mantle far

O’er every loitering dewy star;

And calls the wanton breezes forth,

And sprinkles diamonds o’er the earth;

While in the green wood’s shade profound

The insect race, with buzzing sound,

Flit o’er the rill—a glittering train,

Or swarm along the sultry plain;

Then in sweet converse let us rove

Where in the thyme-embroider’d grove,

The musky air its fragrance pours

Upon the silvery scatter’d showers;

To hail soft Zephyr, as she goes

To fan the dew-drop from the rose;

To shelter from the scorching beam,

And muse beside the rippling stream.

Or when, at twilight’s placid hour,

We stroll to some sequester’d bower,

And watch the haughty sun retire

Beneath his canopy of fire;

While slow the dusky clouds enfold

Day’s crimson curtains fringed with gold,

And o’er the meadows faintly fly

Pale shadows of the purpling sky;

While softly o’er the pearl-deck’d plain

Cold Dian leads the sylvan train;

In mazy dance and sportive glee,

Sweet Muse, I’ll fondly turn to thee;

And thou shalt deck my couch with flowers,

And wing with joy my silent hours.

When Sleep, with downy hand, shall
spread

A wreath of poppies round my head;

Then Fancy on her wing sublime,

Shall waft me to the sacred clime

Where my enlighten’d sense shall view,

Through ether, realms of azure hue,

That flame where Shakespeare used to fill,

With matchless fire, his “golden quill.”

E1r 33

While from its point bright Genius caught

The wit supreme, the glowing thought,

The magic tone, that sweetly hung

About the numbers which he sung.

Then will I skim the floating air,

On a light couch of gossamer,

While with my wonder-aching eye

I contemplate the spangled sky,

And hear the vaulted roof repeat

The song of Inspiration sweet;

While round the winged cherub train

Shall iterate the aery strain;

Swift through my quivering nerves shall float

The tremours of each thrilling note;

And every eager sense confess

Ecstatic transport’s wild excess;

Till, waking from the glorious dream,

I hail the morn’s refulgent beam.

Dear maid! of ever-varying mien,

Exulting, pensive, gay, serene,

Now, in transcendent pathos drest,

Now, gentle as the turtle’s breast;

Where’er thy feathery steps shall lead,

To side-long hill, or flowery mead;

To sorrow’s coldest, darkest cell,

Or where, by Cynthia’s glimmering ray,

The dapper fairies frisk and play

About some cowslip’s golden bell;

And, in their wanton frolic mirth,

Pluck the young daisies from the earth,

To canopy their tiny heads,

And decorate their verdant beds;

While, to the grasshopper’s shrill tune,

They quaff libations to the moon,

From acorn goblets, amply fill’d

With dew, from opening flowers distill’d—

Or when the lurid tempest pours,

From its dark urn impetuous showers;

Or from its brow’s terrific frown

Hurls the pale murderous lightnings down;

To thy enchanting breast I’ll spring,

And shield me with thy golden wing.

Or when, amidst ethereal fire,

Thou strik’st thy Della Cruscan lyre,

While round, to catch the heavenly song,

Myriads of wondering seraphs throng;

Whether thy harp’s empassion’d strain

Pours forth an Ovid’s tender pain,

Or in Pindaric flights sublime

Re-echoes through the starry clime;

Thee I’ll adore, transcendent guest,

And woo thee to my burning breast.

But if thy magic powers impart

One soft sensation to the heart,

If thy warm precepts can dispense

One thrilling transport o’er my sense;

Oh! keep thy gifts, and let me fly,

In Apathy’s cold arm to die.


Ode

To Della Crusca.

Enlighten’d patron of the sacred lyre!

Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song

Revibrates on the heart

With magic thrilling touch,

Till every nerve, with quivering throb divine,

In maddening tumults, owns thy wondrous
power;

For well thy dulcet notes

Can wind the mazy song,

In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;

Or with empassion’d pathos woo the soul

With sounds more sweetly mild

Than Sappho’s plaint forlorn,

When bending o’er the waves she sung her woes,

And pitying Echo hover’d o’er the deep,

Till in their coral caves

The tuneful Nereids wept.

Ah! whither art thou flown? where pours thy
song?

The model and the pride of British bards!

Sweet star of Fancy’s orb,

“O tell me, tell me, where?”

Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air

That bears it to the confines of high heaven?

Or does it court the meed

Of proud pre-eminence?

Or steals it o’er the glittering sapphire wave,

Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?

Or does it charm to love

The fond believing maid?

Or does it hover o’er the Alpine steep,

Or, softly breathing under myrtle shades,

With sympathy divine,

Solace the child of wo?

Where’er thou art, oh! let thy gentle strain

Again with magic power delight mine ear,

Untutor’d in the spells

And mysteries of song.

Then, on the margin of the deep I’ll muse,

And bless the rocking bark ordain’d to bear

My sad heart o’er the wave,

From this ungrateful isle;

When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,

Peeps o’er the mountain’s head, or through the
vale

Illumes the glassy brook,

Or dew-besprinkled heath,

Or with her crystal lamp directs the feet

Of the benighted traveller, cold and sad,

Through the long forest drear,

And pathless labyrinth,

To the poor peasant’s hospitable cot,

For ever open to the wretch forlorn;

O then I’ll think on thee,

And iterate thy strain,

And chant thy matchless numbers o’er and o’er;

And I will court the sullen ear of night,

E E1v 34

To bear the rapt’rous sound,

On her dark shadowy wing,

To where, encircled by the sacred Nine,

The lyre awakes the never-dying song!

Now, bard admired, farewell

The white sail flutters loud,

The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,

Far from my native shore I bend my way;

Yet, as my aching eye

Shall view the lessening cliff,

Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear

Above the surface of the swelling deep,

I’ll snatch a ray of hope,

For Hope’s the lamp divine

That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,

With ecstacies beyond the powers of song!

That ere I reach those banks

Where the loud Tiber flows,

Or milder Arno slowly steals along,

To the soft music of the summer breeze,

The wafting wing of time

May bear this last adieu,

This wild, untutor’d picture of the heart,

To him whose magic verse inspired the strain.

Ode

To Genius.

Now by th’ Aonian nymphs inspired

By glowing emulation fired!

Of thee I’ll sing.—Illustrious maid!

In peerless majesty array’d!

Who, all creative, all sublime,

First sprang from the ethereal clime,

To bid enraptured fancy trace

The bright infinity of space,

Where Fame of pure celestial birth

A starry wreath prepares to crown Immortal
Worth!

Blest Genius! power divine!

Now shall the votive song be thine

Nor thou the pensive muse disdain,

Who oft, by fancy led, shall rove

To soft Arcadia’s myrtle grove,

And tune the pastoral reed or chant the sylvanstrain.

Or could her trembling hand aspire

To wake the loud resounding lyre,

Where Pindus rears its haughty crest,

By thy immortal laurels drest!

Or on Parnassian heights sublime

Snatch from the passing wing of Time

A plume, that smiling Hope might lave

Deep in the Heliconian wave!

For thee her burning hand should fling

Ecstatic measures o’er the bounding string!


Nor thou, star-crested nymph! refuse

The offerings of an untaught Muse,

Who twines, amidst uncultivated bowers,

A small, but fragrant wreath, of Nature’s simplest
flowers.

Proud parent of supreme delight!

Thou Sun! from whose rich source

The lustrous stream of mental sight

Points to mortality a glorious course!

’Tis thine with magic sweet control

To guide the timid sensate soul;

To mark, on Truth’s enlighten’d page,

In every clime, in every age,

How empty earthly power appears,

A glittering phantom, fraught with fears;

How dark the rugged paths of life;

How planted with the thorns of strife;

How paltry wealth; how false the glare

That dazzles round the regal chair;

How fragile Beauty’s blush; how poor

The Miser, ’midst his countless store;

When o’er the labouring sons of clay

Thou scorn’st to spread sublime thy broad effulgent
ray!

O Genius! at thy view,

Low in the dust, the grovelling crew

Fall, stricken like the summer fly,

’Midst torrid radiance doom’d to die;

Whilst thou, whose towering mind

No base or sordid spells can bind,

Far, far from human wo canst rise,

To purer joys, to brighter skies!

As the triumphant eagle bends his flight,

To lave his lordly wing in floods of burninglight!

Oft have I seen thee, sportive, wild,

Frolic Nature’s playful child,

With infant sweetness, weaving boughs,

To hang on fickle Fancy’s brows!

Then wouldst thou snatch the rose-deck’dlyre,

And with thy airy fingers play,

In measures madly gay,

A song that might e’en Apathy inspire!

Then, sated with the ’witching sound,

Dash thy rapt lyre upon the ground,

And o’er thy gaudy wreath

Such strains of tender pity breathe,

So soft, so touching, so alluring,

All the wounds of Passion curing,

That maddening rage itself, subdued,

Listening stood, in melting mood!

And Folly, wondering at thy powers,

Dropp’d from her giddy hand her wreath ofpoisonous
flowers!

I’ve seen thee, spurning solemn fools,

Mock the vaunted lore of schools;

E2r 35

And laugh to scorn the pedant’s art,

That hides in Learning’s garb, the dull deceitfulheart!

I’ve seen thee, dress’d in awful pride,

With calm-brow’d Wisdom by thy side,

Unfolding precepts richly fraught

With sense acute! and depth of thought!

Decking the hoary front of Time

With many a sober wreath, sublime!

While Eloquence, her store unbound,

Scatter’d her fairest blossoms round!

And History, with recording finger, traced

Scenes by expiring Ignorance half-effaced;

Whilst thou from cold Oblivion’s cave

Led the pale shadows of the sainted brave!

Ah! then I’ve seen thee stamp each name

On the unperishable rolls of Fame!

And, smiling o’er the consecrated page,

Anticipate the boast of many a future age!

I’ve seen thee through the soul diffuse

Th’ electric fire that warms the muse!

When o’er the poet’s breast

Thou fling’st the sunny vest;

And stoop’st this throbbing brow to bind

With wings, to waft the soaring mind

Beyond the mists of mortal day!

While from thy piercing eye,

Resplendent as its parent sky,

A stream of light shot forth, to mark his glorious
way!

Ah! lost to bliss are those,

Low-thoughted! dull of soul!

Who, plodding through life’s weedy woes,

Ne’er felt the thrilling power

That marks the intellectual hour;

Nor, where Pierian fountains roll,

Panted to taste the clear immortal wave

That heals the wounds of Fate, and flows beyond
the grave!

Ode

To Reflection.

O thou! whose sober precepts can control

The wild impatience of the troubled soul,

Sweet maid serene! whose all consoling power

Awakes to calm delight the lingering hour,

O! hear thy votary’s ardent prayer!

Chase from my anguish’d mind corroding care,

Steal through the burning pulses of my brain,

Calm sorrow to repose, and lull the throb of
pain!


O, tell me, what are life’s best joys?

Are they not visions that decay,

Sweet honey’d poisons, gilded toys,

Vain glittering baubles of a day?

O say, what shadow do they leave behind,

Save the sad vacuum of a sated mind?

Borne on the eagle-wings of Fame,

Man soars above calm Reason’s sway,

“Vaulting Ambition” mocks each tender
claim,

Plucks the dear bonds of social life away;

As o’er the vanquish’d slave she wields her spear,

Compassion turns aside—Reflection drops a
tear.

Behold the wretch whose sordid heart,

Steep’d in Content’s oblivious balm,

Secure in Luxury’s bewitching calm,

Repels pale Misery’s touch, and mocks Affliction’s
smart;

Unmoved he marks the bitter tear,

In vain the plaints of wo his thoughts assail,

The bashful mourner’s piteous tale

Nor melts his flinty soul, nor vibrates on his ear.

O blest Reflection! let thy magic power

Awake his torpid sense, his slumbering thought,

Tell him Adversity’s unpitied hour

A brighter lesson gives than stoics taught:

Tell him that wealth no blessing can impart

So sweet as Pity’s tear—that bathes the wounded
heart.

Go tell the vain, the insolent, and fair,

That life’s best days are only days of care;

That Beauty, fluttering like a painted fly,

Owes to the spring of youth its transient
die;

When winter comes, its charms shall fade
away,

And the poor insect wither in decay:

Go bid the giddy phantom learn from thee,

That Virtue only braves mortality.

Then come, Reflection, soft-eyed maid!

I know thee, and I prize thy charms;

Come, in thy gentlest smiles array’d,

And I will press thee in my eager arms;

Keep from my aching heart the fiend Despair,

Snatch from my brow her thorn, and plant thy
olive there.

Ode to Envy.

Deep in th’ abyss where frantic horror ’bides,

In thickest mists of vapours fell,

Where wily serpents hissing glare

And the dark demon of Revenge resides,

E2v 36

At midnight’s murky hour

Thy origin began:

Rapacious Malice was thy sire;

Thy dam the sullen witch Despair;

Thy nurse, insatiate Ire.

The Fates conspired their ills to twine

About thy heart’s infected shrine;

They gave thee each disastrous spell,

Each desolating power,

To blast the fairest hopes of man.

Soon as thy fatal birth was known,

From her unhallow’d throne

With ghastly smile pale Hecate sprang;

Thy hideous form the sorceress press’d

With kindred fondness to her breast;

Her haggard eye

Shot forth a ray of transient joy,

While through the infernal shades exulting clamours
rang.

Above thy fellow-fiends thy tyrant hand

Grasp’d with resistless force supreme command:

The vast terrific crowd

Before thy iron sceptre bow’d.

Now, seated in thy ebon cave,

About thy throne relentless furies rave;

A wreath of ever-wounding thorn

Thy scowling brows encompass round,

Thy heart by gnawing vultures torn,

Thy meagre limbs with deathless scorpions
bound:

Thy black associates, torpid Ignorance,

And pining Jealousy—with eye askance,

With savage rapture execute thy will,

And strew the paths of life with every torturing
ill.

Nor can the sainted dead escape thy rage;

Thy vengeance haunts the silent grave,

Thy taunts insult the ashes of the brave;

While proud Ambition weeps thy rancour to
assuage.

The laurels round the poet’s bust,

Twined by the liberal hand of Taste,

By thy malignant grasp defaced,

Fade to their native dust:

Thy ever-watchful eye no labour tires,

Beneath thy venom’d touch the angel Truth expires.

When in thy petrifying car

The scaly dragons waft thy form,

Than, swifter, deadlier far

Than the keen lightning’s lance,

That wings its way across the yelling storm,

Thy barbed shafts fly whizzing round,

While every withering glance

Inflicts a cureless wound.


Thy giant-arm with ponderous blow

Hurls Genius from her glorious height,

Bends the fair front of Virtue low,

And meanly pilfers every pure delight.

Thy hollow voice the sense appals,

Thy vigilance the mind inthrals;

Rest hast thou none! By night, by day,

Thy jealous ardour seeks for prey—

Nought can restrain thy swift career;

Thy smile derides the sufferer’s wrongs;

Thy tongue the slanderer’s tale prolongs;

Thy thirst imbibes the victim’s tear;

Thy breast recoils from friendship’s flame;

Sickening thou hear’st the trump of Fame;

Worth gives to thee the direst pang;

The lover’s rapture wounds thy heart,

The proudest efforts of prolific art

Shrink from thy poisonous fang.

In vain the sculptor’s labouring hand

Calls fine proportion from the Parian stone;

In vain the minstrel’s chords command

The soft vibrations of seraphic tone;

For swift thy violating arm

Tears from perfection every charm:

Nor rosy Youth, nor Beauty’s smiles,

Thy unrelenting rage beguiles;

Thy breath contaminates the fairest name,

And binds the guiltless brow with ever-blistering
shame.

Ode

To Health.

Come, bright-eyed maid,

Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,

Haste, my feverish temples bind

With olive wreaths of emerald hue,

Steep’d in morn’s ethereal dew,

Where in mild Helvetia’s shade,

Blushing summer round her flings

Warm gales and sunny showers that hang upon
her wings.

I’ll seek thee in Italia’s bowers,

Where, supine on beds of flowers,

Melody’s soul-touching throng

Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song:

Where blithe Fancy, queen of pleasure,

Pours each luxuriant treasure.

For thee I’ll climb the breezy hill,

While the balmy dews distil

Odours from the budding thorn,

Dropp’d from the lustrous lids of morn;

Who, starting from her shadowy bed,

Binds her gold fillet round the mountain’s
head.

E3r 37

There I’ll press from herbs and flowers

Juices bless’d with opiate powers,

Whose magic potency can heal

The throb of agonizing pain,

And through the purple swelling vein

With subtle influence steal:

Heaven opes for thee its aromatic store,

To bathe each languid gasping pore;

But where, O where, shall cherish’d sorrow
find

The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.

O memory! busy barbarous foe,

At thy fell touch I wake to wo:

Alas, the flattering dream is o’er,

From thee the bright illusions fly,

Thou bidst the glittering phantoms die,

And Hope, and Youth, and Fancy, charm no
more.

No more for me the tip-toe Spring

Drops flowerets from her infant wing;

For me in vain the wild thyme’s bloom

Through the forest flings perfume;

In vain I climb th’ embroider’d hill

To breathe the clear autumnal air;

In vain I quaff the lucid rill

Since jocund Health delights not there

To greet my heart:—no more I view,

With sparkling eye, the silvery dew

Sprinkling May’s tears upon the folded rose,

As low it droops its young and blushing head,

Press’d by grey twilight to its mossy bed:

No more I lave amidst the tide,

Or bound along the tufted grove,

Or o’er enamell’d meadows rove,

Where, on Zephyr’s pinions, glide

Salubrious airs that waft the day’s repose.

Lightly o’er the yellow heath

Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,

Breath inhaled from musky flowers,

Newly bath’d in perfumed showers.

See the rosy-finger’d morn

Opes her bright refulgent eye,

Hills and valleys to adorn,

While from her burning glance the scatter’d
vapours fly.

Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,

The hill’s blue top, the valley’s green,

’Midst clouds of snow and whirlwinds
drear,

Shall cold and comfortless appear:

The howling blast shall strip the plain,

And bid my pensive bosom learn,

Though Nature’s face shall smile again,

And on the glowing breast of spring

Creation all her gems shall fling,

Youth’s April-morn shall ne’er return.


Then come, Oh! quickly come, Hygeian
maid!

Each throbbing pulse, each quivering nerve
pervade.

Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye,

Tint my pale visage with thy roseate dye,

Bid my heart’s current own a temperate glow,

And from its crimson source in tepid channels
flow.

O Health, celestial nymph! without thy aid

Creation sickens in oblivion’s shade:

Along the drear and solitary gloom

We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb;

Youth, age, wealth, poverty, alike agree—

To live is anguish, when deprived of thee.

To thee indulgent Heaven benignly gave

The touch to heal, the ecstacy to save.

The balmy incense of thy fostering breath

Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of death,

Robs the grim tyrant of his trembling prize,

Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.

Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest

To meet the rising sun with perfumed breast,

Which glow’d with lustrous tints at noon-tide
hour,

And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower,

With withering anguish mourn the parting
day,

Shrink to the earth, and sorrowing fate away.

Ode

To Vanity.

Insatiate tyrant of the mind,

Fantastic, aery, empty thing,

Borne on Illusion’s fluttering wing,

Fallacious as the wanton wind;

Capricious goddess!—Beauty’s foe;

Thou—who no settled home dost know;

The busy world, the sylvan plain,

Alike confess thy potent reign.

Queen of the motley garb—at thy command

Fashion waves her flowery wand;

See she kindles Fancy’s flame,

Around her dome thy incense flies,

The curling fumes ascend the skies,

And fill the “Trump of Fame.”

When Heaven’s translucent ray

Unveil’d the mighty work of God;

When the Promethean spark of day

Awoke his Image from a torpid clod;

When radiance pour’d on human sight,

And the illumined soul beam’d with celestial
light;

Exulting man, sole Potentate below,

First felt thy poisonous glow;

E3v 38

He gazed upon his wondrous frame;

The self-approving conscious flame

Thrill’d in each trembling vein with subtle
art,

Then fix’d its baneful source within his godlike
heart.

Thy breath accursed brought deathless wo

On man’s devoted race;

Hurl’d th’ aspiring Fiend to realms below,

Who, plunged in fell disgrace,

There, deep inthrall’d in adamantine spells,

In chains of scorpions bound, for ever, ever
dwells.

In every scene of social joy,

Amidst the rude unpolish’d train,

From the low offspring of the barren plain,

To him whose lofty bosom owns

Descent sublime from scepter’d thrones,

All, all thy laws obey.

Thy light hand plumes the warrior’s brow,

Decks e’en fierce War with tinsel show,

E’en in the tented fields thy banners flow,

To thee illustrious chieftains bow;

’Tis thy capricious influence forms

All that mad ambition warms;

The laurel wreath, though steep’d in blood,

Placed by thy fickle hand, appears

Radiant as the sunny spheres,

When morn’s proud beams roll in a golden
flood.

Ah, Vanity! avert thine eye;

Check thy fell exulting joy;

With burning drops thy flush’d cheek lave,

Nor gloat upon the carnaged brave;

For what can trophied wreaths supply,

To drown the desolating cry,

That, o’er th’empurpled fields afar,

Proclaims the dread-destructive power of war?

E’en amidst the savage race,

The untamed Indian owns thy sway;

For thee he paints his tawny face,

And decks his shaggy hair with fragments gay:

For thee he marks his sun-burnt breast,

With beads and feathers idly drest;—

His hardy limbs with glowing tints imbrued,

Reeking and mangled with the pointed dart,

Vainly he vaunts—nor heeds the smart,

Though pitying Nature weeps with tears of
blood.

Then turn, my muse, where milder joys

The village hero’s mind employs;

Where gentler sports delight the breast,

And soften’d Nature smiles confest.

Let me paint the rural scene,

The white-wash’d hut—the velvet green


May’s blythe morn—exulting glee,

The chaplet pendant on each tree,

The shining hat with gaudy ribbands bound,

The lofty may-pole and the well-swept
ground,

Where valiant combats speak the thirst of
Fame,

And the loud shout proclaims the victor’s name.

O Vanity, thy potent reign

Spreads its influence o’er the plain—

For thee, the blushing maids prepare

Garlands wove with nicest care;

For thee, they dress their festive bowers

With waving wreaths of scented flowers,

Where the bold youth that wins the prize

Reads his best victory in his sweetheart’s eyes.

Such is thy power—thy mandate rules

Above the laws of pedant schools;

Reason in vain contends with thee,

Triumphant, deathless Vanity!

E’en now I feel thy vivid sparks infuse

A warmth that guides my hand, and bids me
court the muse.

Ode

To Melancholy.

Sorceress of the cave profound!

Hence, with thy pale and meagre train,

Nor dare my roseate bower profane,

Where light-heel’d Mirth despotic reigns,

Slightly bound in feathery chains,

And scattering blisses round.

Hence, to thy native chaos—where,

Nursed by thy haggard dam, Despair,

Shackled by thy numbing spell,

Misery’s pallid children dwell;

Where, brooding o’er thy fatal charms,

Frenzy rolls the vacant eye;

Where hopeless Love, with folded arms,

Drops the tear, and heaves the sigh;

Till cherish’d Passion’s tyrant-sway

Chills the warm pulse of youth with premature
decay.

O fly thee to some church-yard’s gloom,

Where, beside the mouldering tomb,

Restless spectres glide away,

Fading in the glimpse of day;

Or, where the virgin orb of night

Silvers o’er the forest wide,

Or across the silent tide,

Flings her soft and quivering light:

E4r 39

Where, beneath some aged tree,

Sounds of mournful melody,

Caught from the nightingale’s enamour’d tale,

Steal on faint Echo’s ear, and float upon the gale.

Dread Power! whose touch magnetic leads

O’er enchanted spangled meads,

Where, by the glow-worm’s twinkling ray,

Aery spirits lightly play;

Where, around some haunted tower,

Boding ravens wing their flight,

Viewless in the gloom of night,

Warning oft the luckless hour;

Or, beside the murderer’s bed,

From thy dark and morbid wing,

O’er his feverish, burning head,

Drops of conscious anguish fling;

While freezing Horror’s direful scream

Rouses his guilty soul from kind oblivion’s
dream.

Oft, beneath the witching yew.

The trembling maid steals forth unseen,

With true-love wreaths, of deathless green,

Her lover’s grave to strew;

Her downcast eye no joy illumes,

Nor on her cheek the soft rose blooms;

Her mourning heart, the victim of thy power,

Shrinks from the glare of mirth, and hails the
murky hour.

O, say what fiend first gave thee birth,

In what fell desert wert thou born;

Why does thy hollow voice, forlorn,

So fascinate the sons of earth;

That, once encircled in thy icy arms,

They court thy torpid touch, and doat upon thy
charms?

Hated imp—I brave thy spell,

Reason shuns thy barbarous sway;

Life with mirth should glide away,

Despondency with guilt should dwell;

For conscious Truth’s unruffled mien

Displays the dauntless eye and patient smile serene.

Ode

To Despair.

Terrific fiend! thou monster fell!

Condemn’d in haunts profane to dwell,

Why quit thy solitary home,

O’er wide creation’s paths to roam?

Pale tyrant of the timid heart,

Whose visionary spells can bind

The strongest passions of the mind,

Freezing life’s current with thy baneful art.


Nature recoils when thou art near,

For round thy form all plagues are seen;

Thine is the frantic tone, the sullen mien,

The glance of petrifying fear,

The haggard brow, the lowering eye,

The hollow cheek, the smother’d sigh;

When thy usurping fangs assail,

The sacred bonds of Friendship fail.

Meek-bosom’d Pity sues in vain;

Imperious Sorrow spurns relief,

Feeds on the luxury of Grief,

Drinks the hot tear, and hugs the galling chain.

Ah! plunge no more thy ruthless dart

In the dark centre of the guilty heart;

The Power Supreme, with pitying eye,

Looks on the erring child of Misery;

Mercy arrests the wing of Time,

To expiate the wretch’s crime:

Insulted Heaven consign’d thy brand

To the first murderer’s crimson hand.

Swift o’er the earth the monster flew,

And round th’ ensanguined poisons threw,

By Conscience goaded—driven by Fear,

Till the meek cherub Hope subdued his fell career.

Thy reign is past, when erst the brave

Imbibed contagion o’er the midnight lamp,

Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons
damp

Hung round the confines of a living grave; The Bastile.

Where no glimmering ray illumed

The flinty walls, where ponderous chains

Bound the wan victim to the humid earth,

Where Valour, Genius, Taste, and Worth,

In pestilential caves entomb’d,

Sought thy cold arms, and smiling mock’d their
pains.

There,—each procrastinated hour,

The wo-worn sufferer gasping lay,

While by his side in proud array

Stalk’d the huge fiend, Despotic Power.

There Reason closed her radiant eye,

And fainting Hope retired to die,

Truth shrunk appall’d,

In spells of icy Apathy inthrall’d;

Till Freedom spurn’d the ignominious chain,

And, roused from Superstition’s night,

Exulting Nature claim’d her right,

And call’d dire Vengeance from her dark domain.

Now take thy solitary flight

Amid the turbid gales of night,

Where spectres, starting from the tomb,

Glide along th’ impervious gloom;

Or, stretch’d upon the sea-beat shore,

Let the wild winds, as they roar,

E4v 40

Rock thee on thy bed of stone;

Or, in gelid caverns pent,

Listen to the sullen moan

Of subterraneous winds;—or glut thy sight

Where stupendous mountains, rent,

Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy
height.

At thy approach the rifted pine

Shall o’er the shatter’d rock incline,

Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds
drest,

Frowns on the tawny eagle’s nest;

There enjoy the ’witching hour,

And freeze in Frenzy’s dire conceit,

Or seek the screech-owl’s lone retreat,

On the bleak rampart of some nodding tower.

In some forest long and drear,

Tempt the fierce banditti’s rage,

War with famish’d tigers wage,

And bathe in blood, and mock the taunts of
fear.

When across the yawning deep

The demons of the Tempest sweep,

Or deafening Thunders bursting cast

Their red bolts on the shivering mast,

While fix’d below the sea-boy stands,

As threatening Death his soul dismays,

He lifts his supplicating hands,

And shrieks, and groans, and weeps, and
prays,

Till, lost amid the floating fire,

The agonizing crew expire;

Then let thy transports rend the air,

For maddening Anguish feeds the fiend
Despair!

When o’er the couch of pale disease

The mother bends with tearful eye,

And trembles, lest her quivering sigh

Should wake the darling of her breast—

Now, by the taper’s feeble rays,

She steals a last, fond, eager gaze.

Ah, hapless parent! gaze no more,

Thy Cherub soars among the blest,

Life’s crimson fount begins to freeze,

His transitory scene is o’er—

She starts—she raves—her burning brain

Consumes, unconscious of its fires;

Dead to the heart’s convulsive pain,

Bewilder’d memory retires.

See! See! she grasps her flowing hair,

From her fix’d eye the big drops roll,

Her proud affliction mocks control,

And riots in despair—

Such are thy haunts, malignant Power!

There all thy murderous poison shower;

But come not near my calm retreat,

Where Peace and holy Friendship meet;


Where Science sheds a gentle ray,

And guiltless Mirth beguiles the day,

Where Bliss congenial to the Muse

Shall round my heart her sweets diffuse,

Where, from each restless passion free,

I give my noiseless hours, bless’d Poesy, to thee.

Ode

To the Snow-Drop. From Walsingham, a Novel, in 4 vols. by the
same Author.

The Snow-drop, Winter’s timid child,

Awakes to life, bedew’d with tears,

And flings around its fragrance mild;

And where no rival flowerets bloom,

Amidst the bare and chilling gloom,

A beauteous gem appears!

All weak and wan, with head inclined,

Its parent-breast the drifted snow,

It trembles, while the ruthless wind

Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers,

Its emerald eye drops crystal showers

On its cold bed below.

Poor flower! on thee the sunny beam

No touch of genial warmth bestows

Except to thaw the icy stream

Whose little current purls along,

And whelms thee as it flows.

The night-breeze tears thy silky dress,

Which deck’d with silvery lustre shone;

The morn returns, not thee to bless.—

The gaudy Crocus flaunts its pride,

And triumphs where its rival—died

Unshelter’d and unknown!

No sunny beam shall gild thy grave,

No bird of pity thee deplore:

There shall no verdant branches wave,

For spring shall all her gems unfold,

And revel ’midst her beds of gold,

When thou art seen no more!

Where’er I find thee, gentle flower,

Thou still art sweet, and dear to me!

For I have known the cheerless hour,

Have seen the sun-beams cold and pale,

Have felt the chilling, wintry gale,

And wept, and shrunk like thee!

F1r 41

Ode

To the Nightingale.

Sweet bird of sorrow!—why complain

In such soft melody of song?

That echo, amorous of thy strain,

The lingering cadence doth prolong.

Ah! tell me, tell me, why

Thy dulcet notes ascend the sky,

Or on the filmy vapours glide

Along the misty mountain’s side!

And wherefore dost thou love to dwell

In the dark wood and moss-grown cell?

Beside the willow-margin’d stream—

Why dost thou court wan Cynthia’s beam?

Sweet songstress—if thy wayward fate

Hath robb’d thee of thy bosom’s mate,

Oh! think not thy heart-piercing moan

Evaporates on the breezy air,

Or that the plaintive song of care

Steals from thy widow’d breast alone.

Oft have I heard thy mournful tale,

On the high cliff, that o’er the vale

Hangs its hard brow, whose awful shade

Spreads a dark gloom along the glade:

Led by its sound, I’ve wander’d far,

Till crimson evening’s flaming star

On Heaven’s vast dome refulgent hung,

And round ethereal vapours flung;

And oft I’ve sought th’Hygeian maid,

In rosy dimpling smiles array’d,

Till, forced with every hope to part,

Resistless pain subdued my heart.

Oh then, far o’er the restless deep

Forlorn my poignant pangs I bore,

Alone in foreign realms to weep,

Where Envy’s voice could taunt no more.

I hoped, by mingling with the gay,

To snatch the veil of Grief away;

I hoped, amid the joyous train,

To break affliction’s ponderous chain;

Vain was the hope—in vain I sought

The placid hour of careless thought;

Where Fashion wing’d her light career,

And sportive pleasure danced along,

Oft have I shunn’d the blithesome throng,

To hide the involuntary tear;

For e’en where rapturous transports glow,

From the full heart the conscious tear will
flow.

When to my downy couch removed,

Fancy recall’d my wearied mind

To scenes of friendship left behind,

Scenes still regretted, still beloved!

Ah! then I felt the pangs of grief

Grasp my warm heart, and mock relief;

My burning lids sleep’s balm defied,

And on my feverish lip imperfect murmurs died.


Restless and sad—I sought once more

A calm retreat on Britain’s shore;

Deceitful hope! e’en there I found

That soothing friendship’s specious name

Was but a short-lived empty sound

And love a false delusive flame.

Then come, sweet bird, and with thy strain

Steal from my breast the thorn of pain;

Blest solace of my lonely hours,

In craggy caves and silent bowers:

When happy mortals seek repose,

By night’s pale lamp we’ll chant our woes,

And, as her chilling tears diffuse

O’er the white thorn their silvery dews,

I’ll with the lucid boughs entwine

A weeping wreath, which round my head

Shall by the waning crescent shine,

And light us to our leafy bed.—

Yet, ah! nor leafy beds nor bowers

Fringed with soft May’s enamell’d flowers,

Nor pearly leaves, nor Cynthia’s beams,

Nor smiling Pleasure’s shadowy dreams—

Sweet bird, not e’en thy melting strains—

Can calm the heart where tyrant sorrow reigns.

Second Ode

To the Nightingale.

Blest be thy song, sweet nightingale,

Lorn minstrel of the lonely vale!

Where oft I’ve heard thy dulcet strain

In mournful melody complain

When in the poplar’s trembling shade

At evening’s purple hour I’ve stray’d,

While many a silken folded flower

Wept on its couch of gossamer,

And many a time in pensive mood

Upon the upland mead I’ve stood,

To mark grey twilight’s shadows glide

Along the green hill’s velvet side;

To watch the perfumed hand of morn

Hang pearls upon the silver thorn,

Till rosy day with lustrous eye

In saffron mantle deck’d the sky,

And bound the mountain’s brow with fire,

And tinged with gold the village spire,

While o’er the frosted vale below

The amber tints began to glow:

And oft I seek the daisied plain

To greet the rustic nymph and swain,

When cowslips gay their bells unfold

And flaunt their leaves of glittering gold,

While from the blushes of the rose

A tide of musky essence flows,

And o’er the odour-breathing flowers

The woodlands shed their diamond showers;

F F1v 42

When from the scented hawthorn bud

The blackbird sips the lucid flood,

While oft the twittering thrush essays

To emulate the linnet’s lays;

While the poized lark her carol sings,

And butterflies expand their wings,

And bees begin their sultry toils

And load their limbs with luscious spoils,

I stroll along the pathless vale,

And smile, and bless thy soothing tale.

But ah! when hoary winter chills

The plumy race—and wraps the hills

In snowy vest, I tell my pains

Beside the brook, in icy chains,

Bound its weedy banks between,

While sad I watch night’s pensive queen,

Just emblem of my weary woes;

For ah! where’er the virgin goes,

Each floweret greets her with a tear

To sympathetic sorrow dear;

And when in black obtrusive clouds,

The vestal meek her pale cheek shrouds,

I mark the twinkling starry train

Exulting glitter in her wane,

And proudly gleam their borrow’d light

To gem the sombre dome of night.

Then o’er the meadows cold and bleak

The glow-worm’s glimmering lamp I seek,

Or climb the craggy cliff, to gaze

On some bright planet’s azure blaze,

And o’er the dizzy height inclined

I listen to the passing wind,

That loves my mournful song to seize,

And bears it to the mountain breeze.

Or where, the sparry caves among,

Dull echo sits with aery tongue,

Or gliding on the zephyr’s wings

From hill to hill her cadence flings,

O then my melancholy tale

Dies on the bosom of the gale,

While awful stillness, reigning round,

Blanches my cheek with chilling fear;

Till, from the bushy dell profound,

The woodman’s song salutes mine ear.

When dark November’s boisterous breath

Sweeps the blue hill and desert heath,

When naked trees their white tops wave

O’er many a famish’d redbreast’s grave,

When many a clay-built cot lies low

Beneath the growing hills of snow;

Soon as the shepherd’s silvery head

Peeps from his tottering straw-roof’d shed,

To hail the glimmering glimpse of day—

With feeble steps he ventures forth,

Chill’d by the bleak breath of the north,

And to the forest bends his way,

To gather from the frozen ground

Each branch of the night-blast scatter’d round—


If in some bush o’erspread with snow

He hears thy moaning wail of wo,

A flush of warmth his cheek o’erspreads,

With anxious timid care he treads,

And when his cautious hands infold

Thy little breast benumb’d with cold,

“Come, plaintive fugitive, he cries,

While Pity dims his aged eyes,

Come to my glowing heart, and share

My narrow cell, my humble fare;

Tune thy sweet carol—plume thy wing,

And quaff with me the limpid spring,

And peck the crumbs my meals supply,

And round my rushy pillow fly.”

O, minstrel sweet, whose jocund lay

Can make e’en poverty look gay,

Who can the humblest swain inspire

And, while he fans his scanty fire,

When o’er the plain rough winter pours

Nocturnal blasts and whelming showers,

Canst through his little mansion fling

The rapturous melodies of spring—

To thee with eager gaze I turn,

Blest solace of the aching breast!

Each gaudy glittering scene I spurn,

And sigh for solitude and rest.

Ode

To Beauty.

Exulting beauty!—phantom of an hour,

Whose magic spells enchain the heart,

Ah! what avails thy fascinating power,

Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art?

Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows;

Thy cheek, where round the damask rose

A thousand nameless graces move;

Thy mildly-speaking azure eyes,

Thy golden hair, where cunning Love

In many a mazy ringlet lies?

Soon as thy radiant form is seen,

Thy native blush, thy timid mien,

Thy hour is past—thy charms are vain!

Ill-nature haunts thee with her sallow train,

Mean Jealousy deceives thy listening ear,

And Slander stains thy cheek with many a bitter
tear.

In calm retirement form’d to dwell,

Nature, thy handmaid fair and kind,

For thee a beauteous garland twined;

The vale-nursed lily’s downcast bell

F2r 43

Thy modest mien display’d,

The snow-drop, April’s meekest child,

With myrtle blossoms undefiled,

Thy spotless mind pourtray’d.

Dear blushing maid of cottage birth,

’Twas thine o’er dewy meads to stray

While sparkling Health, and frolic Mirth,

Led on thy laughing day.

Lured by the babbling tongue of Fame,

Too soon insidious Flattery came;

Flush’d Vanity her footsteps led,

To charm thee from repose,

While Fashion twined about thy head

A wreath of wounding woes;

See Dissipation smoothly glide,

Cold Apathy, and puny Pride,

Capricious Fortune, dull and blind,

O’er splendid Folly throws her veil,

While Envy’s meagre tribe assail

Thy gentle form and spotless mind.

Their spells prevail! no more those eyes

Shoot undulating fires;

On thy wan cheek the young rose dies,

Thy lip’s deep tint expires;

Dark Melancholy chills thy mind,

Thy silent tear reveals thy wo;

Time strews with thorns thy mazy way;

Where’er thy giddy footsteps stray,

Thy thoughtless heart is doom’d to find

An unrelenting foe.

’Tis thus the infant forest flower,

Bespangled o’er with glittering dew,

At breezy morn’s refreshing hour,

Displays its tints of varying hue,

Beneath an aged oak’s wide spreading shade,

Where no rude winds or beating storms invade.

Transplanted from its lonely bed,

No more it scatters perfumes round,

No more it rears its modest head,

Or gayly paints the mossy ground;

For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon,

Scorch’d by the burning eye of day,

Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon,

Droops its enamell’d brow, and, blushing, dies
away.

Ode

To Eloquence.

Hail! Goddess of persuasive art!

The magic of whose tuneful tongue

Lulls to soft harmony the wandering heart

With fascinating song;


O let me hear thy heaven-taught strain,

As through my quivering pulses steal

The mingling throbs of joy and pain,

Which only sensate minds can feel.

Ah! let me taste the bliss supreme

Which thy warm touch unerring flings

O’er the rapt sense’s finest strings,

When Genius, darting from the sky,

Glances across my wondering eye

Her animating beam.

Sweet Eloquence! thy mild control

Awakes to Reason’s dawn the idiot soul;

When mists absorb the mental sight,

’Tis thine to dart creative light;

’Tis thine to chase the filmy clouds away,

And o’er the mind’s deep gloom spread a refulgent
ray.

Nor is thy wondrous art confined

Within the bounds of mental space,

For thou canst boast exterior grace,

Bright emblem of the fertile mind;

Yes; I have seen thee, with persuasion meek,

Bathe in the lucid tear on Beauty’s cheek;

Have mark’d thee in the downcast eye,

When suffering Virtue claim’d the pitying
sigh.

Oft by thy thrilling voice subdued,

The meagre fiend Ingratitude

Her treacherous fang conceals;

Pale Envy hides her forked sting;

And Calumny beneath the wing

Of dark oblivion steals.

Before thy pure and lambent fire

Shall frozen Apathy expire;

Thy influence, warm and unconfined,

Shall rapturous transports give,

And in the base and torpid mind

Shall bid the fine affections live.

When Jealousy’s malignant dart

Strikes at the fondly-throbbing heart;

When fancied woes on every side assail,

Thy honey’d accents shall prevail;

When burning Passion withers up the brain,

And the fix’d lids the glowing drops sustain,

Touch’d by thy voice, the melting eye

Shall pour the balm of yielding Sympathy.

’Tis thine with lenient song to move

The dumb despair of hopeless Love;

Or when the animated soul

On Fancy’s wing shall soar,

And, scorning Reason’s soft control,

Untrodden paths explore,

Till, by distracting conflicts toss’d,

The intellectual source is lost;

F2v 44

E’en then, the witching music of thy tongue,

Stealing through Misery’s darkest gloom,

Weaves the fine threads of Fancy’s loom,

Till every slacken’d nerve, new strung,

Bids renovated Nature shine,

Amidst thy fostering beams, oh! Eloquence divine.

Ode

To the Moon.

Pale Goddess of the witching hour!

Blest Contemplation’s placid friend!

Oft in my solitary bower

I mark thy lucid beam

From thy crystal car descend,

Whitening the spangled heath and limpid sapphire
stream.

And oft amidst the shades of night

I court thy undulating light;

When fairies dance around the verdant ring,

Or, sportive, frisk beside the bubbling spring;

When the thoughtless shepherd’s song

Echoes through the silent air,

While he pens his fleecy care,

Or plods with sauntering gait the dewy meads
along.

Chaste orb! as through the vaulted sky

Feathery clouds transparent sail;

When thy languid, weeping eye

Sheds its soft tears upon the painted vale;

As sad I ponder o’er the rising floods,

Or tread with listless step th’ embowering
woods,

O let thy soft, though transitory beam,

Soothe my sad mind with Fancy’s aery dream.

Wrapt in reflection, let me trace,

Around the vast ethereal space,

Stars, whose twinkling fires illume

Dark-brow’d Night’s obtrusive gloom;

Where, across the concave wide,

Flaming meteors swiftly glide;

Or, along the milky way,

Vapours shoot a silvery ray;

And as I mark thy faint reclining head,

Sinking on ocean’s glassy bed,

Let Reason tell my soul, thus all things fade;

The seasons change, the gaudy sun,

When day’s burning car hath run

Its fiery course, no more we view,

While o’er the mountain’s golden head,

Streak’d with tints of crimson hue,

Twilight’s filmy curtains spread,

Stealing o’er Nature’s face, a desolating shade.


Yon musky flower, that scents the earth;

The sod, that gave its odours birth;

The rock, that breaks the torrent’s force;

The vale, that owns its wandering course;

The woodlands, where the vocal throng

Trill the wild melodious song;

Thirsty deserts, sands that glow,

Mountains, capp’d with flaky snow;

Luxuriant groves, enamell’d fields,

All that prolific Nature yields,

Alike shall end; the sensate heart,

With all its passions, all its fire,

Touch’d by Fate’s unerring dart,

Shall feel its vital strength expire;

Those eyes, that beam with Friendship’s ray,

And glance ineffable delight,

Shall shrink from Life’s translucid day,

And close their fainting orbs in Death’s impervious
night.

Then what remains for mortal power,

But Time’s dull journey to beguile;

To deck with joy the winged hour,

To meet its sorrows with a patient smile;

And when the toilsome pilgrimage shall end,

To greet the tyrant as a welcome friend.

Ode

To Meditation.

Sweet child of Reason! maid serene!

With folded arms and pensive mien;

Who, wandering near yon thorny wild,

So oft my lengthening hours beguiled;

Thou who, within thy peaceful cell,

Canst laugh at life’s tumultuous care,

While calm Repose delights to dwell

On beds of fragrant roses there;

Where meek-eyed Patience waits to greet

The wo-worn traveller’s weary feet,

Till by her bless’d and cheering ray

The clouds of sorrow fade away;

Where conscious Rectitude retires;

Instructive Wisdom; calm Desires;

Prolific Science—labouring Art;

And Genius, with expanded heart.

Far from thy lone and pure domain

Steals pallid Guilt, whose scowling eye

Marks the rack’d soul’s convulsive pain,

Though hid beneath the mask of joy;

Maddening Ambition’s dauntless band;

Lean Avarice with iron hand;

Hypocrisy with fawning tongue;

Soft Flattery with persuasive song;

Appall’d, in gloomy shadows fly,

From Meditation’s piercing eye.

F3r 45

How oft with thee I ve stroll’d unseen

O’er the lone valley’s velvet green;

And brush’d away the twilight dew

That stain’d the cowslip’s golden hue;

Oft, as I ponder’d o’er the scene,

Would memory picture to my heart

How full of grief my days have been,

How swiftly rapturous hours depart!

Then wouldst thou, sweetly reasoning, say,

“Time journeys through the roughest day.

The hermit, from the world retired,

By calm Religion’s voice inspired,

Tells how serenely time glides on,

From crimson morn, till setting sun;

How guiltless, pure, and free from strife,

He journeys through the vale of life;

Within his breast nor sorrows mourn,

Nor cares perplex, nor passions burn;

No jealous fears or boundless joys,

The tenor of his mind destroys;

And when revolving memory shows

The thorny world’s unnumber’d woes,

He blesses Heaven’s benign decree,

That gave his days to peace and thee.

The gentle maid whose roseate bloom

Fades fast within a cloister’s gloom,

Far by relentless Fate removed

From all her youthful fancy loved—

When her warm heart no longer bleeds,

And cool Reflection’s hour succeeds,

Led by the downy hand, she strays

Along the green dell’s tangled maze;

Where through dank leaves the whispering
showers

Awake to life the fainting flowers;

Absorb’d by thee, she hears no more

The distant torrent’s deafening roar;

The well-known vesper’s silver tone;

The bleak wind’s desolating moan;

No more she sees the nodding spires,

Where the lone bird of night retires,

While Echo chants her boding song

The cloister’s mouldering walls among;

No more she weeps at Fate’s decree,

But yields her pensive soul to thee.

The sage whose palsied head bends low

’Midst scatter’d locks of silvery snow,

Still by his mind’s clear lustre tells

What warmth within his bosom dwells;

How glows his heart with treasured lore,

How rich in Wisdom’s boundless store:

In fading life’s protracted hour,

He smiles at death’s terrific power;

He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam

With resignation’s saomted beam;

And, as the weeping star of morn

Sheds lustre on the wither’d thorn,


His tear benign calm comfort throws

O’er rugged life’s corroding woes;

His pious soul’s enlighten’d rays

Dart forth, to gild his wintry days;

He smiles serene at Heaven’s decree,

And his last hour resigns to thee.

When learning, with Promethean art

Unveils to light the youthful heart;

When on the richly-budding spray

The glorious beams of Genius play;

When the expanded leaves proclaim

The promised fruits of ripening Fame;

O Meditation, maid divine!

Proud Reason owns the work is thine.

Oft have I known thy magic power

Irradiate sorrow’s wintry hour;

Oft my full heart to thee hath flown,

And wept for miseries not its own;

When shrewd Hypocrisy has wound

In dulcet tones my soul around,

While Art, concealed in specious guise,

Pour’d Passion’s tear and Pity’s sighs;

When, cold Ingratitude was seen

Beneath Affection’s gentlest mien;

When, pinch’d with agonizing Pain,

My restless bosom dared complain;

Oft have I sunk upon thy breast,

And lull’d my weary mind to rest;

Till I have own’d the blest decree,

That gave my soul to peace and thee.

Ode

To Valour.

Transcendent valour!—godlike power!

Lord of the dauntless breast, and steadfast
mien!

Who robed in majesty sublime,

Sat in thy eagle wafted car,

And led the hardy sons of war,

With head erect, and eye serene,

Amidst the arrowy shower;

When, unsubdued, from clime to clime,

Young Ammon taught exulting Fame

O’er earth’s vast space to sound the glories of
thy name.

Illustrious Valour! from whose glance

Each recreant passion shrinks dismay’d;

To whom benignant Heaven consign’d

All that can elevate the mind;

’Tis thine, in radiant worth array’d,

To rear thy glittering helmet high,

And with intrepid front defy

Stern Fate’s uplifted arm and desolating lance.

F3v 46

When, from the chaos of primæval night,

This wondrous orb first sprung to light,

And, poized amid the sphery clime

By strong attraction’s power sublime,

Its whirling course began;

With sacred spells encompass’d round,

Each element observed its bound,

Earth’s solid base huge promontories bore;

Curb’d ocean roar’d, clasp’d by the rocky
shore;

And ’midst metallic fires translucent rivers ran.

All nature own’d th’ Omnipotent’s command!

Luxuriant blessings deck’d the vast domain;

He bade the budding branch expand,

And from the teeming ground call’d forth the
cherish’d grain;

Salubrious springs from flinty caverns drew;

Enamell’d verdure o’er the landscape threw;

He taught the scaly host to glide,

Sportive, amidst the limpid tide;

His breath sustain’d the eagle’s wing;

With vocal sounds bade hills and valleys
ring;

Then, with his Word supreme, awoke to
birth

The human form sublime—the sovereign lord of
earth!

Valour! thy pure and sacred flame

Diffused its radiance o’er his mind;

From thee he learnt the fiery steed to tame,

And with a flowery band the speckled pard to
bind;

Guarded by Heaven’s eternal shield,

He taught each living thing to yield;

Wondering yet undismay’d he stood

To mark the sun’s fierce fires decay;

Fearless he saw the tiger play,

While at his stedfast gaze the lion couch’d subdued.

When, fading in the grasp of death,

Illustrious Wolfe on earth’s cold bosom lay;

His anxious soldiers, thronging round,

Bathed with their tears each gushing wound;

As on his pallid lip the fleeting breath

In faint and broken accents stole away,

Loud shouts of triumph fill’d the skies,

To Heaven he raised his grateful eyes,

“’Tis Victory’s voice! the hero cried,

thank thee, bounteous Heaven!” then smiling
died!

When erst on Calpe’s rock stern Victory
stood,

Hurling swift vengeance o’er the bounding
flood,

Each winged bolt illumed a flame,

Iberia’s vaunting sons to tame,


While o’er the foaming troubled deep

The blasts of desolation flew,

Fierce lightnings, hovering round the frowning
steep,

’Midst the wild waves their fatal arrows
threw;

Loud roar’d the cannon’s voice with ceaseless
ire,

While the vast bulwark glow’d a pyramid of
fire!

Then, in each Briton’s gallant breast,

Benignant Virtue shone confess’d!

While Death spread wide his direful reign,

And shrieks of horror echoed o’er the main,

Eager they plunged their sinking foes to save

From the dread precincts of a whelming grave!

Then, Valour, was thy proudest hour!

Then didst thou, like a radiant god,

Check the stern rigours of th’ avenging rod,

And with soft Mercy’s hand subdue the scourge
of power.

Ode

To the Memory
of
My Lamented Father,

Who died in the service of the Empress of Russia,
1786-12-05December 5, 1786.

Oh! Sire revered! adored!

Was it the solemn tongue of Death,

That, whispering to my pensive ear,

Pronounced the fatal word

Which bathed my cheek with many a tear,

And stopp’d, awhile, my gasping breath?

“He toils no more!

Far on a foreign shore

His honour’d dust a laurel’d grave receives,

While his immortal soul in realms celestial
lives!”

Oh! my loved sire, farewell!

Though we are doom’d on earth to meet no
more,

Still Memory lives, and still I must deplore!

And long this throbbing heart shall mourn,

Though thou to these sad eyes wilt ne’er return!

Yet shall remembrance dwell

On all thy sorrows through life’s stormy sea,

When Fate’s resistless whirlwinds shed

Unnumber’d tempests round thy head,

The varying ills of human destiny!

Yet, with a soul sublimely brave,

Didst thou endure the dashing wave;

Still buffeting the billows rude,

By all the shafts of wo undaunted, unsubdued!

F4r 47

Through a long life of rugged care,

’Twas thine to steer a steady course!

’Twas thine Misfortune’s frowns to bear,

And stem the wayward torrent’s force!

And as thy persevering mind

The toilsome path of Fame pursued,

’Twas thine, amidst its flowers, to find

The wily snake—Ingratitude!

Yet vainly did th’ insidious reptile strive

On thee its poisons dire to fling;

Above its reach, thy laurel still shall thrive,

Unconscious of the treacherous sting!

’Twas thine to toil through lengthening years

Where lowering night absorbs the spheres!

Thy warmly enterprising mind

Nor fear, nor sordid hopes could bind;

For bold ambition warm’d thy breast,

And lured thee from inglorious rest,

O’er icy seas to bend thy way,

Where frozen Greenland rears its head,

Where dusky vapours shroud the day,

And wastes of flaky snow the stagnant ocean
spread!

’Twas thine, amidst the smoke of war,

To view, unmoved, grim-fronted Death;

Where Fate, enthroned in sulphur’d car,

Shrunk the pale legions with her scorching
breath!

While, all around her, bathed in blood,

Iberia’s The author’s father was the first man who landed
at the rock of Gibraltar, in 17831783, and had the honour
of receiving a congratulatory embrace from
General Elliot, afterwards Lord Heathfield.
haughty sons plunged lifeless ’midst
the flood!

Now, on the wings of Meditation borne,

Let fond Remembrance turn, and turn to
mourn:

Slowly and sad, her lengthening pinions sweep,

O’er the rough bosom of the boisterous deep,

To that disastrous, fatal coast,

Where, on the foaming billows tost,

Imperial Catharine’s navies rode;

And War’s inviting banners wide

Waved hostile o’er the glittering tide

That with exulting conquest glow’d!

For there, oh sorrow! check the tear!

There, round departed Valour’s bier,

The sacred drops of kindred Virtue Captain Darby commanded, at the time of his
death, a ship of war in the Russian service, and was
buried with military honours, universally lamented.
shone!

Proud monuments of worth! whose base

Fame on her starry hill shall place;

There to endure, admired, sublime!

E’en when the mouldering wing of Time

Shall scatter to the winds huge pyramids of
stone!


Oh, gallant soul, farewell!

Though doom’d this transient orb to leave,

Thy daughter’s heart, whose grief no words
can tell,

Shall, in its throbbing centre, bid thee live;

While from its crimson fount shall flow

The silent tear of lingering grief;

The gem sublime that scorns relief,

Nor vaunting shines with ostentations wo!

Though thou art vanish’d from these eyes,

Still from thy sacred dust shall rise

A wreath that mocks the polish’d thought,

The sculptured bust, the poet’s praise,

While Fame shall weeping guard the spot

Where Valour’s dauntless son decays!

Unseen to cherish Memory’s source divine,

Oh, parent of my life! shall still be mine!

And thou shalt, from thy blissful state,

Awhile avert thy raptured gaze,

To own, that, ’midst this wildering maze,

The flame of filial love survives the blast of
fate!

Ode

To Night.

Dread child of Erebus! whose power

Sheds horror o’er the darken’d world;

While ghosts, with winding-sheets unfurl’d,

Welcome the murky hour!

While Conscience, like a coward base,

Awakes to maddening fear;

When not a breathing thing is near

The records of the wounded mind to trace!

Of thee I sing, in sable sadness drest,

While happier mortals dream, and pain and sorrow
rest.

I hail thee now, while, o’er each glimmering
star,

Triumphant in thy viewless car,

Thou sail’st across th’ eternal dome,

Scattering around thee thick wove gloom.

The whirling orb its course pursues;

But oh! how mournfully obscure!

Where are its lustres, and its hues,

Its mountains, vales, and rivers pure?

Enveloped in the black obtrusive shade,

Oblivion grasps the scene, and all its beauties
fade.

Now, seated on thy ebon tower,

Lord of the solitary hour!

Thou spreadst thy raven pinions wide,

Creation’s vanquish’d charms to hide!

And when the meek moon’s crystal eye

Gleams on the sable forehead of the sky,

F4v 48

Thou bidd’st each envious passing cloud

Her beamy crescent faintly shroud,

That o’er the lurid space

Thy million eyes may trace

The den where haggard Guilt retires,

To hold fierce converse with the demons fell,

Link’d in thy fatal spell!

And while each twinkling star expires,

The wild winds shake the distant spheres,

And Nature hides her face, bedew’d with chilling
tears!

Soul-penetrating gloom!

Thou strict examiner of human thought!

When the bright taper’s brilliant ray,

Through the long painted hall, and marble dome,

Sheds artificial day;

Thou com’st with all thy horrors fraught,

To beckon forth the guilty soul,

And bend each stubborn nerve to thy supreme
control!

Oh Night! thou spectre bold!

Thou parent of heart-chilling fear!

Thou canst each hidden thought unfold;

For Conscience will be heard when thou art
near!

And when the cheerful day

And all its raptures fade away,

The tyrant shuns his blood-stain’d throne,

Deck’d in the tinsel pageantry of show,

And, on his regal couch, alone,

Resigns his breast to silent wo:

Ah! then, he traces back the hour,

When, by ambition led,

Devoted legions bled,

To lengthen a small span of transitory power!

Then fancy paints the poorest swain,

That, on the bleak and barren plain,

In his low cottage sinks to rest,

Celestial peace the partner of his breast;

Who, led by cheerful labour to repose,

Finds his rude pillow strew’d with many a
thornless rose.

Oh! horrid Night!

Thou prying monitor confest!

Whose key unlocks the human breast,

And bears each avenue to mental sight!

When from the festive bower

The frenzied homicide retreats,

And, in his bosom’s cell,

Essays each rising throb to quell;

Thy penetrating power

His sense with many a phantom greets;

He rushes forth in wild amaze!

While down his brow the big drop strays;

Then, from thy mist opaque,

Deep groans assail his startled ears,

His limbs convulsed with horror shake,


And the short feverish hour,

Such is thy dreadful power,

An age of agonizing wo appears;

For sleep the vengeful fiends deride,

Till the blest sun darts forth to bid thy reign
subside!

How glorious is the eastern sky!

The warm tints rushing o’er the blue serene,

O’er the tall mountain morn’s effulgent
eye

Diffuses wide the renovated scene!

The silvery dew-drops, scatter’d round,

Spangle the variegated ground;

Or dress the waving woods in glittering
pride,

Or down the silky leaves in bright succession
glide.

Then the sultry noon appears,

Absorbing Nature’s lingering tears;

While o’er the thyme-clad heath,

Faint with its scorching breath,

The flocks and herds to covert move;

The sun-burnt hind suspends his toil,

And, plodding o’er the thirsty soil,

Seeks the green sod and cool embowering
grove;

The murmuring river lulls his mind to rest,

While the soft southern breeze steals lightly
o’er his breast!

Now, pensive hour,

Calm-bosom’d Evening, thee I hail!

While o’er the perfumed bower

Thy balmy breathings gently sail;

Meek handmaid of sublime repose,

From whose calm eye the soft tear flows!

As o’er the landscape’s glowing breast

Thou fling’st thy purple vest;

While in the western spheres

Day’s streamy radiance slowly fades,

Till, wrapp’d in dusky shades,

The pale horizon scarce appears;

And as the melodies of Nature fail,

The sullen beetle, humming near,

Obtrudes upon thy pensive ear,

That listens to the mournful nightingale,

The tangled dells and sparry rocks among,

Where, to the rising moon, she pours her lovelorn
song!

Then, dark-brow’d Night, thou com’st again,

With all thy melancholy train;

While bats expand their leathern wings,

And owls forsake their ivy’d home,

O’er the blank solitude to roam;

And the small cricket sings,

Near the dim embers of the cottage fire,

To warm the village maid with omens sad
and dire!

G1r 49

Yet art thou not to my rapt breast

A dread, unwelcome, startling guest;

For when I quit the trifling throng,

To me, O solitary Night!

Thou bring’st the soothing calm delight,

Which charms my pensive heart and wakes the
Muse’s song!

Ode

To Hope.

Fly, dark Despondency! away!

Parent of Frenzy and Despair!

Go, seek the lurid haunts of Care,

Nor here thy haggard form display!

I hate thy ever scowling eye;

Thy icy hand; thy rending sigh;

Thy slow congealing, sullen tear;

Thy listless pace; thy wither’d breast,

That owns no distant gleam of rest.

No promised tranquil hour, thy soul’s deep
night to cheer!

But come, fair Hope, heart-soothing maid!

Come, with thy beaming eye the gloom pervade.

Smiling harbinger of pleasure!

Here unfold thy promised treasure!

At thy approach the weedy bower

Blooms with many an opening flower;

The skies with brighter azure glow;

The streams in clearer windings flow;

The birds new melodies essay;

Luxuriant foliage bends the spray;

While all the glories of earth, sea, and sky,

Proclaim, celestial Hope, that thou art nigh!

Now on my couch, where o’er my mind

Dull-eyed Despondency reclined,

Fair blossoms shoot; rich fragrance teems,

To prompt young Fancy’s rapturous dreams;

While at my feet Lethean waters glide;

Eternal Silence, priestess of the tide!

Where Feeling, meek and trembling guest,

Bathes in the magic stream her wounded breast,

Care’s deadly venom to destroy,

Till, every pang forgot, she hails approaching
Joy.

Now banish’d from Elysian vales and groves,

Despondency with moody Madness roves!

Or sits upon the craggy mountain steep,

Whose dizzy edge hangs shadowing o’er the
deep:

The lightning’s glare displays her form;

And while the deafening whirlwinds blow,

She views, unmoved, the rising storm,

That shatters the devoted bark below!


The sea-birds scream; the billows rise;

The loud-toned thunder rends the skies;

The warring elements conspire

To taunt her breast with furious ire.

She seems their direst rage to brave,

Till rising from the yawning wave,

Despair appears, the spirit of the deep!

The whelming surge her flaming pinions
sweep;

The howling winds with louder clamours roar;

The angry billows lash the rocky shore;

While livid lightnings, flashing death around,

Quench their blue arrows in the gulph profound!

Hark! how the flinty fabric shakes!

While pale Despondency awakes!

And, rising from her hanging seat,

Darts forth Despair to meet.

The withering victim seems to glide

Along the cliff’s tremendous side;

Now, by her dark associate borne,

Awhile she seems to weep and mourn;

Then, lock’d within her cold embrace,

Sinks ’midst the horrors of unfathomed
space.

Now, the dreary tempest o’er,

Maddening horror reigns no more;

On the eastern summit bright,

Day unbars the gates of light

And rushing forward, robed in crimson fire,

Bids sombre night with all her train retire.

The severing clouds dissolving fly;

The soft breeze fans the glittering main;

The lucid rill runs babbling o’er the plain,

Its crystal breast reflects the glowing sky!

Hope comes in heavenly colours drest;

Her golden pinions cool my breast;

Her eye with sparkling lustre shines;

Her hand a beauteous chaplet twines;

And marking Fame’s fair temple in the skies,

Bids for my grateful brow a budding laurel
rise!

Ode

To Humanity.

Written during the Massacres at Paris, in 1792-09September,
1792
.

Offspring of Heaven! from whose bland throne

Thou bend’st with salutary wing,

Bearing the olive branch divine,

To grace Britannia’s lucid zone;

G G1v 50

Where in calm majestic pride

Her conquering navies proudly ride;

While art and commerce smiling join,

And to the favouring skies exulting Pæans
ring.

Oh, bend thy flight from pole to pole;

With balmy pinions swiftly sweep

O’er the dark and foaming deep,

Where the warring billows roll;

Where, in shadowy vestments clad,

Ghastly visions, pale and sad,

Rising from their prison-wave,

Seem their destiny to brave;

Destiny severe and dire,

That spurn’d each tender hope away,

Each social gleam of mortal day,

And gave their dauntless souls to war’s insatiate
ire!

Now their dismal chorus sounds

Ev’n to earth’s remotest bounds!

“Beware!” it says; “mankind, beware!

Sheath the sword of death, nor wage

War with Heaven’s impending rage;

Nor rouse the furious fiend Despair!

Already see, by fate unfurl’d,

His poison’d banner shades the world;

All around him sad appears,

Stain’d with gore or drench’d in tears;

Where’er the monster bends his eye,

Beneath the fatal glance devoted millions die.”

O blest Humanity! ’tis thine

To shed consoling balm divine

Wide o’er the groaning race beneath;

And when fell Slaughter lifts her wreath,

Let the laurel bough appear,

Gemm’d with Pity’s holy tear;

Let it moisten every bud,

Glowing, hot with human blood!

And when no crimson tint remains,

When no foul blush its lustre stains,

Bathe with oblivious balm the dread record,

Graved on the page of fame by Gallia’s vengeful
sword!

Mark, oh! mark the tented plains

Where exulting Discord reigns;

Flush’d with rage, her panting breast,

Her eye with ruthless lightnings stored,

She lifts her never-failing sword,

With wreaths of withering laurel drest.

By her side, in proud array,

Ambition stalks, with restless soul;

Maddening Vengeance leads the way;

Her giant crest disdains control;

Triumphantly she waves her iron hand,

While her red pinions sweep the desolated
land!


See, beneath her murderous wing,

Howling famine seems to cling!

Feeding on the putrid breeze,

Her wither’d heart begins to freeze!

With sullen eye she scowls around,

O’er the barren hostile ground;

Where once the golden harvest waved;

Where the clustering vineyard rose,

By many a lucid streamlet laved;

Now the purple torrent flows!

She marks the direful change with curses deep,

While, o’er the scene forlorn, distracted legions
weep!

Where the towering city stands,

Once a polish’d nation’s pride,

See stern Death, with rapid stride,

Leads on his grisly bands!

The infant’s shriek, the sire’s despair,

Rend the sulphur-stagnant air!

Nought illumes the thickening shade,

Save the poniard’s glittering blade;

All along the flinty way,

Streams of blood are seen to stray,

Foaming, blushing, as they flow,

While every dome resounds with agonizing wo!

Haste, Humanity! prepare

Chains to quell the fiend Despair;

Round pale Vengeance swiftly twine;

Discord bind in spells divine!

Now where Famine droops her head,

Reason’s balmy banquet spread;

And where the blood-stained laurel dies,

Oh! let the olive bloom, the favourite of the
skies!

Ode

To the Harp of Louisa. Miss Hanway, daughter of Mrs. Hanway, Author
of Andrew Stuart, Ellenor, &c. &c. and niece
to the immortal Philanthropist of that name.

If aught could soothe to peace the wounded
breast,

Or round its throbbing pulses twine;

If aught could charm despair to rest,

Sweet harp, the wondrous power was thine!

For, oh, in many a varying strain,

Thy magic lull’d the direst pain,

While from each thought to human ills allied,

’Twas thine to steal the soul, and bid its fears
subside!

G2r 51

O source of joy, for ever flown!

While yet the tear bedews my cheek,

Let the fond Muse thy graces speak,

Thy thrilling chords, thy silver tone,

That, as the western breezes sweep,

Soft murmuring o’er the troubled deep,

Could calm Affliction’s tempest rude,

Till every thought was bliss, and every pang
subdued.

Now let the Muse a wreath prepare,

A mournful wreath, alas! to bind

Thy strings forlorn;

The primrose pale, the lily fair.

But where shall I a blossom find

Like her I mourn?

Where seek a rose with native colours
dress’d?

Ah! beauteous flower!

No more thy charms confess’d

Shall with their sweetness decorate my
bower!

For vain, soft emblem, is thy glowing pride,

Since on Louisa’s cheek the blush of Beauty
died.

Sweet sainted shade! For ever flown,

To worlds unknown,

Oh! let me decorate thy bier

With many a spotless flower!

The cypress bathed with Pity’s tear,

Shall consecrated incense shower!

There shall the budding laurel bloom,

The myrtle too shall grace thy tomb;

For Genius own’d thy attributes divine

And Beauty, short-lived boast, sweet maid, was
thine!

But who shall of thy gentle manners speak!

The graced complacency that deck’d thy
mind!

The fine affections, tender, warm, yet meek,

Luxuriant taste, with modesty combined!

Oh! she was passing good, and passing fair!

Blest with a soul so exquisitely even;

A gem so polish’d, so supremely rare,

So free from folly, and so form’d for Heaven!

Too pure, too excellent for mortal eyes,

She like a vision shone, then vanish’d to the
skies!

Dear blushing rose!

Lost object of our tender woes!

Three lingering days, The subject of this poem expired after three
days’ illness, in the zenith of beauty and mental acquirements.
thy leaves to shed,

The fateful blast howl’d o’er thy drooping
head;


For Time, reluctant to destroy

So rich a source of treasured joy,

Fann’d with his wing the tyrant’s breath!

But, ah! how chilling is the frost of Death!

Too weak the conflict to endure,

Time saw thee, lovely, sweet and pure,

In all thy wondrous charms array’d,

Shrink from the withering storm, and meekly
fade!

In Nature’s variegated bower

How many poisonous weeds appear,

Shedding their desolating power,

On every gentle blossom near;

But, oh! how rarely do we find,

Amidst the gay diversity of sweets,

Where every charm the fancy greets,

Such faultless attributes combined!

Sure, Nature form’d thee, matchless maid, to
show

How far her power, her wondrous power would
go!

When o’er the world black midnight steals,

And every eye in temporary death

Exhausted Nature kindly seals;

When on the confines of the grave no breath

Assails cold Meditation’s ear,

Friendship shall clasp thy urn, and drop a silent
tear!

There Resignation, pensive, sad,

Shall plant around the buds of spring;

And Innocence, in snowy vestment clad,

The dews of heaven shall scatter from her
wing!

And there shall weeping virgins throng,

And there Religion’s holy song

In soft vibrations round the shrine shall die,

To emulate on earth the minstrels of the
sky!

Oft when the rosy beams of day

Shall on the eastern summit glow,

I’ll listen to the lark’s shrill lay;

And as the mellow warblings flow,

O harp forlorn! I’ll think of thee, and own

How poor the matin song, how weak the mimic
tone!

Oft, in slow and mournful measure,

Melting wo thy chords express’d;

Oft to blithe ecstatic pleasure

Thrilling strains awoke the breast;

If thy gentle mistress smiled,

How thy glittering strings would glow!

While, in transports brightly wild,

Mingling melodies would flow!

Then, swifter than the wings of thought,

The song, with heavenly pity fraught,

Would die away in magic tone,

Sweet as the ring-dove’s plaintive moan;

G2v 52

Soft as the breeze at closing day,

That sighs to quit the parting ray;

Or, on ethereal pinions borne,

Upon the perfumed breath of morn,

Sails o’er the mountain’s golden crest,

To fan Aurora’s burning breast!

Yet, envy’d harp! no praise was thine;

’Twas by Louisa’s power alone

Thy meek, melodious, melting tone

Could round the captive senses twine!

’Twas hers rebellious passions to control,

While every chord bespoke the peerless minstrel’s
soul!

Yet was the fame that crown’d thy worth

The wonder of a transient day;

Nor could it snatch from cold decay

The beauteous hand that gave it birth;

For excellence like hers was lent, not given,

To show mortality a glimpse of heaven!

Sweet blooming flower!

Scarce seen ere lost,

Nipped by a cruel frost!

Oh! what an age of promised joy,

Relentless death, didst thou destroy

In one short hour!

But who shall dare repine?

Who blame Omnipotence divine?

The pure ethereal soul

Sprang from its prison-clay, impatient of control;

For this polluted orb too fine,

It plunged the gulph of fate in happier realms
to shine!

For in this sad and stormy world,

Perchance, by many a tempest hurl’d,

The gentle spirit had endured

Ills that only death had cured;

Or lived no ray of bliss to see,

A mine of treasure in a troubled sea!

Yet Memory, watchful of her fame,

Shall guard it with a sacred zeal;

And oft in mournful numbers claim

The pang she knew so well to feel!

For sorrow ne’er assail’d her ear

Unanswer’d by a pitying tear;

Her bosom glow’d with virtue’s conscious flame;

And where she could not praise, she scorn’d to
blame.

Oft by the cunning of her skilful hand

Attention hung enamour’d o’er her strain;

For well she could the soul command,

And cheat long-cherish’d Misery of its
pain,

Till, by her soothing harmony beguiled,

Pale Melancholy raised her languid eye, and
smiled!


Lull’d by the slow and dulcet sound,

E’en Madness could forget to weep,

And, bound in galling chains, serenely sleep

On the bare ground!

From thy celestial tone would Anger fly;

While Envy, sickening with despair,

Though born the keenest pangs to bear,

Would with her shaggy locks o’ershade her
scowling eye!

To tame the savage bosom well she knew!

What cannot magic Melody subdue?

Yet was the maid unconscious of her sway;

While, far from public scenes removed,

The calm and studious hour she loved,

And through the path of life pursued her thornless
way;

Or when adorn’d with all the pride of praise,

She bloom’d a blushing rose, amidst a wreath of
bays!

Oh Harp revered! if round each silent string

The deathless wreath of Fame should fondly
twine,

’Tis not for thee th’ admiring muse shall sing,

But for the tuneful maid who woke thy
sounds divine!

Then rest, in torpid silence rest;

Mute be thy chords, and mute the muse’s
song;

Louisa joins a heavenly throng,

And chants the pæans of the blest!

There, far removed from human wo,

Amidst the sainted choir her strains immortal
flow!

To
The Muse of Poetry. This address to the Muse of Poetry was called
forth by an illiberal and unjust attack of a rival poetess!
“But, ah! beware how thou shalt fling Thy hot pulse o’er the quivering string, How thou another’s name shall raise How gild another with thy praise!” Armida to Rinaldo.
Oracle, 1791-01-05Jan. 5th, 1791.

Exult, my Muse! exult to see

Each envious, waspish, jealous thing

Around its harmless venom fling,

And dart its powerless fangs at thee!

G3r 53

Ne’er shalt thou bend thy radiant wing

To sweep the dark revengeful string;

Or meanly stoop to steal a ray,

E’en from Rinaldo’s glorious lay,

Though his transcendent verse should twine

About thy heart each bliss divine.

O muse adored! I woo thee now

From yon bright heaven to hear my vow;

From thy blest wing a plume I’ll steal,

And with its burning point record

Each firm indissoluble word,

And with thy lips the proud oath seal!

I swear!—O ye whose soul like mine

Beams with poetic rays divine,

Attend my voice;—whate’er my fate

In this precarious wildering state,

Whether the fiends, with rancorous ire,

Strike at my heart’s unsullied fire,

While busy Envy’s recreant guile

Calls from my cheek the pitying smile;

Or jealous Slander, mean and vain,

Essays my mind’s best boast to stain;

Should all combine to check my lays,

And tear me from thy fostering gaze,

Ne’er will I quit thy burning eye,

Till my last, eager, gasping sigh

Shall, from its earthly mansion flown,

Embrace thee on thy starry throne.

Sweet soother of the pensive breast!

Come, in thy softest splendours dress’d;

Bring with thee Reason, chastely mild,

And classic Taste—her loveliest child;

And radiant Fancy’s offspring bright;

Then bid them all their charms unite,

My mind’s wild rapture to inspire

With thy own sacred, genuine fire.

I ask no fierce terrific strain,

That rends the breast with torturing pain;

No frantic flight, no labour’d art,

To wring the fibres of the heart!

No frenzied guide, that maddening flies

O’er cloud-wrapp’d hills—through burning
skies;

That sails upon the midnight blast,

Or, on the howling wild wave cast,

Plucks from their dark and rocky bed

The yelling demons of the deep,

Who, soaring o’er the comet’s head,

The bosom of the welkin sweep!

Ne’er shall my hand, at night’s full noon,

Snatch from the tresses of the moon

A sparkling crown of silvery hue,

Besprent with studs of frozen dew,

To deck my brow with borrow’d rays,

That feebly imitate the sun’s rich blaze.

Ah lead me not, dear gentle maid,

To poison’d bower or haunted glade;


Where beckoning spectres shrieking glare

Along the black infected air;

While bold “fantastic thunders” leap,

Indignant, ’midst the clamorous deep,

As envious of its louder tone,

While lightnings shoot, and mountains groan

With close pent fires, that from their base

Hurl them amidst the whelming space;

Where ocean’s yawning throat resounds,

And, gorged with draughts of foamy ire,

Madly o’erleaps its crystal bounds,

And soars to quench the sun’s proud fire.

While Nature’s self shall start aghast,

Amid the desolating blast,

That grasps the sturdy oak’s firm breast,

And, tearing off its shatter’d vest,

Presents its gnarled bosom, bare,

To the hot lightning’s withering glare!

Transcendent Muse! assert thy right;

Chase from thy pure Parnassian height

Each bold usurper of thy lyre,

Each phantom of phosphoric fire,

That dares, with wild fantastic flight

The timid child of Genius fright;

That dares with pilfer’d glories shine

Along the dazzling frenzied line,

Where tinsel splendours cheat the mind,

While Reason, trembling far behind,

Drops from her blushing front thy bays,

And scorns to share the wreath of praise.

But when divine Rinaldo flings

Soft rapture o’er the bounding strings;

When the bright flame that fills his soul

Bursts through the flame of calm control,

And on enthusiastic wings

To heaven’s eternal mansion springs,

Or, darting through the yielding skies,

O’er earth’s disastrous valley flies;

Forbear his glorious flight to bind;

Yet o’er his true poetic mind

Expand thy chaste celestial ray,

Nor let fantastic fires diffuse

Deluding lustre round his muse,

To lead her glorious steps astray!

Ah! let his matchless harp prolong

The thrilling tone, the classic song;

Still bind his brow with deathless bays,

Still grant his verse—a nation’s praise.

But if, by false persuasion led,

His varying fancy e’er should tread

The paths of vitiated taste,

Where folly spreads a “weedy waste;”

Oh! may he feel no more the genuine fire

That warms his tuneful soul and prompts thy
sacred lyre.

G3v 54

To
The Blue Bell.

Blue Bell! how gayly art thou drest,

How neat and trim art thou, sweet flower;

How silky is thy azure vest,

How fresh, to flaunt at morning’s hour!

Couldst thou but think, I well might say

Thou art as proud in rich array

As lady blithesome, young and vain,

Prank’d up with folly and disdain,

Vaunting her power,

Sweet flower!

Blue Bell! O couldst thou but behold

Beside thee where a rival reigns,

All deck’d in robe of glossy gold,

With speckled crown of ruby stains!

Couldst thou but see this cowslip gay,

Thou wouldst with envy faint, and say,

Hence from my sight, plebeian vain,

Nor hope, on this my green domain,

For equal power

Bold flower!

Poor rivals! could ye but look round,

On yonder hillock you would see

The nettle, with its stings to wound,

The hemlock, fraught with destiny.

On them the sun its morning beam

Pours in as rich, as proud a stream

As on the fairest rose that rears

Its blushing brow ’midst nature’s tears,

Chilling its power,

Faint flower.

Then why dispute this wide domain,

Since nature knows no partial care,

The nipping blast, the pelting rain,

Both will with equal ruin share.

Then what is vain distinction, say,

But the short blaze of summer’s day?

And what is pomp or beauty’s boast?

An empty shadow, seen and lost!

Such is thy power—

Vain flower!

Neglect.

Ah! cold Neglect! more chilling far

Than Zembla’s blast or Scythia’s snow;

Sure born beneath a luckless star

Is he who, after every pain

Has wrung his bosom’s tenderest vein,

To fill his bitter cup of wo,

Is destined thee to know.


The smiles of fame, the pride of truth,

All that can lift the glowing mind,

The noblest energies of youth,

Wit, valour, genius, science, taste!

A form by all that’s lovely graced,

A soul where virtue dwells enshrined,

A prey to thee we find!

The spring of life looks fresh and gay,

The flowers of fancy bud around,

We think that every morn is May;

While hope and rapture fill the breast,

We hold reflection’s loss a jest,

Nor own that sorrow’s shaft can wound,

Till cold Neglect is found.

Ah! then, how sad the world appears,

How false, how idle are the gay!

Morn only breaks to witness tears,

And evening closes but to show

That darkness mimics human wo,

And life’s best dream a summer day

That shines and fades away.

Some dread disease and others’ wo;

Some visionary torments see;

Some shrink unpitied love to know;

Some writhe beneath oppression’s fangs,

And some with jealous hopeless pangs;

But whatsoe’er my fate may be,

O, keep Neglect from me!

E’en after death let Memory’s hand,

Directed by the moonlight ray,

Weave o’er my grave a cypress band,

And bind the sod with curious care,

And scatter flowerets fresh and fair,

And oft the sacred tribute pay,

To keep Neglect away!

Ode

To My Beloved Daughter,

On her Birth-Day, 1794-10-18October 18, 1794.

’Tis not an April-day,

Nor rosy summer’s burning hour,

Nor evening’s sinking ray,

That gilds rich autumn’s yellow bower,

Alone that fades away!

Life is a variegated, tedious span,

A sad and toilsome road, the weary traveller,
man!

’Tis not the base alone

That wander through a desert drear,

Where Sorrow’s plaintive tone

Calls Echo from her cell to hear

The soul-subduing moan;

G4r 55

In haunts where Virtue lives retired we see

The agonizing wounds of hopeless misery!

’Tis not in titles vain,

Or yet in costly trappings rare,

Or courts where monarchs reign,

Or sceptre, crown, or regal chair,

To quell the throb of pain;

The balmy hour of rest alone, we find,

Springs from that sacred source, integrity of
mind!

Power cannot give us health,

Or lengthen out our breathing day!

Nor all the stores of wealth

The sting of conscience chase away!

Time seals each charm by stealth,

And, spite of all that Wisdom can devise,

Still to the vale of Death our dreary pathway
lies!

Mark how the seasons go!

Spring passes by in liveliest green,

Then Summer’s trappings glow,

Then Autumn’s tawny vest is seen,

Then Winter’s locks of snow!

With true philosophy each change explore,

Read Nature’s page divine! and mock the pedant’s
lore.

Life’s race prepared to run,

We wake to youth’s exulting glee;

Alas! how soon ’tis done!

We fall, like blossoms from the tree,

Yet ripe, by Reason’s sun;

The cherish’d fruit in Winter’s gloom shall be

An earnest bright and fair—of immortality!

Sweet comfort of my days!

While yet in youth’s ecstatic prime,

Illumed by Virtue’s rays,

Thy hand shall snatch from passing Time

A wreath that ne’er decays!

That when cold age shall shrink from worldly
cares,

A crown of conscious peace may deck thy silver
hairs!

We are but busy ants,

We toil through Summer’s vivid glow

To hoard for Winter’s wants;

Our brightest prospects fraught with wo,

And thorny all our haunts!

Then let it be the child of Wisdom’s plan,

To make his little hour as cheerful as he can!

The Being we adore

Bids all the face of Nature smile!

The wisest can no more

Than view it, and revere the while.

Then let us not explore


Things hidden in the mysteries of Fate;

Man should rely on Heaven, nor murmur at his
state.

Thou art more dear to me

Than sight, or sense, or vital air!

For every day I see

Presents thee with a mind more fair.

Rich pearl, in life’s rude sea!

Oh! may thy mental graces still impart

The balm that soothes to rest a Mother’s trembling
heart!

Still may revolving years

Expand the virtues of thy mind;

And may Affliction’s tears

Thy peaceful pillow never find;

Nor fruitless hopes—nor fears:

May no keen pangs thy halcyon bower invade,

But every thought be bliss, till thy last hour shall
fade.

Ode

To Winter.

Hail! tyrant of the gloomy season, hail!

I greet thine hoary brow and visage pale:

I greet thy grey and solemn eye,

Thy bosom deathly cold,

Thy breath, that breathes to petrify,

Thy snowy crest, which thickening clouds enfold.

Parent of Desolation—numbing power!

Nature first heard thee in the stormy hour;

And on the bleak hill’s shaggy side,

Beheld thee on the howling whirlwind
ride:

While, withering in the wild blast keen,

Her beauteous progeny were seen,

Woods, meadows, flowerets gay, and velvet hillocks
green.

She heard thy voice, both loud and deep,

The loftiest mountains sweep,

Echoing their cavern’d haunts among,

With cadence fiercely strong.

She mark’d thy sable robe, wide spread

Upon the tall cliff’s barren head:

Blank solitudes of dazzling snow

Display thy drear domain;

And, in the peopled hamlets of the plain,

Intolerable despot! shivering Wo

And pale-eyed Famine mark’d thy power,

Lord of the freezing hour!

G4v 56

Rivers, whose clamour spread around,

’Mid summer’s glow, a pleasing sound;

Moaning, or rippling slow along,

Embroider’d banks among—

Woods, that, nodding o’er the steep,

The misty summits crown,

And, while the evening breezes sleep,

Wave to the setting sun their branches brown—

The shallow brooks, that, when soft May

Show’d her flush’d bosom, flow’d so fast,

Now mute in icy fetters stay,

And motionless endure the blast—

All, to thy fierce and desolating sway,

Yield, scowling despot of the short-lived day!

Within the cottage, low and mean,

Pale Poverty’s chill’d group is seen;

Though not far off, across the plain,

The senseless and luxurious train

Of Pomp and Folly revel, gay,

The festive hours away!

The plenteous board, the blazing fire,

The jest and vacant smile;

The cheering cup, the warm attire,

The freezing nights beguile.

Unheard by pleasure’s train, the north wind
blows,

They sink on beds of down, to sweet and long
repose.

O petrifying power!

They little heed the darkest hour;

For, while with Fortune’s favours blest,

With days of luxury and nights of rest,

Pride scarce remembers misery’s shrinking
kind,

Who freeze beneath the cutting wind;

Who on the snowy desert stray,

Or plough the wild and watery way;

Who, doom’d no dawning hour of hope to see,

Linger through lengthening days, or, tyrant,
yield to thee!

Horatian Ode.

Say, when the captive bosom feels

A magic spell around it wove,

While o’er the cheek the soft blush steals,

Say, is it love?

With pensive mien and devious pace,

To seek the dark embowering grove;

The pale moon’s quivering beams to trace;

Say, is it love?

When, chain’d to one dear lonely spot,

The bosom feels no wish to rove,

All other scenes of bliss forgot;

Say, is it love?


To tremble, while o’er Fancy’s eye

A thousand dreadful visions move;

To hope, to hear, to weep, to sigh;

Say, is it love?

To seek occasions, false and weak,

The darling object to reprove;

To look, what language fails to speak!

Say, is it love?

To chide for every trivial crime;

To bid him from your rage remove;

To guide with hope the wings of time;

Say, is it love?

To know no cheerful morn of rest;

No balmy hour of sleep to prove;

To hold philosophy a jest!

Say, is it love?

To cherish grief, nor dare complain;

To envy sainted souls above;

While jealous anguish rends the brain;

Say, is it love?

Long have I, doom’d, alas! to grieve,

Against the fell enchantment strove;

Then, Fate, ah! let me “cease to live,

Or cease to love!”

Ode

For the 1794-01-1818th of January, 1794.

The Muse who pours the votive strain,

Weeps o’er each tributary line,

And grieves to know that conscious pain,

Perverts her glorious great design.

Alas! in vain of joys she sings,

While Pity shackles Rapture’s wings,

And meek Dejection’s trickling tear

Responsive flows to sighs sincere;

While Meditation, fraught with rending woes,

To every feeling mind a scene of misery shows.

Bleak blows the petrifying gale

Upon the peasant’s rushy roof!

His breast a thousand pangs assail,

As though his heart were tempest-proof!

His shivering infants round him mourn,

And cry “Ah! when will spring return?

Do all, like us, distress endure!

So cold, so hungry, and so poor?”

Yet when their day is past stern fate bestows

The balmy hour of rest, which greatness seldom
knows.

H1r 57

No more, Reflection, sorrowing maid,

O’er Reason cast thy awful veil;

Where Mirth, in careless garb array’d,

And smiles, and thoughtless jests prevail.

For shouldst thou trace, with pensive mien,

The fatal agonizing scene

Where legions wade through human gore,

And death shoots swift from shore to shore!

The splendid glare of revelry would fade,

And all its phantoms sink in sorrow’s whelming
shade.

For Fancy might, perchance, descry

The wo which Pleasure’s tribe ne’er saw,

The bleeding breast, the phrenzied eye,

That chill the soul with fearful awe.

Fancy might paint the embattled plain,

The shrieking wife, the breathless swain,

The blazing cot, the houseless child,

Driven on Misfortune’s rugged wild!

And Truth might whisper to the pondering
mind,

“Such is the chequered lot of half the human
kind!”

Ye threatening storms malignant, fly!

Cloud not this fair, this festive day;

Burst forth to splendour, lowering sky,

And flash around a vivid ray.

Swiftly come, whispering zephyrs, chase

The tears that bathe Reflection’s face!

Bid mournful Memory cease to gaze

On livelier scenes of peaceful days,

When every morning breeze, that found our
isle,

Awoke her hardy sons to labour and to smile.

Now let the gaudy tribe advance,

Let only present joys be known,

And let blithe beauty’s lightning-glance

Dart lustre round Britannia’s throne.

Yet, if amidst the dazzling sight

A sparkling tear of liquid light,

Drawn by a sigh from pity’s breast,

Should fall, to gem the regal crest,

Oh! may it shine with Heaven’s approving
blaze,

An attribute divine, to mock inferior rays!

Come, soft-eyed Hope! in spotless vest,

Come, and our brows with olive deck!

Bathe with thy balm the human breast,

And rear new charms on Nature’s wreck;

Bid drooping Commerce thrive again;

Spread rapture o’er the rustic plain;

Wash with the spring from Mercy’s eye

The blood that bids the laurel die!

And spread once more around this favoured
isle

The fostering rays of Peace, and bid fair Freedom
smile!


To Peace:

From the Shrine of Bertha,
a Novel,

by Miss Robinson.

O Peace! thou nymph of modest mien!

Where, where, dost thou delight to stray?

Dost thou o’er mountains bend thy way,

When evening spreads its shade serene?

Or dost thou fly from scorching light,

To seek the tufted vale?

Or, ’midst the solemn noon of night,

List to the love-lorn minstrel’s tale?

Or in the hermit’s solitary cell,

In simple vestment clad, with holy Silence
dwell?

Fair, first-born, placid child of Jove!

An humble suppliant deign to hear;

If, from thy starry-spangled sphere,

Thou stoop’st o’er mortal scenes to rove;

If ever to the lonely shed

Of Agony and Grief

Thy slow and timid footsteps tread,

To bring the balm of sure relief;

Oh! quickly come, and through each aching
vein

Thy sainted balsam pour, to lull my feverish
brain.

The vain, the busy world I scorn;

I seek no gaudy scenes of guile,

Where Falsehood courts with murderous
smile,

And Pleasure mocks the wretch forlorn:

To unillumined caves I’ll fly,

Or climb the mountain’s crest;

And, hid from every curious eye,

Steal softly to thy halcyon breast;

Where soothing visions round my form shall
move,

And one long tranquil dream my weary senses
prove!

Already from my throbbing heart

The killing shaft of Anguish flies;

Hope sparkles in my grateful eyes,

And Reason blunts Affliction’s dart!

About my waist no myrtle weaves;

No rose adorns my brow;

Nor yet the poppy’s numbing leaves;

Nor yet the laurel’s pompous bough;

Then, Peace! thy healing olive let me own,

And let me steal through life—unenvied and
unknown.

WWP note: Contains an Ode To Peace from the novel Shrine of Bertha by Miss Robinson, the author’s daughter.
H H1v 58

Ode

In Imitation of Pope.

How blest is he who, born to tread

The silent paths of sweet repose,

Finds peace beneath the rural shed,

Which pomp—ne’er knows.

Who roves with independent mind,

O’er hills, and meads, and flowery plains,

That feast on Nature’s lap to find

Which pride—disdains!

How blest to sing, and talk, and smile,

The busy envious world forgot,

To fear no lurking stings of guile,

In his low cot.

When high the matin lark is seen,

With fluttering wings and shrilly song,

He saunters o’er the dewy green,

Fearless of wrong.

And when the sultry sun flames high,

He seeks the silent shade or dell,

No fierce banditti lurking nigh,

With murderous spell.

As evening’s crimson shadows fade,

And twilight spreads its mantle grey,

He plods along the upland glade,

Serenely gay!

Then on some pallet clean and low,

He sleeps, nor dreams of ills the while,

And when the eastern mountains glow,

He wakes—to smile.

He shuns the pride of wealth and birth—

No vassal’s lord—no tyrant’s slave!

His hut, the haunt of modest worth,

The turf—his grave.

To Apathy.

Welcome, thou petrifying power!

Come, fix on me thy vacant eye,

Which never on thy frozen breast

(Insensate throne of torpid rest)

Dropp’d the soft tear of sympathy,

In pity’s graceful shower.—

Whose heart ne’er throbb’d with pleasure or with
pain,

Melted with fond regret, or glow’d with proud
disdain.


Dull maid! to thee my willing vows I pay,

Thou whom nor fortune nor caprice can
change;

With thee I’ll waste the undelighted day,

With thee, unmindful of all nature, range:

The sun-deck’d mountain or the murmuring
main,

The bleak hill’s summit, winter’s frozen
plain,

Appear alike, O Apathy! to thee:

Then welcome, numbing power! my idol thou
shalt be.

Thy poppy wreath shall bind my brows,

Dead’ning the sense of pain;

And while to thee I pay my vows,

A chilling tide shall steal through every
vein,

Pervade my heart, and every care beguile,

While my wan cheek shall bear thy ever vapid
smile.

Amidst the vast expanse of scene

Which Memory traces, still my mind

Shall rest, O Apathy! serene,

Patient, content, resign’d!

When Fancy paints the past repose,

Which taught my weary eyes

On Luxury’s smooth couch to close,

And bade me with the cheerful morn to
rise,

No tear shall steal my soft regret to show,

No sigh shall swell my breast, for every wo

Shall find its balm—dear Apathy, in thee!

Thou best and potent cure for human misery!

Happy are those who, taught by thee,

Behold with tranquil mind

The changes of their destiny,

The sombre and the rosy hours,

And still with opiate flowers

Their icy bosoms bind!

To them the wreath of friendship torn

Presents no agonizing thorn;

Ingratitude its fangs in vain

Upon my heart may bear,

For dead to every touch of pain,

Thine adamantine shield is there!

Sustain’d by thee, the breast of stone

Bounds not with sympathetic grace,

Nor stoops the weedy path to trace,

Where Misery’s children groan!

Pale Sickness lifts the languid eye,

To see thee pass unpitying by,

While Poverty’s gaunt sons, in silent pride,

Steal to some lonely spot obscure,

And, nobly organized, deride

Those ills which patient virtue cannot
cure.

H2r 59

When love his tyrant power would prove,

Thou, vapid dreamer, still to thee

My darksome pilgrimage shall be,

Through forest drear and unfrequented grove;

Heedless, my footsteps still shall go

O’er flowery meads or wilds of snow;

The burning beams of noon shall fall

On my scorch’d breast—unheeded all;

The cold moon, gleaming mild and pale,

Shall o’er the woody mountains sail,

Or quiver on the swelling sea,

Unmark’d by me!

For I, by Apathy possess’d,

Shall taste one dream of solitary rest,

One dark unvaried dream of solitary rest,

One dark unvaried dream—till fate

Shall from this busy wildering state

My spell-encircled soul soul set free—

Ending thy short-lived power, congealing
Apathy.

Ode

To the Sun-Beam.

Thou dazzling beam of fervid light!

Thy long and potent reign,

With sultry tyranny and arrow bright,

Now desolates the plain!

The withering herbage shrinks from thee;

Thou burn’st with ruthless fire the tree;

The daisied heath is yellow’d o’er—

And dewy fragrance greets the sense no more.

Emblem of worldly joy! I see

Life’s grandest scenes epitomized by thee!

Gaudy and pleasing; but awhile;—

And then how sickening they appear—

How dark! how drear!

For when the bright hours cease to smile,

How lone the midnight gloom steals by!

And, oh! how chilling is the beamless sky!

So worldly sorrow comes, when splendour
fades—

A blank of solitude, a barren waste of shades!

Beauty’s Grave.

Unhappy has the traveller been

Who, where the languid flowerets wave,

The glittering tears of morn has seen

On beauty’s grave!

Who, when the scorching hour of day

Its fiercest lustre bade him brave,

Has shudder’d near the icy clay

Of beauty’s grave!


Who, when the tempest yell’d afar,

Has heard the sighing zephyrs wave,

As slowly rose the evening star,

On beauty’s grave!

Lorn is the wanderer who beholds

Near the swift brook’s unwearied wave,

The grass-green mantle that enfolds

Beauty’s low grave!

And sad, when twilight’s shadows close,

To hear the wild affections rave

Around the bed of still repose,

Pale beauty’s grave!

There, while the faint moon rises high,

The parent mourns, who could not save,

Yet sees his hope, his treasures lie

In beauty’s grave!

Yet on that turf the sweetest flowers,

With daisies, ruby-eyed, shall wave,

And spring shall shed its softest showers,

On beauty’s grave!

Lines

To the Memory of a Young Gentleman.

“Fate snatch’d him early to the pitying sky.” Pope.

If worth, too early to the grave consign’d,

Can claim the pitying tear or touch the mind;

If manly sentiments, unstain’d by art,

Could waken friendship or delight the heart;

Ill-fated youth! to thee the Muse shall pay

The last sad tribute of a mournful lay;

On thy lone grave shall May’s soft dews be shed,

And fairest flowerets blossom o’er thy head;

The drooping lily, and the snow-drop pale,

Mingling their fragrant leaves, shall there recline,

While cherubs, hovering on th’ ethereal gale,

Shall chant a requiem o’er the hallow’d shrine.

And if Reflection’s piercing eye should scan

The trivial frailties of imperfect man;

If in thy generous heart those passions dwelt

Which all should own, and all that live have
felt;

Yet was thy polish’d mind so pure, so brave,

The young admired thee, and the old forgave.

And when stern Fate, with ruthless rancour,
press’d

Thy withering graces to her flinty breast

H2v 60

Bright Justice darted from her bless’d abode,

And bore thy virtues to the throne of God;

While cold Oblivion, stealing o’er thy mind,

Each youthful folly to the grave consign’d.

Oh! if thy purer spirit deigns to know

Each thought that passes in this vale of wo,

Accept the incense of a tender tear,

By Pity wafted on a sigh sincere.

And if the weeping Muse a wreath could give

To grace thy tomb and bid thy virtues live,

Then Wealth should blush the gilded mask to
wear,

And Avarice shrink, the victim of Despair;

While Genius, bending o’er thy sable bier,

Should mourn her darling son with many a
tear,

While in her pensive form the world should
view

The only parent that thy sorrows knew.

Ode

Inscribed to the Infant Son of
S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

Born 1800-09-14Sept.September14, 1800, at Keswick, in Cumberland.

Spirit of light! whose eye unfolds

The vast expanse of Nature’s plan!

And from thy eastern throne beholds

The mazy paths of the lorn traveller—man!

To thee I sing! Spirit of light, to thee

Attune the varying strain of wood-wild minstrelsy!

O Power Creative!—but for thee

Eternal Chaos all things would enfold;

And black as Erebus this system be,

In its ethereal space—benighted—roll’d.

But for thy influence, e’en this day

Would slowly, sadly, pass away;

Nor proudly mark the mother’s tear of joy,

The smile seraphic of the baby boy,

The father’s eyes, in fondest transport taught

To beam with tender hope—to speak the enraptured
thought.

To thee I sing, Spirit of light! to thee

Attune the strain of wood-wild minstrelsy.

Thou sail’st o’er Skiddaw’s heights sublime,

Swift borne upon the wings of joyous time!

The sunny train, with widening sweep,

Rolls blazing down the misty-mantled steep;

And far and wide its rosy ray

Flushes the dewy-silver’d breast of day!


Hope-fostering day! which Nature bade impart

Heaven’s proudest rapture to the parent’s heart.

Day! first ordain’d to see the baby prest

Close to its beauteous mother’s throbbing
breast;

While instinct, in its laughing eyes, foretold

The mind susceptible—the spirit bold—

The lofty soul—the virtues prompt to trace

The wrongs that haunt mankind o’er life’s tempestuous
space.

Romantic mountains! from whose brows sublime

Imagination might to frenzy turn!

Or to the starry worlds in fancy climb,

Scorning this low earth’s solitary bourn—

Bold cataracts! on whose headlong tide

The midnight whirlwinds howling ride—

Calm-bosom’d lakes! that trembling hail

The cold breath of the morning gale;

And on your lucid mirrors wide display,

In colours rich, in dewy lustre gay,

Mountains and woodlands, as the dappled dawn

Flings its soft pearl-drops on the summer
lawn;

Or paly moonlight, rising slow,

While o’er the hills the evening zephyrs blow:

Ye all shall lend your wonders—all combine

To bless the baby boy with harmonies divine.

O baby! when thy unchain’d tongue

Shall, lisping, speak thy fond surprise;

When the rich strain thy father sung,

Shall from thy imitative accents rise;

When through thy soul rapt Fancy shall diffuse

The mightier magic of his loftier Muse;

Thy waken’d spirit, wondering, shall behold

Thy native mountains, capp’d with streamy
gold!

Thy native lakes their cloud-topp’d hills among,

O, hills! made sacred by thy parent’s song!

Then shall thy soul, legitimate, expand,

And the proud lyre quick throb at thy command!

And Wisdom, ever watchful, o’er thee smile,

His white locks waving to the blast the while;

And pensive Reason, pointing to the sky,

Bright as the morning star her clear broad eye,

Unfold the page of Nature’s book sublime,

The lore of every age—the boast of every
clime!

Sweet baby boy! accept a stranger’s song;

An untaught minstrel joys to sing of thee!

And, all alone, her forest haunts among,

Courts the wild tone of mazy harmony!

A stranger’s song! babe of the mountain wild,

Greets thee as Inspiration’s darling child!

O! may the fine-wrought spirit of thy sire

Awake thy soul and breathe upon thy lyre!

H3r 61

And blest, amid thy mountain haunts sublime,

Be all thy days, thy rosy infant days,

And may the never-tiring steps of Time

Press lightly on with thee o’er life’s disastrous
maze.

Ye hills, coeval with the birth of Time!

Bleak summits, link’d in chains of rosy light!

O may your wonders many a year invite

Your native son the breezy path to climb;

Where, in majestic pride of solitude,

Silent and grand, the hermit Thought shall
trace,

Far o’er the wild infinity of space,

The sombre horrors of the waving wood;

The misty glen; the river’s winding way;

The last deep blush of summer’s lingering day;

The winter storm, that, roaming unconfined,

Sails on the broad wings of the impetuous wind.

O! whether on the breezy height

Where Skiddaw greets the dawn of light,

Ere the rude song of Labour homage pay

To Summer’s flaming eye, or Winter’s banner
grey;

Whether Lodore its silver torrent flings—

The mingling wonders of a thousand springs!

Whether smooth Basenthwaite, at eve’s still
hour,

Reflects the young moon’s crescent pale;

Or Meditation seeks her silent bower,

Amid the rocks of lonely Borrowdale.

Still may thy name survive, sweet boy! till
Time

Shall bend to Keswic’s vale—thy Skiddaw’s
brow sublime!

To
the Poet Coleridge.

Rapt in the visionary theme!

Spirit divine! with thee I’ll wander,

Where the blue, wavy, lucid stream,

’Mid forest glooms, shall slow meander!

With thee I’ll trace the circling bounds

Of thy new Paradise extended;

And listen to the varying sounds

Of winds, and foamy torrents blended.

Now by the source which labouring heaves

The mystic fountain, bubbling, panting,

While Gossamer its net-work weaves,

Adown the blue lawn slanting!

I’ll mark thy sunny dome, and view

Thy caves of ice, thy fields of dew;


Thy ever-blooming mead, whose flower

Waves to the cold breath of the moonlight
hour;

Or when the day-star, peering bright

On the grey wing of parting night;

While more than vegetating power

Throbs grateful to the burning hour,

As Summer’s whisper’d sighs unfold

Her million, million buds of gold;

Then will I climb the breezy bounds,

Of thy new Paradise extended,

And listen to the distant sounds

Of winds, and foamy torrents blended!

Spirit divine! with thee I’ll trace

Imagination’s boundless space!

With thee, beneath thy sunny dome,

I’ll listen to the minstrel’s lay,

Hymning the gradual close of day;

In caves of ice enchanted roam,

Where on the glittering entrance plays

The moon’s-beam with its silvery rays;

Or, when the glassy stream,

That through the deep dell flows,

Flashes the noon’s hot beam;

The noon’s hot beam, that midway
shows

Thy flaming temple, studded o’er

With all Peruvia’s lustrous store!

There will I trace the circling bounds

Of thy new Paradise extended!

And listen to the awful sounds,

Of winds, and foamy torrents blended!

And now I’ll pause to catch the moan

Of distant breezes, cavern-pent;

Now, ere the twilight tints are flown,

Purpling the landscape, far and wide,

On the dark promontory’s side

I’ll gather wild flowers, dew besprent,

And weave a crown for thee,

Genius of Heaven-taught poesy!

While, opening to my wondering eyes,

Thou bidst a new creation rise,

I’ll raptured trace the circling bounds

Of thy rich Paradise extended,

And listen to the varying sounds

Of winds, and foaming torrents blended.

And now, with lofty tones inviting,

Thy nymph, her dulcimer swift smiting,

Shall wake me in ecstatic measures!

Far, far removed from mortal pleasures!

In cadence rich, in cadence strong,

Proving the wondrous witcheries of song!

I hear her voice! thy sunny dome,

Thy caves of ice, loud repeat,

Vibrations, maddening sweet,

Calling the visionary wanderer home.

She sings of thee, O favour’d child

Of minstrelsy, sublimely wild!

H3v 62

Of thee, whose soul can feel the tone

Which gives to airy dreams a magic all thy
own!


Sappho.

Lines

To the
Rev. J. Whitehouse.

On receiving a copy of his Odes lately published,
from the author.

In this dread era! when the Muse’s train

Shrink from the horrors of th’ embattled plain;

When all that Grecian elegance could boast,

’Midst the loud thunders of the scene, is lost!

As one vast flame, with force electric hurl’d,

Grasps the roused legions of th’enlighten’d
world;

The bard, neglected, droops upon his lyre,

And all the thrills of poesy expire!—

Save where the melting melody of verse

Steals in slow murmurs round the soldier’s
hearse,

While o’er the rugged sod that shields his clay

Soft pity chants the consecrated lay!

For, ah! no more can Fancy’s livelier art

Light the dim eye or animate the heart;

Can all the tones that harmony e’er knew

The sigh suppress, the gushing tear subdue!

No charm she owns the bleeding breast to bind,

The breast that palpitates for human kind.

Thus did Reflection o’er each wounded sense

Pour the strong tide of Reason’s eloquence!

As, ’midst the scent of desolating wo,

She mark’d, aghast! the purple torrent’s flow!

Man against man opposed, with furious rage,

To blur with kindred gore life’s little stage;

While high above the thickening legions stood

Dark-brow’d Revenge! bathed in a nation’s
blood.

’Twas then persuasive Friendship’s Mr. Whitehouse’s Odes were conveyed through
the hands of a friend.
soothing
power

Bade Fancy greet thee in thy classic bower!

There, from the thorny maze of ills retired,

I found the Muse! and all the Muse admired!

Fair wreaths of amaranth, a boundless store;

Truth’s golden page, and wisdom’s treasured
lore;

Description’s pencil, dipp’d in rainbow dyes;

And Genius, first-born offspring of the skies,


The harp-inspired! the ever varying song;

Correct, though wild, and elegant, though
strong!

There Albion’s Muse, in Grecian beauty drest,

At once could awe and vivify the breast;

In mingling cadence tune the sacred yielding
wire,

To soothe, instruct, to soften or inspire!

First, the enthusiast’s Subjects of Odes, by the Rev. J. Whitehouse. energy she proved,

As o’er the chords her glowing fingers moved!

The witching wildness through each fibre stole,

And seized on all the faculties of soul!

Then fierce ambition Subjects of Odes, by the Rev. J. Whitehouse. smote the wondering
string,

In strains that bid the azure concave ring;

The deafening crash awoke the nations round,

And millions trembled at the mighty sound!

Next, o’er the wondering throng impetuous
War,

The lord of slaughter, roll’d his brazen car!

A flaming brand the red-eyed monster held,

And waved it high in air, and madly yell’d!

While Horror Subjects of Odes, by the Rev. J. Whitehouse. bathed in agonizing dew,

Before his rattling wheels distracted flew;

Down his gaunt breast fast stream’d the scalding
tear,

And now he groan’d aloud, now shrunk with
fear;

His humid front was crown’d with bristling
hair,

His glance was frenzy, and his voice, despair!

Then follow’d Beauty, Subjects of Odes, by the Rev. J. Whitehouse. in whose beaming
eye

Sat sainted Truth, Subjects of Odes, by the Rev. J. Whitehouse. coeval with the sky!

Her song dispensed ecstatic pleasure round,

The soft lyre throbbing to the dulcet sound!

Then elfin tribes in many groups advanced,

Flaunted their gaudy trim, and nimbly danced!

Tuned their shrill voices to the tinkling string,

Or lit with glow-worm’s eyes the grassy ring;

With wanton glee their moonlight gambols kept,

And dealt the witching spell where mortals
slept.

Such is the power of Fancy! such the skill

That forms her varying shadows to the will!

To crown her altar, which old Time has chose

Where silver Cam in silent grandeur flows;

And many a turret, many a lofty spire,

Marks where pindaric Gray attuned his lyre!

Still shall enamour d Genius haunt the shrine,

The Muses’ triumph, and their smiles—be thine.

Yet think not, bard inspired! that o’er the
wreath

Thy hand has form’d, no poison’d blast shall
breathe;

H4r 63

Though blossoms fair in mingling colours vie,

Bright, but not transient, as the rainbow’s die!

Envy will penetrate thy halcyon bower,

And crush with hurried step each rising flower;

Or tasteless rage, with voice infuriate, wild,

Bid Malice triumph where the graces smiled.

For oft, where high the tree of Genius springs,

The pale fiend hovers with her mildew wings;

Shades the rich foliage from the fostering ray,

And marks each leaf for premature decay;

Dims the warm glow that decorates the fruit,

And strikes her lightning-glances to the root;

Strips the rent fragments of each latent bloom,

Nor leaves one branch to deck the Poet’s tomb!

Such is the fate of Genius! yet when art

So sweet as thine can elevate the heart;

Though Envy’s eye, or Hate’s remorseless rage,

May strive to dim the philosophic page;

Though War’s hot breath may blast the wreath of
Fame;

Immortal Time shall consecrate thy name.

To
The Dutchess of Devonshire.

The nightingale with mourning lay,

Amid the twilight’s purpling glow,

May sweetly hymn the loss of day,

While Echo chants her melting wo;

But what can soothe the wounded breast,

And every aching sense beguile—

Ah! what can charm the soul to rest,

Like Devon’s voice or Devon’s smile?

The modest orb, with trembling light,

Beams through the soft and freshening
shower,

And stealing o’er the realm of night,

Gives lustre to the silent hour;

But what can cheer the fainting heart,

When gloomy horror frowns severe—

Ah! what can sympathy impart,

Like Devon’s sigh or Devon’s tear?

Though nature’s proudest will combined

To give her form unequall’d grace;

And though the feelings of her mind

With fine expression mark her face;

Yet as the casket charms the view

But till the treasured gem is seen,

Her mind demands the tribute due,

Which else her beauty’s claim had been.


If there be magic in her tear,

And if her smile can bliss impart,

Her sigh is still to feeling dear,

And well her voice can soothe the heart;

Then where shall wondering fancy dwell,

Nor own exclusive power the while;

Oh! say which holds the strongest spell,

Her voice, her sigh, her tear, or smile?

Lines

Inscribed to
P. de Loutherbourg, Esq. R. A.

On seeing his Views in Switzerland, &c. &c.

Where on the bosom of the foamy Rhine

In curling waves the rapid waters shine;

Where towering cliffs in awful grandeur rise,

And ’midst the blue expanse embrace the skies;

The wondering eye beholds yon craggy height,

Tinged with the glow of evening’s fading light,

Where the fierce cataract, swelling o’er its bound,

Bursts from its source and dares the depth profound.

On every side the headlong currents flow,

Scattering their foam like silvery sands below:

From hill to hill responsive echoes sound,

Loud torrents roar, and dashing waves rebound;

Th’opposing rock the azure stream divides,

The white froth tumbling down its sparry sides

From fall to fall the glittering channels flow,

Till, lost, they mingle in the lake below.

Tremendous spot! amid thy views sublime,

The mental sight ethereal realms may climb,

With wonder rapt the mighty work explore,

Confess th’ Eternal’s power, and pensively adore.

All-varying Nature! oft th’ outstretch’d eye

Marks o’er the welkin’s brow the meteor fly;

Marks where the comet with impetuous force

O’er heaven’s wide concave skims its fiery course:

While on the Alpine steep thin vapours rise,

Float on the blast—or freeze amidst the skies;

Or, half congealed, in flaky fragments glide

Along the gelid mountain’s breezy side;

Or, mingling with the waste of yielding snow,

From the vast height in various currents flow.

Now pale-eyed Morning, at thy soft command,

O’er the rich landscape spreads her dewy hand;

Swift o’er the plain the lucid rivers fly,

Imperfect mirrors of the dappled sky:

On the fringed margin of the dimpling tide,

Each odorous bud, by Flora’s pencil died,

H4v 64

Expands its velvet leaves of lustrous hue,

Bathed in the essence of celestial dew;

While from the meteor to the simplest flower,

Prolific Nature! we behold thy power!

Yet has mysterious Heaven with care consign’d

Thy noblest triumphs to the human mind;

Man feels the proud pre-eminence impart

Intrepid firmness to his swelling heart:

Creation’s lord! where’er he bends his way,

The torch of Reason spreads its godlike ray.

As o’er Sicilian sands the traveller roves,

Feeds on its fruits and shelters in its groves,

Sudden amidst the calm retreat he hears

The pealing thunders in the distant spheres;

He sees the curling fumes from Etna rise,

Shade the green vale and blacken all the skies:

Around his head the forked lightnings glare,

The vivid streams illume the stagnant air;

The nodding hills hang lowering o’er the deep,

The howling winds the clustering vineyards
sweep;

The cavern’d rocks terrific tremors rend,

Low to the earth the tawny forests bend;

While he, an atom in the direful scene,

Views the wild chaos, wondering and serene;

Though at his feet sulphureous rivers roll,

No touch of terror shakes his conscious soul;

His mind, enlightened by Promethean rays,

Expanding, glows with intellectual blaze!

Such scenes long since th’ immortal poet
charm’d,

His Muse enraptured and his Fancy warm’d:

From them he learnt with magic eye t’ explore

The dire Arcanum of the Stygian shore!

Where the departed spirit, trembling, hurl’d

“With restless violence round the pendent
world,” Shakspeare’s Measure for Measure.

On the swift wings of whistling whirlwinds
flung,

Plunged in the wave or on the mountain hung.

While o’er yon cliff the lingering fires of day

In ruby shadows faintly glide away,

The glassy source that feeds the cataract’s stream

Bears the last image of the solar beam;

Wide o’er the landscape nature’s tints disclose

The softest picture of sublime repose;

The sober beauties of Eve’s hour serene,

The scatter’d village, now but dimly seen;

The neighbouring rock, whose flinty brow inclined,

Shields the clay cottage from the northern wind:

The variegated woodlands scarce we view,

The distant mountains tinges with purple hue;

Pale twilight flings her mantle o’er the skies,

From the still lake the misty vapours rise;


Cold showers, descending on the western breeze,

Sprinkle with lucid drops the bending trees,

Whose spreading branches, o’er the glade reclined,

Wave their dank leaves and murmur to the
wind.

Such scenes, O Loutherbourg, thy pencil fired,

Warm’d thy great mind, and every touch inspired:

Beneath thy hand the varying colours glow,

Vast mountains rise, and crystal rivers flow:

Thy wondrous genius owns no pedant rule,

Nature’s thy guide, and Nature’s works thy
school:

Pursue her steps, each rival’s art defy,

For while she charms, thy name shall never die.

Elegy

To the
Memory of Garrick.

Dear shade of him who graced the mimic scene,

And charm’d attention with resistless power,

Whose wondrous art, whose fascinating mien,

Gave glowing rapture to the short-lived hour!

Accept the mournful verse, the lingering sigh,

The tear that faithful memory stays to shed;

The sacred tear, that from Reflection’s eye

Drops on the ashes of the sainted dead.

Loved by the grave and courted by the young,

In social comforts eminently bless’d;

All hearts revered the precepts of thy tongue,

And Envy’s self thy eloquence confess’d.

Who could like thee the soul’s wild tumults
paint,

Or wake the torpid ear with lenient art?

Touch the nice sense with pity’s dulcet plaint,

Or soothe the sorrows of the breaking heart?

Who can forget thy penetrating eye,

The sweet bewitching smile, th’ empassion’d
look!

The clear deep whisper, the persuasive sigh,

The feeling tear that Nature’s language
spoke?

Rich in each treasure bounteous Heaven could
lend,

For private worth distinguish’d and approved,

The pride of Wisdom—Virtue’s darling friend—

By Mansfied honour’d, and by Camden
loved.

I1r 65

The courtier’s cringe, the flatterer’s abject
smile,

The subtle arts of well-dissembled praise,

Thy soul abhorr’d;—above the gloss of guile,

Truth led thy steps, and Friendship crown’d
thy days.

Oft in thy Hampton’s dark embowering shade

The poet’s hand shall sweep the trembling
string;

While the proud tribute See Mr. Sheridan’s Monody on the death of Garrick.
to thy memory paid

The voice of Genius on the gale shall fling.

Yes, Sheridan, thy soft melodious verse

Still vibrates on a nation’s polish’d ear;

Fondly it hover’d o’er the sable hearse,

Hush’d the loud plaint, and triumph’d in a
tear.

In life united by congenial minds,

Dear to the Muse, to sacred friendship true;

Around her darling’s urn a wreath she binds,

A deathless wreath—immortalized by you!

Dear to a nation, grateful to thy Muse,

That nation’s tears upon thy grave shall flow,

For who the gentle tribute can refuse

Which thy fine feeling gave to fancied wo?

Thou who, by many an anxious toilsome hour,

Reap’d the bright harvest of luxuriant fame,

Who snatch’d from dark oblivion’s barbarous
power

The radiant glories of a Shakspeare’s name!

Remembrance oft shall paint the mournful
scene

Where the slow funeral spread its lengthening
gloom,

Where the deep murmur and dejected mien

In artless sorrow linger’d round thy tomb.

And though no laurel’d bust or labour’d line

Shall bid the passing stranger stay to weep,

Thy Shakspeare’s hand shall point the hallow’d
shrine,

And Britain’s genius with thy ashes sleep. Mr. Garrick’s remains lie in the Poet’s corner, at
the foot of Shakspeare’s monument, in Westminster
Abbey
.

Then rest in peace, O ever sacred shade!

Your kindred souls exulting Fame shall join;

And the same wreath thy hand for Shakspeare
made,

Gemm’d with her tears, about thy grave shall
twine.


Monody

To the
Memory of Chatterton.

“Chill penury repress’d his noble rage, And froze the genial current of his soul.” Gray.

If Grief can deprecate the wrath of Heaven,

Or human frailty hope to be forgiven!

Ere now thy sainted spirit bends its way

To the bland regions of celestial day;

Ere now, thy soul, immersed in purest air,

Smiles at the triumphs of supreme despair;

Or, bathed in seas of endless bliss, disdains

The vengeful memory of mortal pains;

Yet shall the Muse a fond memorial give,

To shield thy name, and bid thy genius live.

Too proud for pity and too poor for praise,

No voice to cherish and no hand to raise;

Torn, stung, and sated, with this “mortal coil,”

This weary, anxious scene of fruitless toil;

Not all the graces that to youth belong,

Nor all the energies of sacred song;

Nor all that Fancy, all that Genius gave,

Could snatch thy wounded spirit from the grave.

Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn;

In Poverty’s cold arms condemn’d to mourn;

To live by mental toil, e’en when the brain

Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain;

To mark the dreary minutes slowly creep,

Each day to labour and each night to weep;

Till the last murmur of thy frantic soul

In proud concealment from its mansion stole,

While Envy, springing from her lurid cave,

Snatch’d the young laurels from thy rugged
grave.

So the pale primrose, sweetest bud of May,

Scarce wakes to beauty ere it feels decay;

While baleful weeds their hidden poisons pour,

Choke the green sod and wither every flower.

Immured in shades, from busy scenes removed,

No sound to solace—but the verse he loved;

No soothing numbers harmonized his ear;

No feeling bosom gave his griefs a tear!

Obscurely born—no generous friend he found

To lead his trembling steps o’er classic ground;

No patron fill’d his heart with flattering hope,

No tutor’d lesson gave his genius scope;

Yet, while poetic ardour nerved each thought,

And Reason sanction’d what Ambition taught,

He soar’d beyond the narrow spells that bind

The slow perceptions of the vulgar mind;

The fire once kindled by the breath of Fame,

Her restless pinions fann’d the glittering flame;

I I1v 66

Warm’d by its rays, he thought each vision just;

For conscious Virtue seldom feels distrust.

Frail are the charms delusive Fancy shows,

And short the bliss her fickle smile bestows;

Yet the bright prospect pleased his dazzled view,

Each hope seem’d ripen’d, and each phantom
true;

Fill’d with delight, his unsuspecting mind

Weigh’d not the grovelling treacheries of mankind;

For while a niggard boon his wants supplied,

And Nature’s claims subdued the voice of
Pride,

His timid talents own’d a borrow’d name,

And gain’d by Fiction what was due to Fame.

With secret labour, and with taste refined,

This son of misery form’d his infant mind!

When opening Reason’s earliest scenes began,

The dawn of childhood mark’d the future man!

He scorn’d the puerile sports of vulgar boys,

His little heart aspired to nobler joys;

Creative Fancy wing’d his few short hours,

While soothing Hope adorn’d his path with
flowers;

Yet Fame’s recording hand no trophy gave,

Save the sad tear—to decorate his grave.

Yet in this dark, mysterious scene of wo,

Conviction’s flame shall shed a radiant glow;

His infant Muse shall bind with nerves of fire

The sacrilegious hand that stabs its sire.

Methinks I hear his wandering shade complain,

While mournful Echo lingers on the strain;

Through the lone aisle his restless spirit calls,

His phantom glides along the minster’s Bristol Cathedral. walls;

Where many an hour his devious footsteps
trod,

Ere fate resign’d him to his pitying God.

Yet shall the Muse, to gentlest sorrow prone,

Adopt his cause, and make his griefs her own;

Ne’er shall her Chatterton’s neglected name

Fade in inglorious dreams of doubtful fame.

Shall he whose pen immortal Genius gave

Sleep unlamented in an unknown grave?

No—the fond Muse shall spurn the base neglect,

The verse she cherish’d she shall still protect.

And if unpitied pangs the mind can move,

Or graceful numbers warm the heart to love;

If the fine raptures of poetic fire

Delight to vibrate on the trembling lyre;

If sorrow claims the kind embalming tear,

Or worth oppress’d excites a pang sincere—

Some kindred soul shall pour the song sublime,

And with the cypress bough the laurel twine,


Whose weeping leaves the wintry blast shall
wave

In mournful murmurs o’er thy unbless’d grave.

And though no lofty vase or sculptured bust

Bends o’er the sod that hides thy sacred dust;

Though no long line of ancestry betrays

The pride of relatives, or pomp of praise;

Though o’er thy name a blushing nation rears

Oblivion’s wing—to hide Reflection’s tears!

Still shall thy verse in dazzling lustre live,

And claim a brighter wreath than wealth can
give.

Elegy

To the
Memory of Werter.

Written in Germany, in the year 17861786.

“With female fairies will thy tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee.” Shakespeare.

When from day’s closing eye the lucid tears

Fall lightly on the bending lily’s head!

When o’er the blushing sky night’s curtain’s
spread,

And the tall mountain’s summit scarce appears;

When languid evening, sinking to repose,

Her filmy mantle o’er the landscape throws;

Of thee I’ll sing; and as the mournful song

Glides in slow numbers the dark woods among,

My wandering steps shall seek the lonely shade

Where all thy virtues, all thy griefs are laid!

Yes, hopeless sufferer, friendless and forlorn,

Sweet victim of love’s power! the silent tear

Shall oft at twilight’s close and glimmering
morn

Gem the pale primrose that adorns thy bier;

And as the balmy dew ascends to heaven,

Thy crime shall steal away, thy frailty be forgiven.

Oft by the moon’s wan beam the love-lorn
maid,

Led by soft Sympathy, shall stroll along;

Oft shall she listen in the lime-tree’s “At the corner of the church-yard are two lime
trees, ’tis there I wish to rest.”
Sorrows of Werter.
shade,

Her cold blood freezing at the night-owl’s
song;

I2r 67

Or, when she hears the death-bell’s solemn
sound,

Her light steps echoing o’er the hollow
ground,

Oft shall the trickling tear adorn her cheek,

Thy power, O Sensibility! in magic charms to
speak!

For the poor pilgrim, doom’d afar to roam

From the dear comforts of his native home,

A glittering star puts forth a silvery ray,

Soothes his sad heart, and marks his tedious
way;


The short-lived radiance cheers the gloom of
night,

And decks Heaven’s murky dome with transitory
light.

So from the mournful Charlotte’s dark-orb’d
lids

The sainted tear of pitying Virtue flows;

And the last boon the “churlish priest” forbids,

On thy lone grave the sacred drop bestows;

There shall the sparkling dews of evening
shine,

And Heaven’s own incense consecrate the
shrine.

I2v 68

The Sicilian Lover:

A Dramatic Poem,
in Five Acts.

Dramatis PersonÆ.

Count Alferenzi, a noble Sicilian.

Marquis Valmont.

Leonardo, Brother to Valmont.

The Prince Montalva, an illustrious Milanese.

Duke Albert, his Son.

Ricardo, Captain of Banditti.

Francisco, an old Steward.


Banditti.

Belmonti,

Lorenzi,

Bellarmo,

Combatants.

Honoria, Daughter to the Marquis Valmont.

Constantia, Abbess of a Convent.

Agnes, the Friend and Attendant of Honoria.

Nuns.

SceneLombardy. Time—Sixteenth Century.

Act I.

Scene I.—

A Pavilion at Valmont. Enter the Marquis Valmont and Prince Montalva.

Val.

It shall be so! Think not, my honour’d
liege,

That after a long life of busy toil

My reason can be sway’d by a weak girl:

From the first dawn of helpless infancy,

I’ve taught her mild obedience to my will,

And count upon her duty more than love.

Mont.

I know her fix’d aversion to my son.

Val.

So weak a thought will not disturb my
hopes.

Firm to my purpose, though the heavens should
yawn,

And hurl their red bolts on my aged head,

I would not waver! For your son has worth

That makes his high descent his second claim!

This day, in single combat, he shall prove

The bravest youth that Lombardy e’er saw.

Mont.

The sacred friendship that has link’d
our minds,

From the warm sunny hour of lusty youth

To the chill winter of declining age,

First turn’d my fancy towards the fair Honoria!


Yet, rather than by sorrow’s icy touch

To bend so sweet a blossom to the grave,

I would renounce my hopes, and her, for ever.

Enter Duke Albert.

Alb.

To Val.Valmont I greet you, noble Sir; and
in your looks

Behold the herald of my future joy.

Mont.

Alas! my son, fate frowns upon thy
hopes;

The fair Honoria, rich Italia’s star――

Alb.

Say, what of her? Is there from nature’s
hand

So rare a model of transcendent worth?

The brilliant Hesperus that leads the day

Is not so cheering to the pilgrim’s sight

As she to mine!

Mont.

Now, Albert, hear me speak:

When last I saw her, on the tender theme,

I mark’d on her pale cheek a trickling drop

The silent herald of approaching wo!

Alb.

O! ’tis the pure and fascinating gem

That nature gives to maiden modesty,

To make her work more lovely! Does not the
flower

Most court the sense when deck’d with morning’s
tears?

I3r 69

Mont.

And wouldst thou blast the sweet, the
drooping bud?

Come, like a nipping, an untimely frost,

And wither all its beauties to the dust?

My son, I will not think so basely of thee;

A noble nature cannot taste of joy

That leaves another bankrupt and forlorn.

Alb.

I know that love can take all forms to
please;

And think not that I nurse too vain a fancy,

If I dare hope Honoria will be mine!

A blush of meek complacency o’erspread

The snow of her pure bosom, when I told

My tale of tender import. Thus we mark

The lily, blended in a garland sweet,

Flush’d with the soft reflection of the rose.

Val.

And do we fear to feast our raptured
sense,

Lest we may find conceal’d a wounding thorn?

But see, she comes! The insolent disdain

That sits imperious on her haughty brow

Be it thy task to combat and subdue.

Enter Honoria.

This day, Honoria, must decide thy fate;

Thou art Duke Albert’s bride, or not my daughter.

Hon.

Indeed! I think this mandate somewhat
cruel.

Relentless power may drag me to the altar;

But the free soul shrinks from the tyrant’s
grasp

And lords it o’er oppression.

Val.

Silence, rash girl!

Again I urge, and with a father’s right,

A proud alliance with the noble Albert.

Hon.

Perish his name! for it is hateful to me.

Oh! I had rather the poorest wretch

That on the barren mountain stands forlorn,

An exile from his kindred and his home,

Than barter honesty for empty show!

Those who for paltry gold would part with
peace

At best can prove themselves but thrifty fools.

Val.

Grasping Honoria’s hand. Take heed,
ungrateful girl, and mark me well;

The soul of Valmont cannot brook denial.

Hon.

――By yon azure dome

That flings its wondrous concave o’er the world,

I will encounter poverty or death

Rather than sell my freedom! This proud heart

Would burst with indignation, could my tongue

Pronounce a vow degrading to its honour!

Does the vain suitor arrogantly hope

To buy me like a slave?

Val.

Think on the splendours that await thy
will.

Hon.

Can the gay wreaths that bind a victim’s
breast

Conceal the agony that throbs within?


Give to the child of Folly toys for fools;

My soul disdains them! I am Valmont’s daughter;

Nor will I e’er disgrace my noble name

By being less than what that title makes me!

Val.

I would augment the lustre of thy days,

Place thee amidst such dazzling rays of glory,

That every eye should wonder to behold thee!

Hon.

So the fierce flame of a meridian sun

Gilds the poor insect which it dooms to death.

Val.

Perverse destroyer of a father’s hopes!

And dar’st thou disobey, when I command?

Hon.

I dare not sell my soul!

Val.

Go, self-will’d fool!

Thy disobedience covers me with shame.

Oh! had thy mother lived, her gentle heart

Had throbb’d with anguish at thy wayward
scorn;

’Tis for thy honour I this union urge,

What else can prompt me?――

Hon.

Ambition!—not that emulative zeal

Which wings the towering souls of godlike men;

But bold, oppressive, self-created power,

That, trampling o’er the barrier of the laws,

And scattering wide the tender shoots of pity,

Strikes at the root of reason, and confines

Nature itself in bondage. Oh! tis vile.

But, thank the Gods! no spells can curb the
mind,

While splendour’s proudest claim is less than
virtue.

Mont.

Honoria, spare thy anguish and thy
scorn;

And know, that ere the glories of my name

Should dimly gleam beneath a tear of thine

I would behold them perish: cursed be those

Who, to advance their own ambitious hopes,

Would trample on the rights of truth and nature!

Trumpets without.

My son, that summons chides thy tardy lance!

I will attend thee, boy. Valmont, farewell.

Exeunt Montalva and Albert.

Hon.

Who is the cautious hero that accepts

The vaunting challenge of the haughty Albert?

Val.

I dare not tell—for ’tis the stranger’s
wish

That none should seek to know his rank or
name.

From Sicily he comes, and nobly born;

Right well he wields the lance, and is most apt

In feats of chivalry and bold exploit.

Hon.

From Sicily! my soul is chill’d with
fear!
Aside.

Sir, I attend your will, and proud shall be

To witness Albert’s valour—for believe,

Although I cannot love, I can be just;

Nor will the hero’s youthful laurels fade

Because they twine not with the myrtle bough.

Exuent.
I3v 70

Scene II.

Opens, and discovers a spacious court in the palace
of the prince Montalva, splendidly decorated
for a tournament. Various spectators seated on
rising benches; on one side a canopy, beneath
which are seated, Honoria, (attended by Agnes)
the Prince Montalva (with Albert
standing near him) and the Marquis Valmont.
On the opposite side of the stage stand three knights
in armour, each wearing a scarf and helmet of
the same colour as the standard borne by his page,
who waits near him: Alferenzi stands at some
distance, nearer the wing than the other knights,
with his page also.
Standards. 1st. Yellow, with a burning mountain. 2nd. Green, with a wreath of flowers and fruits. 3rd. Composed of silver waves, plain. Alferenzi’s Standard.
White, with the motto, “Virtue is Nobility”. His
scarf white with gold fringe. As the curtain
rises to soft music, children strew flowers and
laurels. Then follow warlike trophies to martial
music. When the stage is arranged, Albert
descends from the steps of the throne, and approaches
the armed knights.

Alb.

To the first. If that my senses do not
play me false,

Or my eyes dazzle with your noble bearings,

Methinks I read, beneath these quaint devices,

Illustrious names! This flaming standard,

Emblem of Etna’s brow, that scorches heaven,

This crest of gold, that like a meteor burns,

Mocking the noon’s fierce fires, do give thee out

Messina’s prince, illustrious Belmonti!

The Prince bows acknowledgment.

Alb.

To the second. This verdant ensign
this enamell’d wreath

(Tinted with rainbow dyes) which seems to
grow,

And, while its perfume scents the unseen air,

Blushes with modest grace, I well devise

Sprang from the ’witching garden of the world,

Luxurious Italy! and therefore greet

Verona’s noble duke, the brave Lorenzi!

The Duke bows acknowledgment.

Alb.

To the third. This silvery banner, that
doth like the waves

Play in fantastic gambols with the air,

Dancing light-blossom’d in the sunny beam,

bespeaks the Adriatic! Beauteous sea!

That doth encompass Venice with a zone

Bright as the morning sun! Thou dost declare

The offspring of Bellarmo, Duke of Venice.

The Duke bows acknowledgment.

Alb.

Approaching Alferenzi. Now gallant
stranger, let me ask, nor think

I mean uncourteously to mock your fancy,

Why thus conceal’d you enter in the lists?

What are your rights armorial!

Alferenzi points to his Standard.

Alb.

’Tis not enough

That innate lustre beams about your soul!

What are your claims to mingle in the contest?

Alf.

Those claims that place the good above
the proud!

The stream that rushes through these ardent
veins

Flows from a source that never knew pollution!

Though sprung, brave Albert, from a sire whose
arm

Has made the enemies of virtue tremble,

I scorn to shield me with another’s name,

And only boast the honours I achieve.

Alb.

Most nobly urged! What is your passport
here?

Alf.

Nor gold, nor gems, nor purchased adulation,

Nor vapourish vaunting, nor the breath of fools,

Nor flattery’s airy fame that bubbles down

The broad stream of the world, and bursts at
last

In blank oblivion!

Alb.

High-sounding words

Beguile with magic power the sense they seize,

And cheat it into faith. But ere your name

Shines on the list of valour, of your worth

’Tis fit you give some sample.

Alf.

Take my scorn! Throwing his gauntlet.

Thus do I hurl my gauntlet at your feet

And mock your scrutiny; the hand it owns

Has neither palm’d with fools, nor let the base

Its blood contaminate! what would you more?

Alb.

If that thy soul be lofty as thy speech,

Thou art indeed right noble! I shall expect

That thou wilt give me proof without delay.

Alf.

I do not fear; my lance will do that for
me.
The onset begins; Alferenzi stands more forward
than the rest on the stage. Albert vanquishes
Belmonti.

Alf.

Aside. So falls the vaunting self-enamour’d
fool!

The flame that soars too high evaporates,

And wastes in empty nothing!

Albert disarms Lorenzi.

Alf.

Aside. Honours full blown, like summer
flowers, decay!

I thought thy emblem was too fair to last!

Albert vanquishes Bellarmo.

Alf.

Aside. So the swift storm scowls o’er
the sunny spheres;

Brave offspring of the proud and silvery main,

Thou see’st that fame is fickle as the waves!

Albert advances and gazes at Alferenzi.

Alb.

Now, haughty stranger, I will prove thy
lance;

And either dim it with dishonour’s stain,

Or sink beneath thy scorn!

I4r 71 They fight; after a fierce onset, Alferenzi
disarms Albert, and instantly kneeling, presents
his scarf to Honoria, while the curtain
falls to martial music.

Scene III.— A Pavilion.

Enter Honoria and Agnes.

Hon.

It is my Alferenzi, gentle Agnes!

He is the conqueror, and he well deserves

The proud affections of my captive heart!

Oh! didst thou mark him, when his glittering
lance,

Like the blue lightning arm’d with threatening
death,

Rush’d on the bosom of his vanquish’d foe?

Agnes.

Each eye with admiration follow’d
him

Through all the varying conflicts of the scene!

What is his parentage? his name is noble!

Hon.

His father is a man of loftiest birth,

A brave Sicilian! This, his only son,

Was train’d to arms, and all Calabria’s shores

Have rung with plaudits at his bold exploits!

Illustrious in himself, all outward show

Borrows those graces which it cannot lend,

For he derives no dignity from power,

By fortune less distinguish’d than by fame!

Some few months since in Tuscany we met,

And there profess’d such vows of tender faith,

As neither time nor absence e’er can change.

Hither he came disguised, in hopes to win

My father’s love by deeds of chivalry;

He has unlock’d the treasure of his heart

To my relentless parent, whose stern mind

Is still devoted to Montalva’s heir.

Agnes.

Alas! I know not how to give you
counsel.

Hon.

I did not think that Nature’s finest art

Could fashion Reason to sustain such wo!

Heaven knows there’s nothing so forlorn as I!

The sea-beat mariner, who on the shrouds

Hangs at the mercy of the warring winds,

Rock’d by the howling spirits of the deep,

May count him in a cradle of repose,

And think the roaring blast a zephyr’s breath,

Compared with passion’s wild and maddening
storm!

Amidst the mingling labyrinths of thought,

Bewilder’d Patience turns, and turns again,

Till, hopeless and o’erwhelm’d, she faints and
dies!

Agnes.

From childhood uncontroll’d, your
soften’d mind

But ill can combat life’s perplexing thorns.

Sole mistress of the castle’s rich domains—

Hon.

Ay! There again, oh! most disastrous
state!

A mother’s care in infancy I lost,


But the sad hour or manner of her death

I never yet could learn; my father’s frowns,

Whene’er I press’d inquiry of her fate,

Still awed me into silence. Oh! if she lived,

Though poor, deserted, friendless, and oppress’d,

I would, o’er burning plains, or wastes of snow,

A barefoot wanderer, seek her out, and bless
her!

Agnes.

Strange rumours have been buzz’d
abroad, and some

Have dared accuse—

Enter Albert.

Alb.

Honoria! is my destiny decreed?

Wilt thou not bend thy footsteps to that altar

Where meek-eyed pity bathes the wounds of
love?

Hon.

Never! yon host of saints that know
my thoughts,

Know they are fix’d, and towering o’er my fate,

Like the vast rocks that bound the stormy main!

Let the fierce tempest of a father’s rage

Dash my soul’s purpose, as the foaming waves

Waste their vain fury on the flinty shore!

I can with patience bear all human ills;

All that gaunt poverty can heap upon me;

The cold disdain of insolence and pride,

Peace-wounding calumny, or death itself!

Rather than break my vows to Alferenzi.

Alb.

Perdition blast his hopes! the daring
villain!

But he shall perish!

Hon.

What—because he loves!

Oh! do not scatter my wild thoughts to frenzy!

’Tis not the province of a noble nature

To plunge a poniard in the vanquish’d heart!

Stain not thy glowing laurels, won by valour,

With the pale lustre of a woman’s tears.

Albert, embattled legions have beheld

Thy dauntless crest bound with immortal
wreaths!

Then know, the sword that’s steep’d in gallant
blood

Should at the fount of pity cleanse its stains,

Ere reason aches to see it! Spare thy foe,

Nor let the poison fell of private hate

Disgrace thy kindred or thy country’s fame!

Alb.

I will be calm, if thou wilt bid me hope.

Hon.

There’s not a wretch that breathes but
dares to hope.

The wither’d tenant of a dungeon’s gloom,

Who, shut unpitied from the face of heaven

Almost forgets the radiance of the sun,

Still in his prison sees effulgent hope,

That dissipates the horrors of still night,

And bids him smile upon his galling chain!

That power instinctive braves the tyrant’s nod;

Secure within itself, the conscious soul

Still feeds on hope, and triumphs to the last!

Exeunt.
I4v 72

Scene IV.— Evening. Before Valmont’s Castle.

Enter Alferenzi.

Alf.

This is the hour, when on yon lofty terrace

Honoria comes to taste the evening air,

And with the dulcet tinkling of her lute

Bids the lorn nightingale forget his tale,

And pause, in wonder rapt! The crimson west

Gilds the grey battlements with blushing gold,

And viewless myriads o’er the fainting flowers

Close their long sultry day with humming song.

As through the valley pensively I wander’d,

At every cottage door the weary hind

Sat ’midst his infant race, with ditty old,

Cheating the traveller Time; while twilight’s
hand

O’er the still landscape drew a dusky veil:

Ere now, the freckled carle forgets the world,

And in his unbarr’d chamber sweetly sleeps,

Lull’d by the music of the mountain breeze.

Enter Valmont, from the Castle.

Val.

I thought to find the victor—Alferenzi!

Alf.

Then thou art not deceived, for I am he—

Val.

It ill becomes a valiant son of honour

To lurk at this still hour, and seek occasion

To act a scene of darkness. Turn thy thoughts

To the broad field of conquest and renown;

Nor waste in amorous folly manhood’s prime,

While glory and ambition claim your sword.

Alf.

I do not need your counsel, for I know

A soldier’s valour is his country’s fame.

Yet Heaven forbid ambition’s furious tide

Should whelm the milder virtues of the soul:

The proudest triumphs that await the brave

Look not so beauteous in the sight of Heaven

As mercy’s humblest tear.

Val.

A weak evasion!

Again I tell thee, that Honoria’s heart

Is pledged to brave Montalva’s only heir.

Alf.

Her hand, thou mean’st;—but may the
God of battle

Amidst whole legions of the foe forsake me,

May foul dishonour blight my fairest hopes,

If ever I renounce thy peerless child!

Cursed be the sordid wretch whose grovelling
soul

Would bind in golden chains a trembling slave;

Or, like a dastard, traffic with the base,

To sell that freedom Heaven design’d for all!

Val.

Thy rage, rash youth, can only move my
pity;

Nor will I dim the lustre of my sword

To curb or to chastise—a daring stripling.

Alf.

Drawing his sword. Defend thyself!—
yet, soft, a moment’s pause—

Thou art the father of my soul’s best darling

The source of all the light that gilds my days!

And therefore—I forgive thee.

Val.

Vaunting slave!

What then, at last thou prov’st thyself a braggart!

An empty, bold, an arrogant presumer!

Boy, the young blood forsakes thy quivering
lip—

Is it the touch of fear or secret malice?

Alferenzi raises his sword, then lowers it.

Guilt! conscious guilt unnerves thy trembling
arm,

While her pale ensign blanches o’er thy cheek;

Nay, frown again, while I with smiles repay

The foe I scorn to combat.

Alf.

Sheathing his sword. Have a care!

I do conjure thee, venerable man,

Urge not my hand to do a deed of horror!

I would not be thy murderer—

Val.

Nobly said!

Then swear by faith, by honour, and your
sword,

Never again to see her. Dost thou pause?

Alf.

Oh! bid me rather curse yon glorious
orb,

That rolls his burning chariot through the sky;

Tell me, with base and sacrilegious hands

To murder smiling infants, or profane

Religion’s still and consecrated shrine;

Bid me rush forth a damned parricide,

And drink the life-stream of a parent’s heart!

There is no deed of horror so abhorr’d

As violation of my faith to her.

Val.

She will but mock you; for to-morrow’s
dawn

Will see her Albert’s bride; and till that hour

She keeps her chamber—such are my commands;

And she respects a father’s right too much

To think of Alferenzi!

Alf.

’Tis false as hell.

She will not so degrade the soul she owns,

Nor will I brook a rival: Tell him so;

Tell the vain boaster that a father’s pride

Shall by a lover’s vengeance be chastised.

The Castle bell strikes.

Val.

The bell now calls me home to evening
prayer.

Mark me, rash boy—if ever you approach

These castle walls again, without my bidding,

That hour shall be your last! Think, and be
wise.

Exit.

Alf.

To-morrow! if thou opest thy golden eye

To see Honoria wedded to duke Albert,

Thy parting glance shall shine upon my grave!

Now will I to my solitary home,

To taste a lover’s only food, sharp sorrow!

To paint on Fancy’s tablet my soul’s joy,

And dream of bliss—though I should wake to
madness.

Exit.
K1r 73

Act II.

Scene I.— A Gothic Hall, with a Gallery and
Staircase.

Enter Honoria and Agnes.

Hon.

A prisoner, said’st thou?—in my father’s
castle!—

Here! where from infancy my growing reason

Has taught me to look forward with delight!

Is this the noontide of so blithe a promise?

Oh, Agnes! happy is the mountain peasant

That wakes exulting with the morning beam,

And, still a stranger to the cares of greatness,

Sinks to soft slumbers with the setting sun!

The seasons are to him but pleasing changes

Of labour and repose; his wife, his infants,

The smiling subjects bound by Nature’s laws

To decorate his little world of love!

Agnes.

Yet ’tis not always thus; for oft we
see

That Virtue, to the rugged wild retired,

Still finds the thorn affliction in its way.

Hon.

But the rough child of nature knows no
guile;

No honied poison meets his healthful lips,

Steep’d in the gilded chalice of deceit:

By poverty, from envy far removed,

No fawning sycophant assails his door,

Where holy innocence presides, secure!

Agnes.

Give not your thoughts to melancholy
musing;

By pondering o’er past wo we oft neglect

The means of future joy.

Hon.

Now, hear me, Agnes;

This night I promised in the forest’s gloom

To meet my Alferenzi; there to pour

All my vast store of sorrows in his breast,

And then to seek oblivion.

Agnes.

Yet, Forbear!

Be not so rash; parental rage is transient,

And nature bends the heart to suffering virtue!

Hon.

Oh! could transcendent virtue’s charm
subdue

The haughty spirit of my father’s soul,

He had not with remorseless rage deprived

An only child of a fond mother’s care.

But she’s in Heaven.

Agnes.

Yet, see thy Alferenzi
Valmont appears in the gallery.

Hon.

Ah! do not mock my anguish; gods!
to see him,

O’er the bleak desert or the craggy mountain,

Bow’d by the yelling blast and beating tempest,

No light save that the livid flash afforded,

Still would I wander, pleased and unrepining!

Agnes.

Attend—without the prospect of such
danger,

You may hold converse freely; the stern guard

Your father makes the keeper of your prison


I can persuade to pity; if you’ll venture,

The western portal shall be open to you,

And in the forest, by the midnight moon,

You may confer in safety, and unseen.

Hon.

O! blessings on thee!—soft, this ray of
hope

Dazzles my aching senses, and I start

As from a dream of horror, where the brain,

Stampt with the semblance of some phantom
dire,

Reflects it, waking, to the fearful gaze!

Now, gentle Agnes! seek my Alferenzi!

Tell him, the gloom that hides a maiden’s blush

Presents no terror to the spotless soul!

Guilt fears the ’witching hour of spectred night,

When on the murderer’s front the starting drop

Sits like the dew upon the poisonous toad!

But virtue, guided by its own pure ray,

Treads the rude path, undaunted and secure.

Now to thy task, and may the powers of pity

Guard thee from every ill! I will away,

And in my prison chamber wait thy signal.

Exeunt severally. Valmont descends from the gallery.

Val.

Go, disobedient fiend!

Long shalt thou wait before thy minion comes:

The midnight moon, reflecting what she sees,

Shall veil her placid brow with tints of blood!

No sound shall greet thine ear with signal kind;

But the lone owl, with horror-boding shriek,

Shall pierce thy love-sick, palpitating heart.

How like her mother look’d the froward girl!

On that dread night, when her proud father fell,

So did she lure me to her fatal snare.—

Away, reflection! vengeance calls me hence;

And I obey the summons.

Scene II.— Before the Castle. Moonlight.

Enter Albert, wrapped in a Venetian cloak.

Alb.

I cannot be deceived!

I heard the voice of Agnes from the terrace

Call soft on Alferenzi! if he attends

The guilty bidding, ere the twilight gleams,

Or he or I must fall! now sullen night

Flings her star-spangled mantle o’er the globe,

And spirits hostile to the soul of man

Weave the dark web of mischief! bodings strange

Knock at my heart and make my pulses beat

As though the life-stream struggled with my
fate.

A light appears in the Tower.

That is Honoria’s chamber; and she wakes

At this unusual hour; ’tis passing strange!

Hah! she approaches!

Albert draws back. Agnes comes forth
from the Castle.

Agnes.

Francisco is our friend;

Thus far kind fortune smiles upon our hopes!

How lovely is this silence! The faint breeze

Sleeps like an infant lull’d by its own song!

K K1v 74

Scarcely three hours have wing’d their tardy
flight,

Since from the watch-tower I distinctly mark’d

The pensive Alferenzi: on a bank

O’er-canopied by odorous myrtle boughs,

With folded arms, like one not loving life,

Mournful he stood, inclining o’er the stream,

That seem’d to soothe him with its murmuring
sound.

She hears footsteps.

Now all the spirits of the night protect me!

Exit.

Alb.

Oh! busy, cunning minister of ill!

Thou draw’st thy victim to that dizzy point

From whence my sword shall hurl him to destruction!

Come, sweet revenge, thou haggard imp of hell,

Come, let me riot in thy iron arms,

And glut my soul with luxury of hate!

Some one approaches—to my hiding place

Till I make sure of vengeance!

Retires into the wood.
Enter Valmont, from behind the Castle.

Val.

Ha! does the coward shun me

Thus have I caught the thief in his own snare:

It must be Alferenzi, like a traitor,

Lurking in ambush, with a villain’s hand,

To steal a father’s treasure. Day’s proud lord

Soon as he decks his eastern car with fire,

Shall see the wily serpent writhe in death!

Thou God of retribution! Thou whose voice

Bids the pale caitiff dread the thunder’s bolt,

Now shield my arm, and let it strike securely.

Exit. They fight in the wood. Valmont re-enters,
pale and aghast; one hand holds a drawn
sword, the other is bleeding. Honoria opens
a small door in the tower, and comes upon the
battlements.

Hon.

Agnes, oh! speak! is Alferenzi there? A deep groan issues from the wood. Valmont starts.

Hark.

Do my startled senses yet deceive me,

Or did I hear a soul-departing groan

In yon dark tangled wood? Who passes there?

Speak, or the castle bell shall raise the country.

It must be some unwary traveller,

Benighted in this solitary gloom,

Waylaid and murder’d by conceal’d banditti!

Val.

Fearfully. Be still, Honoria, ’tis thy father,
child.

Send round a vassal to unbar the gate,

For I am faint with anguish.

Hon.

Heavens! why that piercing tone of
trembling fear?

I thought, ere now, that sleep had folded you

On the soft couch of safety and repose.

I will despatch a vassal instantly

To give you entrance.

Retires into the Tower.

Val.

Oh! thou blushing sword!

Thou instrument accursed, that gave away

My foul, sin-spotted soul, where shall I hide
thee?

The gate opens. Valmont enters.

Scene III.— Honoria’s Chamber.

A lamp burning near a window. A door open to
the battlements, from which Honoria enters.
The moon seen half concealed by clouds opposite
the door.

Hon.

Who wears the scarf of Alferenzi. Agnes
not yet return’d! That groan of death

Still vibrates on my brain, and bids me fear

For Alferenzi’s safety—Heaven protect him!

Valmont enters, with his sword drawn and his
hand smeared with blood. He shrinks at the
sight of Honoria, who shrieks and runs towards
him.

Hon.

Prophetic powers! Hah! What am I
to think?

Why is that hand so gash’d, and stain’d with
blood?

Speak, ere the current of my heart congeals,

And all my faculties freeze up with horror!

Thou’rt deadly pale! and the cold dew of fear

Doth glisten on thy brow! Alas! my father!

Falls on his neck.

Val.

Wildly. Peace! be silent. Heard you
not the tempest

That shook our lofty towers from their foundation?

Saw you the back wing of the howling blast

Sweeping our turrets, red with human gore?

Hon.

I pray thee, help me bind this bleeding
hand.

Ah! let me call assistance—thou art faint!

Honoria binds the scarf round Valmont’s
bleeding hand.

Val.

Call, call the world’s vast multitude to
curse me!

Let hungry vultures batten on my heart;

Pluck out mine eyes to feed the eagle’s brood,

Lest they, by gazing on thee, fear thy beauty!

Hon.

Whence comes this strange disorder of
thy brain?

Val.

From that infernal gulf where guilty
souls

Howl in despair! Oh! ’twas a stormy hour.

The earth was palsied, and the vaulted spheres

Flash’d forth indignant flames, while all around

Pale spectres yell’d in triumph o’er the deed!

Hon.

Thy fancy doth beguile thy better reason;

A night more still and calm I ne’er have seen.

’Tis the sweet pause when nature sinks to rest,

To wake again with renovated charms.

No object seems to move, save the thin clouds,

That, slowly floating o’er the grey expanse,

Veil the bright forehead of the silvery moon.

K2r 75

Val.

Thou art deceived—

There is a fiend abroad with mildew wing,

Blighting creation! Hell yawns forth monsters,

And the blue air is choked wiith poison’d mists,

Thickening to hide the general wreck of nature.

Say, wilt thou aid the ministers of wrath

To curse an aged father?

Hon.

Heaven shield me from the thought!

Why dost thou ask such incoherent questions?

Whose were the crimson drops that stain thy
sword?

Val.

He met me on my way—he cross’d my
path—

Revenge, unsated, panted for his blood!

Would I had perish’d ere my sword had reach’d
him.

Hon.

Whom dost thou mean?

Val.

Thy lover!—Alferenzi!

Hon.

Oh! monstrous and inhuman! quit my
sight,

Lest I should, darting o’er the bounds of reason,

Tear all the bonds of filial love asunder,

And brand thee with the name of an assassin!

Go, hide thyself for ever, rash old man,

For thy deep-furrow’d cheek is stampt with
murder!

Val.

Restrain thy frenzy: know, a father’s
life

Depends upon thy silence: I must hence

Before the broad and blabbing eye of day

Glares on the scene of slaughter! Fare thee
well!

I would embrace thee ere we part for ever,

But that these red contaminated hands

Would stain thy white and unpolluted soul!

Going.

Hon.

Thou shalt not leave me:

Thou, whom the voice of nature taught me first

To love and honour, art more dear than ever,

Because thou art more wretched.

She goes to embrace her father, sees the bloody
sword, and recoils with horror.

Put up that sword! It blasts my shatter’d
senses!

Oh! I am lost! my wild ethereal spirit

Springs o’er the confines of this world’s despair,

And flies to Alferenzi!

Val.

Sheathing his sword. Already the grey
dawn steals o’er the forest,

And tips our battlements with dusky light;

Danger comes trembling on the wings of time,

And time, not daring to record the deed,

Flies swiftly on! Come, let me lead thee, love.

Hon.

Wildly. Oh! lead me where all memory
shall fade;

Where blank oblivion desolates the scene!

Yet, stay; I have a secret to unfold.

Seest thou yon star, that in the rosy East

Stands, like a lacquey, at the gates of day,

Scattering afar the shadow-vested clouds


That on the glittering threshold lingering
hung?

All will be well! The sun will warm his breast,

And Heaven’s own tears, unseen by mortal
eyes

Will consecrate his grave! so pure is pity!

Enter Francisco. Honoria endeavours to conceal
her father, particularly his hand.

Hon.

To Fran. wildly. Well? Is he dead?
What else has brought thee hither?

All guiltless souls devote this hour to sleep;

Then why are we still waking? Who art thou?

Fran.

Forgive me, lady, for this bold intrusion;

But the deep groans I heard beneath our walls

Urged me to seek the Marquis――

Hon.

Why? what is it to him? He knows
not of it;

And if he did, ’tis now, alas! past cure.

Val.

This is the wandering of her scatter’d
thoughts;

Do not disturb her farther; now, good night;

Get thee to bed sternly, and when the sun
peeps forth,

We’ll to the forest—but your lady’s safety,

Her mind disorder’d by some unknown cause,

Requires that I should watch her for a time:

Nay, no reply. Francisco, fare thee well.

Exit Francisco.

Come, let me lead thee.

Hon.

Would it were to my grave!
Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Pavilion at Montalva’s
Castle.

Enter the Prince Montalva meeting
Francisco.

Fran.

Oh! venerable Prince! I’ve news to
tell

Will seize the feeble fibres of thy brain,

And though thy nerves could mock the temper’d
steel,

Would shiver them with horror!

Mont.

Where’s my son?

All the long night I watch’d for his return.

Heaven grant no ill betide him.

Fran.

Well I know,

He that reports ill news ungracious seems,

Howe’er his phrase be fashion’d: therefore hear

A tale that mocks all harmony of speech!

Startled by groans of anguish, I arose

Ere I had press’d my pillow one short hour,

And to the forest, where the towers of Valmont

Rear their dark battlements, pursued my way;

There, hold my heart while I reveal a story

Big with all Hell’s worst horrors! your brave
son

K2v 76

Lay by the thicket side, a piteous corse;

The ruddy stream once mantling o’er his cheek

Had flown to drench a dire assassin’s sword!

Mont.

Nay, then, my weary journey soon
will end,

And my long pilgrimage of worldly wo

Fade like a ferverish dream! The source is still

From whence my spring of rapture rose so
bright!

The flower that deck’d my silver hairs is dead!

Blasted and scatter’d by the ruthless storm!

Fran.

Oh! ’twas a cruel deed—

Mont.

Alas! Francisco!

And shall I never see my child again?

Never, in converse sweet, beguile the hour

That closes life’s dull scene? It is most strange,

So near the castle, and at night’s still noon,

When every moaning breeze distinctly steals

O’er meditation’s ear, to be so butcher’d!

Fran.

I know not what to think; yet much
I fear

Some secret malice urged the murderer’s sword

More than the hope of plunder.

Mont.

Even so!

Oh! good Francisco! Heaven absolve my soul,

If, without proof, I judge a fellow creature;

But shrewd suspicion points at Alferenzi:

A rival’s hate alone could prompt an act

So fraught with ruin! Oh! my gallant Albert!

Fran.

Say, shall I lead you to him? The
rude swains

And village girls have strew’d his graceful corse,

And every fragrant bud was steep’d in tears.

Mont.

Ah! let me not behold him for
my eyes,

If once they fix’d upon my murder’d boy,

Would start with anguish from their humid
spheres,

And yield me up to darkness! Here I swear,

Never to cherish hope or seek repose

Till I have dragg’d the cursed assassin forth,

And, by the last deep groan that rends his heart,

Appeased the spirit of my valiant son!

Exeunt.

Scene V.— In the Castle of Valmont.

Enter Alferenzi and Agnes.

Alf.

Gone! said’st thou, Agnes? Both at break
of day,

Their course unknown, sudden, and unattended,

What can it mean? Tell me, good gentle damsel,

Left she no word of kind remembrance for me?

Agnes.

I knew not of their flight till they departed;

Before the midnight hour crept half way on

To that which time proclaims the new-born day,

With sighs and tears, and many earnest prayers,

She vow’d her love and truth to Alferenzi.


Alf.

Say on, fair Agnes! To the tortured
wretch,

Stung by the poisonous spider to the heart,

The sound of minstrelsy is not so sweet!

Agnes.

Wrung to the soul by a stern father’s
rage,

Last night she form’d the fatal resolution,

In cold monastic gloom to end her days;

And scarce an hour before her sudden flight

Me she despatch’d to give you timely notice,

That to the forest she would steal at midnight,

And, by the waning lustre of the moon,

Bid her fond hopes and you farewell for ever.

Alf.

Oh! most inhuman thought! most barbarous
wish!

Why did she fail to keep her promise then?

Agnes.

Alas! I know not: after tedious
search

To find you wandering at th’ appointed place,

I hasten’d to the castle, where I found

The outward gate unbarr’d—I pass’d along

The solitary courts, o’erwhelm’d with fear!

No light appear’d around the spacious pile,

Save a small lamp, which at a lattice grate

Shot from the western tower a feeble ray.

Alf.

Why from the western tower? Who
rested there?

Agnes.

It was the prison of my lovely mistress.
Alferenzi starts.

The melancholy stillness of the night

Made my own footsteps echo as I trod

The gothic cloisters that surround the courts:

On the white marble of the banner’d hall

I mark’d fresh drops of blood! and further on—

Alf.

Hold! and be careful, I conjure thee,
Agnes;

There is more terror in those little words

Than in the prospect of eternal pangs.

The father of Honoria! Oh! my soul,

This is thy last dread trial—she is dead!

The barbarous fiend has blotted Nature’s page,

And written murder with his poniard cursed

Steep’d in the fountain of his daughter’s heart!

Agnes.

Next to the chamber of my darling
mistress

I flew, with hurried step and beating heart;

There, strew’d about, I saw her rich apparel,

That deck’d her person when I parted from
her;

Her cross of brilliants, and her emerald zone,

Thrown carelessly aside.

Alf.

Oh! damned monster!

Agnes.

Then, wild with horror! to the northern
tower,

Where the stern father erst was wont to pass

The midnight hour in sullen meditation,

I rush’d impatient; ’twas the dawn of day,

And through the painted casement’s purple light

Cast a faint lustre on the fearful gloom.

I gazed around me—

Alf.

Was the blood there too?
K3r 77

Agnes.

Yes; on the garment of the haughty
marquis:

The vest he wore last night was crimson-spotted

With human gore; scarce cold when I beheld it!

Alf.

Oh! ’tis most sure.

Agnes.

Now hear me, Alferenzi;

Prepare thy soul to meet another proof,

As black as hell itself! I then descended

By a small winding staircase, dark and damp,

To the long gallery where, in pictured pomp,

The steel-clad ancestors of Valmont hung.

The clock struck three! Beneath the fretted roof

The hollow-sounding echo lingering stole!

I started! Horror chain’d me to the spot!

When, gazing on the ground with fear-fix’d eyes,

I mark’d this blood-stain’d scarf, which, when
I left

My angel mistress, veil’d her beauteous breast!

Alferenzi, taking the scarf.

Count Alferenzi[Speaker label not present in original source]

Oh! horrible! beyond what thought can
frame!
Puts the scarf into his bosom.

Grow to my anguish’d heart. Oh! wounded
nature!

If in my breast one spark of mercy gleams,

Let these red drops extinguish it for ever!

Enter Francisco.

Francisco, where’s thy mistress? quickly speak.

Fran.

I fear, most noble Sir, she’s in her
grave.

When last I saw her—

Alf.

Was she not living?

Fran.

Scarcely, my lord; so sadly wan she
look’d,

That my old eyes did make my manhood blush

Through many a trickling tear.

Alf.

Poor victim!

And didst thou leave her so, unfeeling slave?

Fran.

My lord, I left her to a father’s care;

She seem’d most deeply troubled; for her words

Were incoherent, wild, and sorrowful!

I would have call’d assistance, but the marquis

Commanded me to leave them.

Alf.

Alone! Francisco?

Fran.

Alone, my lord; I dared not disobey;

His looks were terrrible and much I fear

Some direful purpose rankled in his soul.

Alf.

Francisco, get thee hence; and let thy
zeal

Give strict observance to thy searching eye.

Explore all secret corners of the castle,

Each darken’d niche, and every lofty tower;

Murder’s a lurking fiend, and shuns the gaze

Of broad-eyed Honesty! Now fare thee well.

Exit Francisco.

Agnes, this father is a vile assassin!

A barbarous monster, sacrilegious slave!

Who to the demon of insatiate wrath


Has sacrificed the life of his dear child!

Oh! thou fell wolf, could not so sweet a lamb,

With all the graceful eloquence of nature,

Arrest thy butcher hand, and turn the knife

On thy own cursed and most relentless bosom!

All Erebus, conspiring with thy fate,

Sent forth its blackest fiend to aid the deed,

And drag thy trembling soul to deep perdition!

Agnes.

’Tis likely noble Albert interposed

Too late to save Honoria, and was slain

By the rash marquis to impede pursuit.

Alf.

Impossible! none but the famish’d tiger

Would kill the thing it loved; if Valmont’s
soul

Could bend a moment from its churlish mood,

That Albert was the dearest to his heart.

Alas! Honoria was his only victim!

Her bosom was the unpolluted temple

Where innate truth, majestically throned,

Fear’d not the subtle glance of malice fell,

Till, like the basilisk, it seal’d its prey,

And feasted on its idol! All the earth

I’ll traverse o’er to seek the monstrous villian;

And may the blue-wing’d bolts of heaven destroy
me,

If e’er I rest till vengeance is complete!

Exeunt.

Act III.

Scene I.— The inside of a cavern. The setting
sun seen through a chasm in the rock. Ricardo
and other banditti discovered drinking.

Ric.

’Tis strange, that through this solitary
wood

No traveller has pass’d since yester-dawn!

Beshrew me but I’m weary of our trade;

Knaves are so multiplied, that honest men

Live better than ourselves; and more secure,

For each depends upon himself alone.

2d Rob.

Ricardo, dost thou doubt our firm alliance?

Ric.

In truth, not I; it is the time’s disease

That palsies honesty; for villains thrive

In such profusion of victorious guilt,

That secrecy is useless to our calling.

Why skulk in cavern’d mountains, shrink from
light,

And lurk in ambush for the traveller’s gold,

While in the broad effulgence of full noon,

In cities throng’d with gaping multitudes,

The bolder caitiff plunders all secure!

3d Rob.

Thou know’st the world, Ricardo.

Ric.

Yes; enough

To make me shun one half the race of man,

And pity all the rest! so frail is nature!

1st Rob.

Discrimination finds no easy task

In searching the gay paths of busy life,

Where all is outward artificial show,

Put on to varnish falsehood.

K3v 78

Ric.

True; but deception wears so thin a
mask,

That stern philosophy ne’er fails to note it.

Whatever shape, complexion, or disguise,

Hypocrisy may take, of ermined robe,

Or threadbare vestment scant, or witching
smile,

Or cynic brow austere, it cannot hide

The base deformity that lurks within;

The bold and ragged knave less dangerous still

Than he who pranks him in a cloth of gold!

Val.

Without. Hillo! within there.

Ric.

Silence, good fellows:

Let us retire, and shrewd observance make

Of our unwary guest; perchance some poor

And wo-worn pilgrim here would find a nook

To shield his body from the midnight blast:

Do not forget, my comrades, we are men.

Exeunt to the inner cave. Enter Valmont, in the habit of a Vassal, supporting
Honoria, who has a white veil partly thrown
off her face: she enters fearfully.

Val.

Here nothing can molest thee. Night
draws near,

And ere dim shadows shroud the twilight
gleam

I’ll venture forth; not far from this lone spot

I mark’d a clustering vineyard, whose scorch’d
bank

Was kindly freshen’d by a limpid spring,

That from the neighbouring steep meandering
flow’d;

They shall supply our solitary meal;

And, when the smiling yellow-vested morn

Crowns with a wreath of gold the eastern hill,

We will pursue our journey. Cheerly, love;

Look up, and all our miseries will end.

Hon.

Think’st thou that murder will not cry
aloud,

And rouse the fates to vengeance? Will yon
Heaven,

Whose beamy eye encompasseth the world,

Wink at the deed of horror? Every thorn

That festers in the deeply-wounded mind

May from Time’s lenient power a balsam take

To draw its poison forth; save where the hand,

Blurr’d with the life-stream of a fellow creature,

Contaminates the means ordain’d to heal,

And leaves the wretch past cure.

Val.

Grasping his sword. ’Twere best to die!

That cure at least is ready to my grasp;

Thou know’st I am no coward—

Hon.

Dreadful thought!

Oh! wouldst thou then destroy thy better part,

Turn from the balsam Heaven in pity leaves

To cleanse thy soul’s deep wound and seal its
pardon?


Wouldst thou sum up the dark account of horrors,

And, by the sure damnation of thy deed,

Rush from this transitory scene of anguish

To the dread chaos of eternal wo?

Val.

The complicated pangs that rend my
heart

Would melt the ministers of wrath to mercy.

Hon.

But will not justice urge her sacred
claim?

Will not the tongues of men denounce the act

That bids humanity recoil, aghast?

Val.

Why did I quit my home? My lofty
state

Had silenced busy clamour, and forbade

The breath of columny to taint my name!

Hon.

Oh! empty sophistry; delusive hope!

’Tis in thy greatness thy conviction lies.

Unseen, the sweetest low-born buds decay;

But the proud cedar, towering on the rock,

Stands like a land-mark to attract men’s eyes;

And, though it shares the bright meridian blaze,

It cannot ’scape the pelting of the storm.

Val.

Soon as my footsteps greet Helvetia’s
land,

I may defy my fate, for there, secure,

What slave shall menace Valmont?

Ric.

Observing them from the inner cave. Valmont!

Val.

Hah! heard’st thou not a voice, with
hollow sound,

Repeat the name of Valmont?

Hon.

Such it seem’d—

’Twas but the echo of this vaulted cave.

Now let me rest; and while you venture forth

To seek refreshing fruits, I’ll watch and pray!

Val.

I will not leave thee long; and Heaven,
I trust,

Will guard me till my weary steps return.

Exit.

Hon.

Now all is still, and terrible as death!

Here meditation fearfully employs

The melancholy hour; yet unappall’d

Hood-wink’d destruction seems to stalk secure!

What, if my father should no more return?

How shall I find my way? where seek repose?

Oh, Alferenzi! Taking a picture from her bosom.
if thy spirit blest

Could visit these dread haunts thou wouldst appear

To soothe me with a gleam of consolation!

Ric.

Still observing her. I will protect thee.

Hon.

Celestial Powers! again the airy voice

Of some prophetic spirit strikes my soul

With petrifying sounds! Perhaps this cave,

Fill’d with enchantment, is the dark abode

Of spectres horrible, whose bleeding wounds

Make ghastly show of murder unavenged!

An icy langour creeps along my veins,

Forewarning me of danger near at hand!

K4r 79

My father, oh! return.—He hears me not!

Where shall I hide me? all within is death!

And all without, a solitary wild,

Bestrew’d with thorns and perilous to tread!

This inner cavern will be less exposed

To the night’s nipping air—

The Robbers rush forth.

O God! defend me! What is your intent?

I do expect some mercy, as you hope

yourselves to be forgiven!

2d Rob.

What are you, lady?

Hon.

The wretched offspring of a wretched
sire;

A wandering exile from my native home;

Too poor for plunder, and too proud to weep;

For I believe that virtue bears a charm

Which bids the boldest villain shrink appall’d.

3d. Rob.

Seizing Honoria. Nay, if you
brave us—you shall know our power!

Ric.

Ruffian! stand back. Sweet lady, you
are safe!

For he that lifts his sacrilegious hand

To strike at helpless woman, shames mankind,

And sinks his coward soul so deep in hell,

That nature scorns to own him! Spare your
thanks;

I will defend you; we are desperate men;

But cruelty can never urge that sword

Which courage vaunts the bearing.

Hon.

Generous man!

Now I can weep! But they are thankful tears!

Wrongs urge the soul to vengeance, and call
forth

That pride which proves the antidote to grief;

But kindness steals so sweetly o’er the sense,

So melts the throbbing heart with tender joy,

That, as the sun darts forth amidst the storm,

The eye of grateful rapture beams through tears!

Ric.

Soon must I leave you, for the hour
draws near

Which calls us to our watchful occupation.

Hon.

Kneeling to Ricardo. O! hear me.

If in your pathway you should chance to meet

A venerable man, for my sake spare him!

His years are nearly number’d; let him live

To make his peace with Heaven! for much, I
fear,

He’s not prepared for death.

Ric.

He shall be safe.

Now, let me counsel you to seek repose.

In yon small cavern lies a rushy couch,

Where innocence may taste of balmy dreams,

For guilt has often slumber’d there secure!

Lady, Heaven guard you!

Exeunt banditti.

Hon.

Thou art not used to pray! and yet thy
voice

May find swift passport to the realms of grace,

When pious fraud may supplicate in vain;

For thou art merciful! Alas! I fear

Some savage thing hath cross’d my father’s way;

The prowling wolf; or, what is far more fell,

Man, without pity for his hapless kind!


Thou solitary den, where guilt retires

To hold fierce converse with the fiends accursed,

Undaunted I approach thee! for that power

Which guards the cradled infant while it sleeps,

Sustains the labouring bark amidst the storm,

And, while the tempest rends the mountain pine,

Shields the poor shepherd’s cot, will not forsake

The child of sorrow in the hour of rest!

Exit to the inner cave.

Scene II.— Night.

On one side, the Apennines, with the entrance of a
Cavern half way up; on the other, a thick wood.
Enter Valmont.

Val.

Oh! what a lost and wretched thing is
man!

Who, bold in hell’s worst embassy, will start

At the small rustling of a beetle’s wing!

The wind that moans along these cavern’d cliffs

Seems like the murmurs of a thousand tongues

That tell my soul’s undoing! The faint stars,

The many-million eyes of prying Heaven,

Gleam humid, and surcharged with nature’s
tears!

Yet what of that? ’Tis but my mind’s disease,

That feeds faint reason with portentous signs,

And makes it sicken at the touch of thought!

What have I not committed that Heaven
loathes?

First, in the ghastly train of hellish crimes,

A noble brother, who in my defence

Slew a proud Milanese, beheld in me

His cursed accuser; and, to exile driven,

Left me the lord of all his vast domains.

Next, a chaste wife I banish’d from her home;

My fickle sense was sated with her charms,

And meaner beauties triumph’d in their turn!

Where shall my feverish conscience find repose?

All the long sunny day, when Summer smiles,

And leads old Time in flowery garlands on,

A living spectre, hopeless and forlorn,

I journey forth to an oblivious grave?

Nor at that fearful goal will the dread strife

Feel blissful termination; for beyond

The rending pangs that warn the trembling soul

From its clay habitation, reason tells

Of something terrible! and yet so sure,

That nature starts to think on’t! Hark, what
stirs?

Alferenzi appears in the wood, and the
day begins to dawn.

Is it the potent fever of my brain

That takes my coward fancy prisoner,

Or do I hear the sound of mortal tread?

After listening and looking round.

’Twas but the waving of the sun-parch’d boughs,

Whose tawny canopy o’erspreads the wood.

Valmont advances towards the cavern. Alferenzi
rushes forward.
K4v 80

Val.

Horrible spectre! wherefore dost thou
haunt me?

Why from the shrouded pallet of the grave

Present the form of murder’d Alferenzi?

In pity hence; for know, that spirits pure

Can hold no converse with a damned wretch,

In whose convulsive soul all hell is raging!

Away! Away!

Alf.

Valmont, thy hour draws near;

I know thee, and will try what guardian fiend

Will blunt my sword, uplifted to destroy thee!

What wraps thee so in horrible conceit?

Val.

Thick mystery! that dims the mental eye,

And makes us, scarce believe us that we are,

Seeing, what cannot be! ’Tis all illusion.

Alf.

Strike at my heart, inexorable parent!

Or guard thy own, for one of us must fall.

Drawing his sword.

Val.

If Alferenzi lives, then all is well!

Alf.

All is not well, prevaricating slave!

Draw, draw thy sword; let Heaven decide between
us.

Val.

Drawing his sword. Then be it so!
Though thou hast once escaped;

Thou’rt not invulnerable: now, come on;

I’ll teach thy tongue to quell its lofty phrase,

Or perish in the combat.

They fight; Honoria rushes forth from the cavern,
and stands before the entrance.

Hon.

Oh! spare him! spare him! Alferenzi drops his sword.

Barbarian, do not kill an aged man,

Or stay thy sword, and let me perish with him.

Honoria descends, Alferenzi recedes.

Alf.

Thou sainted spirit! shade of my Honoria!

That, like an angel, comest to turn my sword,

And save my soul, thirsting for blood of man,

Do not approach me! every trembling nerve

Obeys thy potent eye, and the cold drops

That bathe my brain will quench the ray of
reason.

Hon.

Val.Valmont. leans against a tree. He lives! he
lives! It is my Alferenzi!

Light of my life! dearer than life itself!

Embracing.

Oh! do these eyes behold thee once more
breathing?

My father, here, before the face of Heaven,

Kneel, and adore the minister of pity,

Who, bending from its sphere, restores him to
us!

Valmont appears pale and faint. Honoria
supports him,

Speak! art thou hurt? Hah! from thy mangled
breast

The life-stream gushes! Ye relentless powers!

Turn not the measure of my joy to wo!

Valmont falls; Honoria kneels.

Let me support thee: look upon thy child:

Oh! speak, for I must hear thy voice once
more,


To say, that thou forgivest me: Save him,
Heaven!

Val.

Sweet image of a chaste and injured
saint!

A dying father’s blessing shall be thine.

Hon.

Thou shalt not die; I cannot live to see

Those darling eyes closed in the sleep of death!

Val.

Brave Alferenzi! I believed thee murder’d;

In the dark-tangled wood that skirts our castle,

I saw thee fall, thrice wounded by my sword.

Alf.

Thy victim was duke Albert! Hapless
Valmont,

Heaven’s sure to hear when murder cries for
justice!

Hon.

Oh! misery supreme! oh! my lost
father!

Val.

If yet the noble Leonardo lives,

Seek out his lone asylum, and restore

The just possession of his rich domains;

Tell him, that Heaven at last avenged his
wrongs,

And humbled his proud brother to the dust!

Now let me press thee to my streaming heart;

To Honoria.

Alas! my parting sigh will soon extinguish

The feeble lamp of life, and my last pang

Pay the dread forfeit which my crimes demand!

Dies.

Hon.

To Alf.Alferenzi Now, is thy rage appeased?
If thy fell soul

Still pants for Valmont’s blood, strike here!
this heart,

This bursting heart, will scorn to sue for pity.

Alf.

Do not distract me with thy fierce reproaches;

A dread coincidence of time and act

Drew me from Reason’s empire to Despair!

Dire and disastrous as the deed may seem,

’Twas to avenge thy wrongs that I am guilty;

For I believed that Valmont—thy assassin!

Let me entreat thee to be patient, love.

Hon.

Hence with thy feign’d contrition! my
weak brain

Burns with the frenzy thou hast heap’d upon it.

Alf.

This sight will make thee mad! Quit,
quit the scene,

Nor feed the gnawing anguish of thy soul.

Soon will I bear thee to my native shores,

Where, ’midst the fond endearments of new
friends,

Of noble kindred, and resplendent joys,

The memory of past grief shall fade away.

Hon.

Rising. Oh! ’twill not be! This is
my destined home!

I’d rather wander like a pilgrim poor!

Toil, like a slave who in the torrid blaze

Curses the sun that mark’d him for despair,

Than journey thither: here will I remain.

Oh! the vast sum of my disastrous life

Seems like an atom to this world of wo!

Honoria returns to the body. L1r 81

Yet let me kiss that cheek, pale and distorted.

Stern was thy aspect, yet my soul would give

Half its dear hopes of an immortal crown

To see those eyes but once more gaze upon me.

But they are dark, closed in the sleep of death.

Alf.

Let me conceal thee in some spot secure,

While to the earth I give this breathless corse.

I do not covet life, deprived of thee,

And wilt thou doom me to the torturing rack?

Canst thou behold this throbbing, loyal heart,

Mangled and bleeding as a public show?

Wilt thou not shudder when the rabble’s shout

Shall drown the agonizing groan of death?

Hon.

Oh! do not torture me; alas! my
soul

Already shrinks beneath its weight of grief.

Wherefore deny a murder’d father’s dust

The holy incense of a filial tear?

No other rite will consecrate his grave!

Alf.

Delay brings danger; see, the purple
dawn

Is gayly tissued o’er with beamy gold!

The merry birds begin their matin songs,

And new-born glory animates the scene!

Let me conceal thee in yon cavern’d cliff.

Hon.

Ha! now I do bethink me, wretched
man!

This is no place for parley! Yon dark cave

Is the dread haunt of robbers: get thee hence;

Danger and death await thee! Oh! begone.

Alf.

What! leave thee to the mercy of banditti?

Forsake thee, helpless, faint, forlorn and sad,

To be the victim of wild rioters!

The sport of ruffians—lawless, cut-throat
knaves!

Beside yon mountain a poor clay-built shed

I slightly noted as I pass’d along;

Fly, fly thee thither; I will follow soon.

Hon.

Oh! dread alternative! oh! cruel
task!

Betake thyself to flight, ill-fated man!

For we must meet no more! One little word,

One parting sigh, still struggles at my heart!

Ha! look not so upon me! Is it thus

Our intercourse must end? our radiant morn

Of love, and hope, and youth, and tender joy,

Shadow’d by sorrow, and convulsed with
storms!—

Go to thy splendid home, thy friends await
thee;

Death is preparing in the silent tomb

A lonely bed, where I shall sleep at peace.

Exit.

Alf.

Now in yon cave will I conceal this
corse;

And then, O God! teach me to hide myself

From my own knowledge! Busy, busy
thought,

Away, and let oblivion be thy grave!

He advances towards the body; the scene closes.

Act IV.

Scene I.— A Wood. Morning.

Enter the Prince Montalva and Francisco.

Mon.

’Twas at the entrance of this lonely
wood

My mules were to be station’d—are they come?

Fran.

Not yet, my lord; so, please you, wait
awhile

In this cool shade; the sun swift journeys high,

And soon will shed intolerable day.

Mon.

Is there no lowly hut where we may
rest?

Affliction preys upon my feeble frame,

And bends me to the earth: I fain would live

A little while, to do an act of justice.

My vassals all are arm’d, and on the watch,

And yet we have no tidings! Let us seek

Some hospitable shed to stay their coming.

Fran.

Among the craggy hills, not far from
hence,

An hermit dwells; a poor, but holy man!

Time that has furrow d o’er his meagre cheek

Ne’er saw it blush for any act of shame:

His herds, his vineyard, foster’d by his hand,

Repay his labours with that homely fare

Which conscious virtue renders passing sweet!

If in so low a dwelling you can rest,

I think you’ll be right welcome.

Mon.

Well I know,

’Tis not beneath the gilded dome of state,

Nor ’midst the gaudy sycophantic tribe,

That peace delights to dwell; she bends her way

To the poor hermit’s hospitable roof,

Where liberty, the fairest child of Heaven!

Smiles on his board, and with her sacred voice

Bids him look down upon the high-born base,

Though great in splendour, if they’re less than
men.

Now to the mountain hut. Lead on, Francisco.

Exeunt.

Scene II.— Among the Apennines. Leonardo,
as an hermit, comes forth from a small hut, with
two baskets and a wicker bottle.

Enter the Prince Montalva and Francisco.

Fran.

Good father, bless you!

Leon.

Thanks for your greeting;

And bless you, gentle son; is it your wish

To stay awhile, and mend your strength with
food?

Mont.

We’ll enter, honest heart, with your
good leave;

And for your cheer will recompense you nobly.

Leon.

Divine benevolence repays itself;

And much it grieves me to deny your suit:

But my good-will is shackled by restraint,

L L1v 82

While seeming churlishness, in truth, is pity.

Mont.

We will not be denied.

Leon.

Guarding his hut, and setting down his
basket, &c.
Sooth, but you must!

Not for an empire should your footsteps pass

This narrow threshold. I will bring you food.

Fran.

What dost thou mean? Thy miserable
hut

Hath never shelter’d yet a guest so noble.

Leon.

Think’st thou I prize the gifts which
fortune owns?

If he has true nobility of soul,

He towers above the attributes of wealth,

And wants no other charm to make him great!

But wherefore scoff at this, my poor abode?

It is mine own—these withered hands did raise
it:

My board is simply strew’d; but what of that?

’Tis with the gifts of heaven! and who shall
say

The proudest mortal can be better fed?

I flatter no man, and am no man’s slave!

My garb is coarse and scant; but let the vain,

Wrapp’d in the vital labours of the worm,

Say if their pulses beat as calm as mine!

No bed of down or canopy of gold

Here pampers feverish luxury to rest;

But on my lonely pillow temperance waits,

And prompts repose that splendour cannot give!

How many deck’d in all the pride of state,

With ermine stole, and starry wreath of gems,

Would gladly lay their guilty trappings by,

To taste the tranquil joys that mark the hours

In what thou call’st, my miserable hut!

Mont.

Taking out his purse. Then do not act
the churl; and drive us hence,

Wanting the lowly lodging we would hire

At ten-fold value: this will buy men’s souls,

And tempt the sternest sanctity to sin!

Bid the cold anchoret renounce his vows;

The rosy vestal sell her youthful hopes,

To wed with shrivell’d age; and, with its gloss

So dazzle mortal eyes, that Nature smiles

To see philosophers the slaves of fools,

And her own dross, the bribe of their dishonour.

What cannot gold subdue?

Leon.

Philanthropy!—

That sympathetic love of human kind

Which instinct cherishes in souls sublime!

Which bids pale misery raise the languid eye,

While the recording cherub seals the bond

That Heaven repays with rapture!

Mont.

Thy words most strangely contradict
thy deeds!

Thou talk’st of kindness, yet with churlish mien

Bidst the lorn traveller with hunger faint.

Shame on the wretch who vaunts humanity

But to draw forth the misery he mocks,

With curious eye to scrutinize the heart,

And yet refuse the pity that would heal it!


He has no right to pry into my fortunes

Who has no tear to mitigate their woes!

Leon.

Nay, now you rate me with reproach
so keen,

That my old eyes are drown’d in drops of grief!

Full twenty winters have my weary feet

Trod the white pathway of these frozen hills;

Yet never did I bar my humble cell

Against the traveller faint; but I have sworn,

And may I perish if I break my oath,

To shield from every eye the gorgeous gem

That casket rude contains! Forth I repair’d

To gather fruits and rob the limpid spring

For my sweet fugitive, who seems most sad

And vanquish’d by despair. Are ye not men?

And can ye blame or wonder at the zeal

That snatches beauteous woman from the grave?

Long have I braved the bleak and stormy wind;

Forsworn all intercourse with worldly joy;

Lived a poor hermit, cheerless and alone!—

When the fann’d snow fell fast upon my roof,

Whole nights I’ve listen’d to the howling
wolves;

Fear never thrill’d my heart, nor blanch’d my
cheek;—

Yet have I not the courage to behold

A fellow creature fall, whom I could save!

Mont.

A task so pious must not be delay’d.

Pursue thy way, good heart, and, trust my
word,

I will not trespass, or with curious eye

Profane thy dwelling blest! but near the door

Will watch with zeal so pure, that none shall
dare

To pass the threshold.

Leon.

I will soon return;

My vineyard is hard by: be of good cheer.

Exit Leonardo.

Fran.

Oft have I seen this melancholy sage,

When by the side of these snow-mantled cliffs

I chased the fire-eyed wolf. His manners mild

And hospitable cell have spread his fame

Beyond the borders of the rushing Po;

For many an infant, on its grandsire’s knee,

With fond attention and inquiring eye,

Prattles of good Anselmo.

Mont.

Anselmo!

He that is named the hermit of the cliffs?

Fran.

The same; and much it moves surprise
in all,

That so much virtue, and so rich a mind,

Should give to solitude their cheerless days.

Re-enter Leonardo.

Leon.

First to my beauteous fugitive, and
then

Together we will make our healthful meal.

Here, courteous stranger, spread the frugal treat

On the green bank, and I’ll return to bless it.

Gives one basket to Francisco, and with the
other enters the cell, but instantly returns.
L2r 83

Leon.

She sleeps! The weary senses charged
with grief

Are numb’d by their own anguish, stealing
health

E’en from the poison that did sicken them!

Mont.

In truth, good hermit, you excite my
wonder!

Nor can ingenious reason find a cause

Why choice should lead you to a spot so drear,

That spurr’d necessity recoils to view it!

Leon.

Alas! a story so replete with wo,

So full of horror, will but move your pity!

Sprung from an ancient race, my morn of life

Gave the bright earnest of a lustrous day;

But in those hours when young intemperate
blood

Seizes the fever of uncurb’d desire,

It is not strange that reason’s sober ray

Was quench’d and smother’d by impetuous
breath.

A friend!—Oh! how did he blaspheme the
name!—

Woo’d a sweet lady: she was Milan’s rose;

That shed rich lustre on each humbler flower!

Her sire adored her, and with tender care

Sought such alliance as might grace her birth.

My friend was but his father’s youngest son,

And small his means, compared with his descent.

One fatal night, ’twas when the blushing spring

Fann’d my warm bosom with the austral breeze,

Flush’d with the grape, in merry, harmless
mood,

Beneath her lofty window we repair’d,

And, with the dulcet tinkling Mandolin,

Beguil’d her of her rest. The father watch’d,

And on my young associate fiercely sprang,

Who, all unarm’d, was sinking to the ground.

Mont.

So fell my gallant boy! and did he
perish?

Leon.

Urged on to frenzy by this bold assault,

I rush’d between them, saved the friend I loved,

And smote the barbarous ruffian on the breast:

He fell, his own stiletto reach’d his heart!

’Twas a rash deed, but could I tamely see

The dear companion of my youthful days

Vanquish’d and murder’d by a villain’s hand?

Mont.

And did he wed the cause of your
mishap?

Leon.

He did; and to requite my honest zeal,

Turn’d, like a serpent, on my fostering breast,

And stung the heart that loved him! With fell
rage,

Threaten’d, himself, to be my base accuser,

And spurn’d me from him like a guilty slave!

Disgusted with the treachery of his soul,

I fled; and from that fatal hour have been

The solitary tenant of this cell,

The scene of meditation, prayer, and peace!

Mont.

Cursed be the villain, wheresoe’er he
dwells!

Leon.

Oh! do not curse him; for he was—
my brother!

Mont.

Of noble birth, and yet so vile a soul!

Leon.

All outward semblance of attractive
grace,

Hereditary splendours, beauty, valour,

Wit, learning, fancy, eloquence divine!

Where godlike virtue dwells not in the soul,

May feed upon the vapour, adulation,

And boast an unsubstantial glittering name,

That dazzles only for a fleeting day.

But innate glory shall outstrip the grave!

And shine when all of pageantry and pride,

Like the false meteors on the wings of night,

Shall waste in empty air!

Enter Honoria from the Hermitage.

Mont.

Mysterious Heaven! Honoria still
alive!
Aside.

Hon.

Hapless Montalva! whither bend thy
way?

I counsel thee to seek thy peaceful home,

Nor thus pursue the phantom of revenge.

Remember, he who can forgive his foe,

Is nobler far than he that bids him die!

We all can kill; and, vaunting our own
strength

We crush the thing we hate; but can we give

The spark that bids the meanest reptile breathe!

Oh! did the powerful dare with impious rage

To murder the defenceless, who, alas!

Could look with rapture for to-morrow’s dawn?

Mont.

I go to seek the murderer of my son.

Hon.

Then spare thy feeble age such thriftless
toil;

The murderer of thy son sleeps in the grave!

He was as dear to this afflicted heart

As Albert was to thine.

Mont.

Misguided girl!

Thy caution thinly veils the wretch thou lov’st;

That villain, Alferenzi, was’t not he?

Hon.

Old man, I will not tell thee who it
was;

For, if his death will not appease thy wrath,

Thou hast no Christian mercy in thy soul,

And art not worth my pity!

Alf.

Speaking without. Where is this cell,
good fellow?

Thou dost not give thy feet that willing zeal

Which my impatience urges. Montalva!

Enter Alferenzi. Seeing Montalva and
Honoria, he stops suddenly and amazed.

Hah! how is this? Am I at last betray’d?

My feet seem rooted to this speck of earth,

And guilty pangs convulse my tortured frame!

Shake off thy blood-stain’d garb, my trembling
soul,

And let a brighter semblance cheat men’s eyes.

It will not be! I dare not meet their glance.

L2v 84

Hon.

To Alferenzi, aside. Thy crime is
secret as the will of Heaven.

Alf.

Montalva and Leonardo talk aside.

I cannot spurn this busy fiend away:

Is this what men call conscience? Oh! ’tis
hell!

I am a wretch, a coward! Leave me, leave me.

Mon.

Well may’st thou start, and tremble at
my gaze,

Thou homicide abhorred! now meet thy fate;

’Tis Albert’s sword that strikes thee.

They fight.

Honoria.

Rushing between them. He did not
kill thy son; the murderer was――

Mon.

Who?

Hon.

My father! Marquis Valmont.

Leon.

My brother!

Hon.

Oh! all ye hosts of heaven! Do I behold

The venerable, noble Leonardo!

Leo.

Let my tears answer thee, before their
source

Is petrified with wonder! O my child,

Art thou the offspring of ill-fated Valmont?

Embracing Honoria.

Mon.

Most injured Leonardo, heaven at
length

Has paid the recompense thy virtues claim’d.

We will return to Valmont, where thy life

Shall, like the sun that triumphs o’er the storm,

Amidst resplendent glory sink to rest!

Leon.

Now let us, in my solitary cell,

Refresh our weary spirits for a time;

Then each shall tell his melancholy tale,

And shed a kindly sympathetic tear,

To wash away the traces of past wo!

Exeunt Montalva, Leonardo, Francisco,
and the Peasant, into the Hermitage.

Alf.

Ah! stay, Honoria! Do not leave me
thus;

Look up, my love, nor let affliction’s shaft

Bathe in the ruby current of thy heart.

Time will wear out these dark corroding spots,

And wing thy hours with joy!

Hon.

Oh! Never! Never.

Time, that with ceaseless labour can unfold

The wondrous page of nature! that can lay

The loftiest temples level with their base!

Steal the soft graces of the fairest form,

And, by the shadow of his restless wing,

Eclipse the sun of intellectual light!

Can bring no meliorating balm, to heal

The wounded sense, where memory still lives!

Day after day the cankering worm, reflection,

Feeds on the withering fibres of the heart,

And poisons all its hopes!

Alf.

Where wouldst thou seek repose, oh! tell
me, sweet?

Hon.

In death! where he whose undelighted
days

Have been but tardy scenes of chequered wo,


Assail’d by poverty, despair, and pain!

On the same pillow lays his weary head

Where kings must sleep, when earthly power
shall fade,

And nature whispers, here thy journey ends!

Alf.

Think not so deeply, love; oh! look
upon me;

Thy Alferenzi’s fate is link’d with thine.

Hon.

That I have loved thee, Heaven can bear
me witness,

Beyond what truth can paint or fancy form!

With thee I could have lived, and been content,

Beneath some mountain hovel’s rushy roof;

Have shared the busy task of daily toil,

And smiled and sung the weary hours away!

When gaudy summer deck’d the glowing scene,

I would have trimm’d our citadel of joy,

Have call’d our humble meal a princely feast,

Our myrtle bower a canopy of state!

Or when stern winter swept the frozen plain,

And tumbling torrents drown’d the valley’s
pride,

I would have crept, half trembling, to thy arms,

And mock’d the howling of the midnight
storm!

But visionary scenes of joy are past;

Horror and guilt assail where’er I turn,

And all is anguish, frenzy, and despair!

Alf.

Dress not thy fancy in such weeds of
grief!

Let hope and love enchant thee to repose.

Hon.

Can love or hope restore a parent lost?

Ah! little dost thou know the tender claims

That bind in feathery spells each vagrant
thought.

Love should be gentle as the twilight breeze,

And pure as early morn’s ambrosial tears,

Spangling the lily on the mountain’s side.

I cannot wed the murderer of my father!

Alf.

Oh! do not call it murder! He whose
life

Pays the due forfeit to offended Heaven,

Having by outrage blurr’d his country’s laws,

Deserves that country’s hate; and only falls

To benefit her safety.

Hon.

Yes; but when rigour cherish’d by revenge,

Treads on the heels of justice, thrusting back

Humanity itself, the trembling scale

Preponderates at will, and makes the deed

Scarce less than legal murder! Be resign’d,

Appease the wrath of Heaven, and let me rest!

Exit into the Hermitage.

Alf.

O hope! inconstant as the summer gales

That kiss the fragrant bosom of the rose,

Thou shalt no more beguile me: I awake!

Conviction tells me, in this wondrous mass,

All joy is transient, and the fairest scenes

Fraught with deception! Earth, air, seas; e’en
man

Deceives, while most he is himself deceived,

L3r 85

Glozing with smiles the hypocrite he hates!

The flowery path we tread is sprinkled o’er

With poisonous weeds, and dews that threaten
death.

The skilful pilot plought his glittering way,

Nor fears the coming danger, till the deep,

Blackening and foaming, now a yawning gulf,

And now a liquid mountain, swells with rage,

And the gay gallant bark—is seen no more!

The eagle grandly soars to greet the sun;

Sweeps the bland concave with his lordly wing,

And revels in the plentitude of day!

Soon, on the viewless pinions of the storm,

The rolling clouds obscure the beamy plains,

Th’ imprison’d lightnings break their sulphur
bonds,

And ’midst the blaze th’ exulting tyrant dies!

Oh! blissful termination of all ills!

Ambrosial drop that lingers in the dregs

Of Fate’s embitter’d cup! oblivious death!

Would I could taste thee, and forget my woes!

But coward misery clings to airy hope,

Grasping from hour to hour a feeble chain,

Which breaks at last, and hurls him to despair!

Exit.

Act V.

Scene I.— The Front of an old Monastery;
with a View of the Apennines at Sun-set.

Enter Honoria.

Hon.

Here, in this awful, this monastic gloom,

I trust my weary soul will find repose!

As late I stood upon the cavern’d cliff,

Listening the cataract’s desolating roar,

I mark’d the spires of this lone habitation

Red with the lustre of the sinking sun!

The solemn silence that surrounds these walls

Well suits the shrine of holy meditation,

And feasts the mind with luxury of thought.

This is the goal where, faint with life’s dull toil,

The feeble wo-worn traveller stops, and smiles

To know the busy hour of grief is past!

For, after all, what is this feverous state?

A transient day of sun-shine and of storms;

A path, bestrew’d with thorns and roseate
wreaths;

We journey on with hope, or lag with fear,

Still, minute after minute, cheating time,

Till, at the close, we stumble on the grave.

Light appears through the painted windows of
the Chapel.

It is the hour of vespers, which prepares

The mind serene of virgin innocence

For slumbers undisturb’d by ruthless care;

Oh, apathy! thou kindly numbing power!

Thou opiate! rivalling the Theban drug,

Lulling the nimble passions of the soul,


And binding fast in sweet oblivious spells

The wild rebellious fancy, here thou dwell’st.

But I shall know thee not; my weary life

Unfading memory presents before me,

Dark as the clouds that shroud the coming storm,

When will the day-star rise, that shall proclaim

My morn eternal in the realms of bliss.

The gate opens. Constantia comes forward.

Con.

I heard the voice of misery complaining,

While at the holy altar of our saint;

And Heaven forbid the temple of religion

Should e’er be shut against the child of wo!

Hon.

Alas! I ask but little, reverend mother.

Con.

Make your request; I only wait your will.

Hon.

A lonely speck of consecrated earth!

A narrow pallet in the silent grave!

Con.

Have you no kindred to relieve your cares?

Hon.

I had a father when the sun did rise.

Con.

And does he let thee wander thus forlorn!

Where is he, gentle stranger?

Hon.

He’s in Heaven!

Is he in Heaven?—Yes, yes; I hope he is!

He was a very stern and rash old man;

But still he was my father. He is gone!

Cold drops of blood freeze on his silver hairs.

Like the small flowers that peep through Alpine
snow!

Con.

Holy Saint Peter! Was he murder’d, lady?

Hon.

Confused. I fear he was: most sure I
am he died!

His cheek was pale, and petrified, and cold!—

But I entreat you let us change the matter,

For ’tis a wounding subject; and, alas!

I own I’m strangely wild when I do think on’t!

Con.

Oh! my heart feels thy sorrows in its own;

Like thee, sweet maid, in youth’s exulting bloom,

I found within these solitary walls

A blest asylum from oppressive wo!

My noble kindred long have mourn’d me lost;

For since this awful sancturay I sought

No tidings have I sent to tell my fate.

Hon.

Indeed! I pray you, do not count my
youth

Too apt and forward, if with curious speech

I question you, how long in this deep gloom

Your beauty has been shrouded from the world?

Con.

Just twenty summers, half my days of
wo,

Here have I pass’d sequester’d and unknown.

So long has sufferance borne affliction’s thorn,

Deep rankling in the breast of wedded love.

Hon.

Of wedded love! art thou then married?
Speak!

Con.

Oh! would I were not! But th’ omniscient
power,

I trust, in pity, will, with tenfold joys,

Requite my child for all her mother’s wrongs!

If yet she breathes, Heaven shower down bless
ings on her,

And guide her through this wilderness of wo!

L3v 86

Oh! could I once behold her ere I die,

Could I but clasp her in my fond embrace,

I would forgive her father’s cruel scorn

And bless the name of Valmont.

Hon.

Oh! ’tis she!

I am thy child! thy loved, thy lost Honoria!

The hapless offspring of the murder’d Valmont.

Con.

Support me, Heaven!
Faints.

Hon.

Supporting her. What has my rashness
done?

Oh! do not leave me, angel! mother! Speak!

Honoria calls thee! let not death’s fell grasp

Tear the fond parent from her long lost child!

Constantia revives.

She lives! she breathes! Oh! cherish in thy
heart

The only comfort of thy widow’d days:

They embrace.

We will, when fainting hope denies to cheer us,

Mingle our tears, and smile at ruthless fate,

In all the proudest luxury of wo!

By day I’ll strew thy lonely path with flowers,

And all the live-long night thy slumbers watch,

And chant my orisons for blessings on thee!

Con.

Alas! my child! such pious hopes are
vain;

Here must I stay for ever! Thou art born

For gaudier scenes of splendour and delight!

Hon.

Not for the globe’s vast treasures would
I leave thee!

Thou shalt return to Valmont; to thy home;

The noble Leonardo’s close of life

Will bloom a second spring of youth and joy,

Blest in the converse of a saint like thee!

Con.

That cannot be; nor must thou here be
known.

My vows for ever bind me to this goal,

Where, till my last funereal peal shall sound,

My vesper prayers, my early matin songs,

Must still confirm my solemn league with
Heaven.

Thou art o’erwhelm’d with persecuting wo;

Come, let me lead thee to the shrine of peace.

Hon.

Oh! best of angels! Here will I remain;

This venerable pile shall be our tomb,

Where we will rest together! Moss-grown shrines,

Approaching the gate.

Where persecution shrinks from pity’s gaze,

And penitence prepares the soul for heaven,

Oh! welcome to my dreary feverish soul!

Exeunt into the Monastery.

Scene II. A thick Wood. Night. The Convent’s
painted windows seen at a distance.

Enter Alferenzi, meeting an old Peasant.

Alf.

Well! hast thou found her? Every
tangled dell,

Each thorny labyrinth, and lonely glade,

In vain I’ve search’d and traversed o’er and o’er!


I will not lose her so! What, like a coward,

Yield up my hopes, and be the passive fool

That fortune makes her plaything? All is still!

The moping bat has wheel’d his circling flight,

And hies him weary to his haunted home!

No wandering insect winds his little horn

To bid the drowsy traveller beware,

While perilous oblivion grasps the scene!

Oh! if I find her not, the gathering mists,

That hasten round us on unwholesome wings,

Will chill her gentle bosom—

Pea.

Heaven forefend! Lightning.

’Twill be a stormy hour. Oh! gracious Sir!

In truth my heart is sorely wrung with pity;

For countless are the dangers that beset

The midnight wanderer in these lonely haunts;

Nor are the famish’d wolves that roam for prey

More to be dreaded than the lawless swords

Of merciless banditti!

Alf.

I fear them not. Thunder and lightning.

Horrors on horrors crowd so thick upon me,

That pall’d imagination, sick’ning, spurns

The sanity of reason! man can but bear

A certain portion of calamity;

For when the pressure heap’d upon the brain

O’erwhelms the active faculties of thought,

The pang acute subsides, and leaves the mind

A chaos wild of gorgeous desolation!

Pea.

I hear the feet of passengers; their steps

Give hollow signal on the sun-burnt ground.

Alf.

Here, take this good stiletto, honest carle,

And guard thy breast, if any ill should threaten.

Enter two Robbers.

1st. Rob.

My poniard is prepared with mortal
poison,

And he that feels it dies.

Lightning.

[Alferenzi,

p[Perceiving the Robbers by the
lightning.

Cowards! assassins!

The Robbers assail Alferenzi and the Peasant.
One is disarmed by Alferenzi; the
other, after piercing his side, escapes.

Alf.

Ruffian! thou know’st thy life is in my
power;

Now tell me, if in this sequester’d gloom

A beauteous lady met thee? quickly speak,

Or thou shalt perish!

2d. Rob.

Such a one I met,

And saw her towards the convent bend her way;

Yon light will guide you thither; she is safe.

I could not harm the maid, she look’d so lovely!

Alf.

Oh! Caitiff! if thou hadst, thy barbarous
soul

Should in the lowest hell have howl’d for mercy!

One act of virtue cancels all thy crimes;

So take thy life; repent, for I forgive thee.

Exit Robber.

How much more merciful this villain seems,

Who on the instant gives the mortal wound,

L4r 87

Than he who by oppression wrings the heart,

And makes the wretch spin a long thread of life,

Steep’d in perpetual tears! The storm is past;

Thou know’st this convent! let us hasten
thither.

Pea.

Good noble youth, you faint; your voice
doth faulter.

Alf.

’Tis but a trifle; ’twas the coward’s
sword

That slightly pierced my side. Now lead the
way;

If I behold her angel face once more,

Not all the demons of despair shall part us.

Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Chapel of the Convent.

An altar, &c. The corpse of Honoria on a bier
in the middle of the aisle, covered with a white
transparent pall, edged with black velvet. As the
curtain rises slowly, the nuns, arranged round
the chapel, sing a solemn dirge, beginning low,
and rising to full chorus. That done, the first
nun comes forward, and the other nuns arrange
themselves in a semicircle that hides the bier.

1st Nun.

Thus have we offer’d up our fervent
prayers

For the meek spirit of this beauteous maid.

Her mien bespoke her noble; and her breast

Seem’d the rich casket which contain’d a jewel

Glowing with native and resplendent light!

Ere from her fading lip the quivering breath

Fled its fair mansion, to my care she gave

This costly picture: “Take it, pious sister,

Take it,” she cried, “and keep with holy awe

The once-loved image of my Alferenzi!”

That done, she knelt, and raised her eyes to
Heaven—

Her piercing eyes—dark as her adverse fortune!

Breathed a short prayer, and, like a spotless
flower,

Bow’d by the pitiless and pelting storm,

Sunk to the earth, and died! Who knocks so loud?

A loud knocking at the Convent gate,
Alferenzi rushes into the chapel, frantic, pale,
and exhausted, followed by the old Peasant.

Alf.

Oh! pious sisters, frown not on my rashness;

I am a man the most accursed and wretched!

Driven by the deadly storm of rending passions

To this my last asylum! Have ye seen,

Since evening’s star peer’d in the golden west,

A drooping angel, agonized with grief?

More sweet than infant innocence, more pure

Than sainted spirits journeying to the sky?

The Nun turns from him.

Speak; and, if pity dwells within your breast,

Do not behold me perish!

Nun.

Showing the picture. Know’st thou
this?

Alf.

Oh! I have found her, for exulting bliss

Springs to my heart, and triumphs o’er despair!

This is the proud meridian of my days,

And my last glowing hour shall set in joy!

Now, call her forth; tell her ’tis Alferenzi;

She will, in pity, answer to the summons.

The nuns draw back on each side, discovering
the bier; one of them throws the pall off the
face of Honoria.

Alf.

Wildly. Hah! Who has done this deed?

Is that her wedding suit? How pale she looks!

Soft; do not wake her; she is sick with sorrow;

The priest is waiting, and the perfumed bands

Are gaily strew’d about the holy shrine;

I mark’d the spangling drops that hung upon
them;

Some said that they were dying lover’s tears;

Were they not right? Soft, soft; where am I?

My senses much deceive me, or that corse,

So beautiful in death, is Valmont’s daughter!

Enter Constantia.

Con.

Where is the wretch whose bold and
impious rage

Has dared profane the sacred rites of wo?

Alf.

I came to seek the gem of this world’s
wonders!

But she, too precious for this hated earth,

Now beams a constellation in that Heaven

Where I shall never see her! Oh! I loved her,

Better, far better, than I loved my soul,

For in here cause I gave it to perdition!

Con.

Ill-fated man! See in this faded form

The wife of haughty Valmont; twenty years

Have pass’d, in silent solitary grief,

Since I beheld my persecuted child.

Oh! my long-lost, my beautiful Honoria!

My earliest comfort, and my last fond hope!

I did not think to close thy eyes in death,

Or bathe thy ashes with a mother’s tears!

Kneels by the corpse of Honoria.

Alf.

Is there on earth a wretch so cursed as I?

What is my crime, ye minsters of hell,

That persecution, with a scorpion scourge,

Should drive me to the precipice of fate?

E’en there, the fiend will on the margin greet
me,

And, as I gaze upon the gulph below,

Where mad revenge stands ’midst the foaming
surge,

And smiling feeds upon the hearts of men,

Will snatch me back to linger in despair!

Is there no yawning grave in the green ocean,

No deadly venom in the teeming earth,

No lightning treasured in the stagnant air,

To end my weary pilgrimage of pain?

Peas.

Tempt not the rage of Heaven with impious
breath.

Alf.

Approaching the bier. Yet let me look
upon her: ’Twill not be!
L4v 88

A burning torrent rushes through each nerve,

And more than frenzy feeds upon my brain!

The villian’s sword was steep’d in mortal poison;

Its course, though slow, each antidote defies:

Now, now it freezes, and its icy thrill

Checks the faint current of my withering heart.

I thank thee, Caitiff—thou indeed wert kind!

1st Nun.

Restore him, Heaven!

Alf.

The fiends surround my soul! They are
deceived;

My heart-strings will not break, for they have
borne

The miseries of love! Away! away!

Falls.

Let the same grave conceal our mouldering ashes;

And if the pilgrim, penitent and poor,

Should drop a tear to consecrate the sod,


I ask no other requiem. Death is kind;

He flings his icy mantle o’er my sense.

And shuts the scene of horror! Oh! farewell!

Dies.

1st Nun.

Farewell, sad victims of ambition’s
power!—

Now let us raise to heaven our holy song,

For the freed souls of these ill-fated lovers!

While Nature shrinks to contemplate the scene,

And stern-eyed Justice drops a silent tear,

The angel Pity, bending from the sky,

Shall draw the veil that hides their woes for
ever!

They sing the dirge as the curtain falls, Constantia
still kneeling by the bier.
M1r

Poems.

The
Savage of Aveyron.

’Twas in the mazes of a wood,

The lonely wood of Aveyron,

I heard a melancholy tone:—

It seem’d to freeze my blood!

A torrent near was flowing fast,

And hollow was the midnight blast

As o’er the leafless woods it past,

While terror-fraught I stood!

O! mazy woods of Aveyron!

O! wilds of dreary solitude!

Amid thy thorny alleys rude

I thought myself alone!

I thought no living thing could be

So weary of the world as me,—

While on my winding path the pale moon
shone.

Sometimes the tone was loud and sad,

And sometimes dulcet, faint, and slow;

And then a tone of frantic wo:

It almost made me mad.

The burthen was “Alone! alone!”

And then the heart did feebly groan;—

Then suddenly a cheerful tone

Proclaimed a spirit glad!

O! mazy woods of Aveyron!

O! wilds of dreary solitude!

Amid your thorny alleys rude

I wish’d myself—a traveller alone.

“Alone!” I heard the wild boy say,—

And swift he climb’d a blasted oak;

And there, while morning’s herald woke,

He watch’d the opening day.

Yet dark and sunken was his eye,

Like a lorn maniac’s, wild and shy,

And scowling like a winter sky,

Without one beaming ray!

Then, mazy woods of Aveyron!

Then, wilds of dreary solitude!

Amid thy thorny alleys rude

I sigh’d to be—a traveller alone.


“Alone, alone!” I heard him shriek,

’Twas like the shriek of dying man!

And then to mutter he began,—

But, O! he could not speak!

I saw him point to heaven, and sigh,

The big drop trembled in his eye;

And slowly from the yellow sky,

I saw the pale morn break.

I saw the woods of Aveyron,

Their wilds of dreary solitude:

I mark’d their thorny alleys rude,

And wish’d to be—a traveller alone!

His hair was long and black, and he

From infancy alone had been:

For since his fifth year he had seen,

None mark’d his destiny!

No mortal ear had heard his groan,

For him no beam of hope had shone:

While sad he sigh’d—“alone, alone!”

Beneath the blasted tree.

And then, O! woods of Aveyron,

O! wilds of dreary solitude,

Amid your thorny alleys rude

I thought myself a traveller—alone.

And now upon the blasted tree

He carved three notches, broad and long,

And all the while he sang a song—

Of nature’s melody!

And though of words he nothing knew,

And though his dulcet tones were few,

Across the yielding bark he drew,

Deep sighing, notches three.

O! mazy woods of Aveyron,

O! wilds of dreary solitude,

Amid your thorny alleys rude

Upon this blasted oak no sun beam shone!

And now he pointed one, two, three;

Again he shriek’d with wild dismay;

And now he paced the thorny way,

Quitting the blasted tree.

It was a dark December morn,

The dew was frozen on the thorn:

But to a wretch so sad, so lorn,

All days alike would be!

M M1v 90

Yet, mazy woods of Aveyron,

Yet, wilds of dreary solitude,

Amid your frosty alleys rude

I wish’d to be—a traveller alone.

He follow’d me along the wood

To a small grot his hands had made,

Deep in a black rock’s sullen shade,

Beside a tumbling flood.

Upon the earth I saw him spread

Of wither’d leaves a narrow bed,

Yellow as gold, and streak’d with red,

They look’d like streaks of blood!

Pull’d from the woods of Aveyron,

And scatter’d o’er the solitude

By midnight whirlwinds strong and rude,

To pillow the scorch’d brain that throbb’d
alone.

Wild berries were his winter food,

With them his sallow lip was dyed;

On chesnuts wild he fed beside,

Steep’d in the foamy flood.

Chequer’d with scars his breast was seen,

Wounds streaming fresh with anguish keen,

And marks where other wounds had been

Torn by the brambles rude.

Such was the boy of Aveyron,

The tenant of that solitude,

Where still, by misery unsubdued,

He wander’d nine long winters, all alone.

Before the step of his rude throne,

The squirrel sported, tame and gay;

The dormouse slept its life away,

Nor heard his midnight groan.

About his form a garb he wore,

Ragged it was, and mark’d with gore,

And yet, where’er ’twas folded o’er,

Full many a spangle shone!

Like little stars, O! Aveyron,

They gleam’d amid thy solitude;

Or like, along thy alleys rude,

The summer dew-drops sparkling in the
sun.

It once had been a lady’s vest,

White as the whitest mountain’s snow,

Till ruffian hands had taught to flow

The fountain of her breast!


Remembrance bade the wild boy trace

Her beauteous form, her angel face,

Her eye that beam’d with heavenly grace,

Her fainting voice that blest,—

When in the woods of Aveyron,

Deep in their deepest solitude,

Three barbarous ruffians shed her blood,

And mock’d, with cruel taunts, her dying
groan.

Remembrance traced the summer bright,

When all the trees were fresh and green,

When lost, the alleys long between,

The lady pass’d the night:

She pass’d the night, bewilder’d wild,

She pass’d it with her fearless child,

Who raised his little arms, and smiled

To see the morning light.

While in the woods of Aveyron,

Beneath the broad oak’s canopy,

She mark’d aghast the ruffians three,

Waiting to seize the traveller alone!

Beneath the broad oak’s canopy

The lovely lady’s bones were laid;

But since that hour no breeze has play’d

About the blasted tree!

The leaves all wither’d ere the sun

His next day’s rapid course had run,

And ere the summer day was done

It winter seem’d to be:

And still, Oh! woods of Aveyron,

Amid thy dreary solitude

The oak a sapless trunk has stood,

To mark the spot where murder foul was
done.

From her the wild boy learn’d “alone,

She tried to say, my babe will die!”

But angels caught her parting sigh,

The babe her dying tone.

And from that hour the boy has been

Lord of the solitary scene,

Wandering the dreary shades between,

Making his dismal moan!

Till, mazy woods of Aveyron,

Dark wilds of dreary solitude,

Amid your thorny alleys rude

I thought myself alone.

And could a wretch more wretched be,

More wild, or fancy-fraught than he,

Whose melancholy tale would pierce a heart
of stone.

Sir Raymond of the Castle. The following little Poems are written after the
model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed
to those who admire the simplicity of that kind of
versification.

A Tale.

Near Glaris, on a mountain’s side,

Beneath a shadowy wood,

With walls of ivy compass’d round,

An ancient castle stood.

M2r 91

By all revered, by all adored,

There dwelt a wealthy dame;

One peerless daughter bless’d her age,

A maid of spotless fame.

While one fair son, a gallant boy,

Whose virtue was his shield,

Led on the dauntless sons of war,

Amidst the crimson’d field:

For o’er the land dissention reign’d

Full many a direful year,

And many a heart’s best blood had stain’d

The proud oppressor’s spear.

Young Ella’s charms had spread her fame

O’er all the country wide;

And youths of high descent and brave

Had sought her for their bride.

To win her love Sir Raymond came,

Sprung from a princely race;

Right valiant in each warlike art,

And blest with every grace.

In tournaments renown’d afar,

For manly feats admired;

His brilliant fame, his bold exploits,

The damsel’s bosom fired.

Her blushing cheek, her down-cast eye,

Her secret flame confess’d;

The gallant Raymond’s circling arm

The beauteous Ella press’d.

From her fond mother’s doating eyes

The radiant gem he bore;

The weeping maids and village swains

Beheld her charms no more.

Where the swift billows of the Rhine

Their shining curls disclose,

With many a gilded turret crown’d,

His splendid palace rose.

The festive scene had scarce began,

When near the castle wall

A messenger of warlike mien

On Raymond’s name did call.

“Come forth, thou valiant knight, he said,

Thy prowess quickly show,

With speed prepare thy lance and shield

To meet the dauntless foe:

The blood of many a noble Swiss

Doth stain the country round,

And many a brave aspiring youth

Lies vanquish’d on the ground.


The daring chief, whose shining spear

With purple gore is dyed,

Oh! direful news, prepare to meet

The brother of thy bride.”

Enraged, the haughty Raymond cried,

“Base wretch, receive thy doom!

For thy bold errand thou shalt die

Within a dungeon’s gloom.”

Speechless the mournful Ella stood,

Despair her heart did wound,

When from the echoing tower she heard

The trumpet’s dreadful sound.

Her cold wan cheek, her quivering lip,

Bespoke her soul’s deep wo,

From her blue eye the crystal drop

In silent grief did flow.

“For shame! shake off those woman’s tears,

The frowning bridegroom cried,

And know, Sir Raymond’s warlike breast

Disdains a timid bride.

In vain you weep, ignoble dame;

Behold yon neighing steed;

My soldiers wait, my bosom burns

To conquer or to bleed.”

Forth went the knight:—the frantic bride

To the high rampart flew;

With trembling heart she climb’d the wall

Th’ embattled plain to view.

On either side, by turns she thought

Proud victory graced the field;

Till vanquish’d by her brother’s sword,

She saw her husband yield.

For refuge to his castle gate

The bleeding warrior flew;

And from the battlements on high

His daring gauntlet threw.

Three days from dawn to setting sun

The hardy soldiers stood,

Till faint with toil, by famine press’d,

They saw their chief subdued.

“Oh! haste my page, Sir Raymond said,

The captive youth set free,

And bid him to the conqueror’s feet

This message bear from me.

Treasures immense of massy gold,

Rich gems and jewels rare,

As ransom will I freely give,

If he our lives will spare.

M2v 92

If he consents, let garlands green

Thy peaceful brows adorn;

If hostile yet, beneath our walls,

Thrice sound thy bugle-horn.”

Gaily he pass’d the outward gate;

But sadly he return’d;

His bugle-horn he sounded thrice,

No wreath his brows adorn’d.

“Thy gold,” he cried, “the conqueror scorns,

He claims thy forfeit life,

Thy precious gems, and jewels rare,

He gives thy beauteous wife.

Your lands are free, your soldiers too,

And for young Ella’s sake,

To prove his truth, the generous chief

This solemn vow did make.

That whatsoe’er she holds most dear,

At morrow’s dawn of day,

Her pages to some distant place

May safely bear away.”

At dawn of light fair Ella came,

Fresh as the rose of May;

Sir Raymond in a chest of gold

Her pages bore away!

She pass’d the gate with throbbing heart,

She pass’d the ranks among;

The praises of her peerless charms

Fell fast from every tongue.

“Halt, halt!” they cried, “right noble dame,

’Tis fit we should behold

Whether thy coffer ought contains

But gems and massy gold.”

“O stay me not, ye gallant youths,

For soon it shall appear

This burnish’d coffer doth contain

All that I hold most dear!

Take heed, my brother, ah, take heed,

Nor break thy sacred word;

Nor let thy kinsman’s blood degrade

The glories of thy sword!”

The hero smiled—fair Ella’s cheek

Glow’d with vermillion dye;

Fear chill’d her heart, the starting tear

Stood trembling in her eye.

Subdued, abashed, her brother flew

And snatch’d her to his breast,

Then with an angel’s pitying voice,

The vanquish’d chief address’d:


“Come forth, Sir Raymond, valiant knight,

Behold thy peerless wife;

Receive thy sword, and from her hand

Accept thy forfeit life.

Here shall the bloody contest end,

Let peace o’erspread the land;

More homage than the conqueror’s sword

Can beauty’s tears command.”

Donald and Mary.

On Scotia’s hills a gentle maid,

The fairest of the rustic throng,

When round the glittering moon-beams play’d,

Oft pour’d her sad and plaintive song,

Her eye was dimm’d with sorrow’s tears,

Which from their azure fountain roll’d;

Her throbbing heart was fraught with fears;

Pale was her cheek, and deadly cold!

By friends forgot, by foes oppress’d,

By Fortune’s chilling frown subdued,

Fierce Frenzy hover’d o’er her breast,

And wither’d Grief her steps pursued:

But, ah, more fatal e’en than those;

The worst of pangs ’twas hers to share;

While Envy, smiling, mock’d her woes—

For Envy feeds on human care.

A gallant youth, of Scottish birth,

Had woo’d and won the gentle maid;

Not all the treasured gems of earth

Like Donald’s music could persuade;

Not all that India’s shores supply,

Or all the wealth of Britain’s isle,

Could charm like Donald’s speaking eye,

Or win the soul like Donald’s smile.

But Glory, lifting high her crest,

His glowing fancy lured to arms;

Fame filled his young and panting breast—

He left his Mary’s world of charms.

Ill-fated Donald fought and bled!

The green sod veil’d his manly form,

While round his dark and clay-cold bed

Bleak blew the wild and wintry storm.

No marble trophies deck’d the spot,

To ask the pensive traveller’s sigh;

No verse to tell his hapless lot,

Or bid the valiant learn to die.

But there the snow-drop, meek and pale,

With morning’s tears would oft o’erflow;

And there the bird of sorrow’s tale

Repeated Mary’s tender wo.

M3r 93

Ah! who has seen my gallant boy,

In martial trim, and rich array?

Ah! who has heard my only joy

Sing to yon moon his roundelay?

His laurel shines in yonder sky,

The brightest of the starry train;

Though in the grave his beauties lie,

All crimson’d o’er with many a stain.

Ah! have you seen my Donald brave,

Enthroned on yonder passing cloud?

Or gliding o’er yon whitening wave,

Or chaunting, ’midst the tempest loud?

Now, o’er yon hill the day-star peeps,

The merry birds awake to glee;

Low in the grave my Donald sleeps,

Nor hears their song, nor thinks of me!

Give me his sword, of mickle fame,

And give me too, his bonnet gay;

On the green-turf to carve his name,

And decorate his hallow’d clay.

Ye costly graves, where monarchs lie,

With crowns and sceptres, won by birth;

Vainly your glittering baubles vie

With Donald’s sword, and Donald’s worth!

By weeping Evening’s fading light,

Far o’er the thistled heath she stray’d,

Till, lost amidst the frowns of night,

The cold blast chill’d the beauteous maid:

Along the dreary, desert gloom

Her mournful song was heard to glide;

“With joy,” she said, “I meet my doom!”

Then sigh’d her Donald’s name—and died!

Llwhen and Gwyneth. From Mr. John Williams’s prose translation of
a lately discovered Welsh Poem, preserved in the
Collection of Arthur Price, Esq. It is supposed to
have been written by Tateisin, in Ben Batridd, 0534A.
D. 534
.

Written in the year 17821782.

“When will my troubled soul have rest?”

The blue-eyed Llwhen cried;

As through the murky shade of night

With frantic step she hied.

“When shall those eyes my Gwyneth’s face, My Gwyneth’s form survey? When shall those longing eyes again Behold the dawn of day? Cold are the dews that wet my cheek, The night-mist damps the ground;
Appalling echoes strike mine ear, And spectres gleam around.
The vivid lightning’s transient rays Around my temples play; ’Tis all the light my fate affords To mark my thorny way. From the black mountain’s awful height, Where Llathryth’s turrets rise, The dark owl screams a direful song, And warns me as she flies. The chilling blast, the whistling winds, The mouldering ramparts shake; The hungry tenants of the wood Their cavern’d haunts forsake. My trembling limbs, unused to stray Beyond a father’s door, Full many a mile have journey’d forth, Each footstep mark’d with gore. No costly sandals deck my feet, By thorns and briars torn; The cold rain chills my rosy cheek, Whose freshness shamed the morn. Slow steals the life-stream at my heart, Dark clouds o’ershade my eyes; Foreboding sorrow tells my soul My captive hero dies. Yet if one gentle ray of hope Can sooth the soul to rest, Oh! may it pierce yon flinty tower, And warm my Gwyneth’s breast. And if soft pity’s tearful eye A tyrant’s heart can move, Ill-fated Llwhen yet may live To clasp her vanquished love. And though stern war with bonds of steel His graceful form shall bind, No earthly spell has power to hold The freedom of his mind. And though his warm and gallant heart Now yields to fate’s decree, Its feelings spurn the base constraint, And fly to love and me! Then, Banworth, Banworth is supposed to have been the lord of
the Bright Castle.
lion of the field!
O, hear a maiden plead; Sheath not thy sword in Gwyneth’s breast, Or too, let Llwhen bleed! M3v 94
To valiant feats of arms renown’d Shall earthly praise be given; But deeds of mercy, mighty chief, Are register’d in Heaven! The minstrel’s song of praise shall fill The palace of thy foe; While down the joyful Llwhen cheek The grateful tear shall flow. And sure the tear that Virtue sheds Some rapture can impart; What gem can deck a victor’s throne Like incense from the heart?”

Now the grey morning’s silvery light,

Dawn’d in the eastern skies,

When at the lofty lattice grate

Her lover’s form she spies.

“He lives!” she cried, “My Gwyneth lives!

Youth of the crimson shield!

The graceful hero of my heart,

The glory of the field!”

“Come down, my soul’s delight! she said,

Thy blue-eyed Llwhen see!

Yrganvy’s daughter, thy true love,

Who only breathes for thee:

Then haste thee from thy prison house, Ere yet the foe doth rise! Oh! haste ere yet the morning sun Doth flame along the skies. Ah, speak! my heart is chill’d with fear, My faultering voice doth fail; Why are thy darling eyes so dim, Thy cheeks so deathly pale?” “I am thy Gwyneth’s ghost, sweet maid, Avoid the maddening sight; Those eyes that doated on thy charms Are closed in endless night. This loyal heart, which beat for thee, Is rent with many a wound; Cleft is my shield, my glittering spear Lies broke on Monia’s ground. My bones the eagle hath convey’d To feed her ravenous brood; The black-brow’d Banworth’s savage hand Hath spilt my purple blood. Then hie thee hence, ill-fated maid, Ere greater woes betide, To where Teivi’s At the Waters of Teivi the hero fell. silver streams Along the valleys glide.
There, where the modest primrose blooms. Pale as thy lover’s shade, My mangled relics shalt thou find Upon the green turf laid. Then hie thee hence, with holy hands Build up a sacred shrine, And oh! chaste maid, thy faith to prove, Unite thy dust with mine!”

Ah! have you seen a mother’s joy

In cherub sweetness dress’d,

Seized by the numbing hand of death,

Expiring at her breast?

Or the fond maid, whom morrow’s dawn

Had hail’d a wedded fair,

Doom’d to behold her lover’s corse

Scorch’d by the lightning’s glare?

So stood the hopeless, frantic maid,

Yrganvy’s graceful child,

Cold was her cheek, her dove-like eyes

Fix’d in amazement wild!

“This panting heart,” at length she cried,

“A sharper pang doth feel Than thine, brave youth, when rent in twain By Banworth’s poison’d steel.
No more these sad and weeping eyes My father’s house shall see; To airy halls, from Mona’s hill, I haste to follow thee. Beside thy tomb the chieftain’s tear Shall join the foamy surge; And oft upon the desert heath The Druid chaunt thy dirge. The weary traveller, faint and said, Shall stay his steps awhile; The memory of his own hard fate Thy story shall beguile. There, wet with many a holy tear, The sweetest buds shall blow, There Llwhen’s ghost shall mark the shrine, A monument of wo!”

Thrice did he ope the lattice grate,

And thrice he bade adieu;

When, lo! to join the parting shade,

The maiden’s spirit flew!

Anselmo, the Hermit of the Alps.

Where, mingling with Helvetia’s skies,

The snow-clad mountains glittering rise;

M4r 95

Far from the din of busy life,

From specious fraud, and envious strive;

From trivial joys, and empty show,

And all the taunting tribes of wo;

Deep in a forest’s silent shade,

For holy meditation made,

Anselmo lived!—his humble shed

Rear’d, ’midst the gloom, its rushy head.

Full many a flower, of loveliest hue,

Around his mossy threshold grew:

His little vineyard food supply’d,

His healthful cup the rippling tide;

The wood his tranquil bower of noon,

His midnight lamp the silvery moon;

His simple garb and modest mien,

The emblems of the soul within.

Lost to the world, by all forgot,

No envious fiend assail’d his cot;

His matin prayer, his evening song,

Proclaim’d a conscience void of wrong;

While, with a pure and feeling mind,

He wept the woes of human kind.

For when the young Anselmo try’d

The paths of luxury and pride,

He found in every gaudy scene

Light vanity, with wanton mien,

And base Self-Interest, grovelling guest,

And Envy, with deep-wounded breast,

And Power that spurn’d the hapless race,

And splendour gilding o’er disgrace;

And bold Oppression’s ponderous chain,

To load the groaning sons of pain!

Anselmo’s heart, with virtue stored,

Disgusted every path explored;

For still in each a thorn he found,

Whose hidden point was sure to wound:

Friends murdering with a specious smile,

And kindred bosoms fraught with guile;

And reptiles who, in baseness bold,

Unblushing barter’d love for gold!

Blest might have been his lot obscure!

What cannot patient worth endure?

But, ah! within his feeling heart,

Long-cherish’d Passion fix’d its dart,

And, braving Reason’s powerful aid,

Had bid his cheek’s bright crimson fade.

With every mental joy at strife,

Its poisons dash’d the sweets of life;

Brought Discontent, and all her train,

To wring his soul with ceaseless pain,

Each morn with clouds to cross his way,

To haunt his path at sinking day;

And when his midnight couch he press’d,

With weedy mischiefs sting his breast.

Despairing, lost, perplex’d to find

No balm to heal his tortured mind


At early dawn, at twilight’s close,

Still wounding thought deny’d repose.

In vain, to quit the maid adored,

Anselmo solitude explored:

For e’en amidst the glooms around

Her peerless beauty still he found.

In every rose her blushing cheek

Seem’d with resistless grace to speak;

The lily fair, in perfumes drest,

Pourtray’d her spotless fragrant breast;

The stream, reflecting back the sky,

Brought to his mind her azure eye;

The sun, in amber lustre roll’d,

Glow’d like her locks of silky gold;

The lonely turtle’s plaintive moan

Recall’d her song’s celestial tone;

And every dew-drop, trembling near,

Gave to his soul—her parting tear!

Oh! fatal hour, when friends severe

Beheld unmoved that parting tear,

When, vanquish’d by the sordid crew,

Anselmo bade the world adieu;

When, bow’d to rigid duty’s sway,

He saw his fairest hopes decay,

His short-lived visions of delight

O’erwhelm’d, and lost in endless night.

Once more in search of peace to roam,

Anselmo left his hermit’s home:

For three long years had bid him prove

That absence cannot conquer love;

That in the breast where passion burns,

Each nerve officious reason spurns;

Though in the gulph of misery cast,

It loves to ponder on the past;

While Memory, with a keener sense,

Still paints the eye’s soft eloquence,

Still marks the blush of feeling meek,

Still whispers more than words can speak,

Still bids tumultuous throbbings prove

That language was not made for love!

Still Fancy cheats the wounded breast,

With momentary raptures blest;

And, e’en when Hope denies relief,

Reflection feeds the source of grief.

“Perish the thought! Anselmo cried,

That hearts, by mutual vows ally’d,

Should passive crouch to tyrant power,

And darkening youth’s effulgent hour,

Sink in oblivion’s whelming tide,

The victims of insatiate pride!

Perish the thought, that genuine fires Should fading yield to low desires; That those who cannot, dare not, prove The sweet vicissitudes of love, Should by the spells of paltry gold The child of worth in thraldom hold, M4v 96 And, dead’ning all the thrills of soul, Bend nature to the stern control. Shall man o’er man a tyrant prove, And Fortune guide the shafts of Love? Shall those, by Heaven’s own influence join’d, By feeling, sympathy, and mind, The sacred voice of truth deny, And mock the mandate of the sky? Shall the proud breast, with virtue stored, Bow like the vassal to his lord, And, prodigal of life’s short day, In base submission fade away? Then sink unpitied to the grave, A wretch abhorr’d!—a willing slave!”

Roused from his dream, the hermit sought

The scene once more, with misery fraught;

Clad in a pilgrim’s mean array,

From morn’s approach till parting day

The toilsome thorny path he trod,

No guide but Hope,—no friend but God!

And when the shades of night o’erspread

The misty mountain’s breezy head,

Exhausted, on earth’s humid breast,

He kiss’d his cross, and sunk to rest.

At length, his weary weeping eyes

With joy beheld the day-star rise:

For morning gave his raptured sight

The long-lost scene of fond delight,

Where gentle Rosa, peerless maid!

Once like a sun illumed the shade;

Or, as the jewel gilds the mine,

Bade dazzling lustre round her shine.

How throbb’d Anselmo’s heart, when near,

The well-known vespers hail’d his ear!

How did he watch declining day,

How pant to greet its parting ray!

For welcome to the lover’s sight

Appear the murky shades of night;

And sacred every haunt must prove,

That hides the timid blush of love.

Now Hope inspired his bleeding breast—

Now fear each thrilling joy suppress’d,—

While to his Rosa’s proud abode

Forlorn Anselmo sought the road,

And near her lofty window crept,

When all her sordid kindred slept;

While the chaste moon, with pitying light,

Stole veil’d across the dome of night,

And every zephyr, wandering near,

Kiss’d from his cheek a sacred tear.

“Come, Rosa fair! the Hermit said,

Bright star of beauty, cheer the shade!

Anselmo calls!—ere rising day

Exulting spreads its envious ray,

Beam comfort on my dark despair,

Light of my life, my Rosa fair!”


Yet all was silent, all was drear,

Anselmo’s soul was chill’d with fear!

The sun rush’d forth, his beamy gold

Around the misty mountain roll’d:

The landscape glow’d with colours gay,

New gilded by the eastern ray;

While every blossom trembling near

Dropp’d from its leaves a crystal tear,

And seem’d, by sympathy, to show

That Nature weeps a lover’s wo!

Fear bade Anselmo’s feet depart,

While anguish wrung his burning heart;

With devious step he sought the wood,

Where, ivy-crown’d, a convent stood;

Where many a young and noble maid,

Like a fair floweret doom’d to fade,

In Superstition’s mournful gloom,

A weeping angel—graced a tomb!

Anselmo now, with throbbing breast,

Approach’d the shrine of fancied rest:

With trembling touch the latch he raised,

Then, kneeling, cross’d his brow, and praised!

The gate on creaking hinges moved,

And loud his daring hand reproved.

While through the cloister drear he pass’d,

Cold blew the whistling northern blast;

The turrets tottering o’er his head,

Shook his faint soul with conscious dread;

Till by the taper’s quivering ray

To the long aisle he bent his way,

Where, chaunting o’er a sable bier,

Begem’d with many a holy tear,

The white-robed virgins kneeling paid

Sad tribute to a sister’s shade!

Anselmo’s garb, and downcast look,

A pilgrim’s penitence bespoke!

Though sorrow mark’d his manly face,

His eye retain’d celestial grace.

A welcome guest, he join’d the throng,

The sacred rites, the heavenly song!

Till bending o’er the funeral bed,

The consecrated oil to shed,

He started back in wild amaze,

Death-wounded by the fatal gaze!

For there his darling maid he found,

And, maddening at the sight, fell lifeless to the ground!

Bosworth Field.

Gliding o’er the moonlight heath,

Mark the shadowy tribes of Death!

Hark! their airy voices say,

“Haste thee, Mortal! haste away!

N1r 97 While our clashing halberts bright Glisten by the lamp of night; While our hosts, in hostile pride, O’er the thistled desert glide; Soon shall turbid clouds absorb Spectred midnight’s paly orb! Soon shall Horror grasp its ray:— Wandering Mortal, haste away! Chilly blows the northern blast; Deadly dews are rising fast; Quit, oh! quit this haunted heath, Sacred to the tribes of Death! Screech-owls warn thee of thy fate, Fly thee, ere it be too late! All is sad and all is drear, Wherefore, mortal, wander here?”

All is silent!—yon black cloud

Soon the waning moon will shroud:

All is dark!—the moaning wind

Turbid vapours haste to bind.

Now the severing skies again

Cheer with light the spangled plain:

Now low murmurs sadly say,

“Stay thee, gentle wanderer, stay.”

What art thou, slow gliding by,

With snowy robe, and glaring eye?

Quickly fleeting shadow, say

Whither wouldst thou bend thy way?

Why invite my steps along

To yon pale and warlike throng?

Wherefore wave thy lily hand,

Beckoning back the ghastly band?

Stranger, hear my mournful strain,

Ere the day-star gilds the plain;

Ere the rosy beams of light

Bid me fade from mortal sight!

This is Bosworth’s fatal field,

Plough’d with many a shatter’d shield!

This is Bosworth’s silent grave

Of chieftains bold, and bowmen brave!

Here the flower of England’s pride,

Wading through a purple tide,

Forced the ranks the tyrant led

O’er the heaps of mighty dead!

While, amidst a sea of blood,

Norfolk, The Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Oxford, and Earl
of Pembroke
. The former was slain at the Battle of
Bosworth.
Oxford, The Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Oxford, and Earl
of Pembroke
. The former was slain at the Battle of
Bosworth.
Pembroke, The Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Oxford, and Earl
of Pembroke
. The former was slain at the Battle of
Bosworth.
stood;


England’s bane, and England’s boast,

Rush’d to arms,—a dauntless host!

Yonder valiant Richmond’s breast

Onward to the tyrant press’d!

Yonder, mad with many a wound,

Hellish Richard gnaw’d the ground!

See his faulchion deep embued

With valiant Brandon’s Sir William Brandon, standard-bearer to the
Earl of Richmond, a gallant knight, slain by the
hand of the tyrant Richard, at the Battle of Bosworth.
vital blood;

See its crimson’d fragments glare

Hideous through the stagnant air!

Start not, mortal!—Hear my tale:

See my cheek so deadly pale,

Once the fairest freshest flower,

Placed by Heaven in Leicester’s Leicester is the nearest town to Bosworth Field. bower.

Peerless Bertha was my name,

First in beauty, first in fame!

Gallant Hubert was my pride:

Hubert fell, and Bertha died!

Ermined robe and tissued vest

Never more shall wrap this breast;

Now my death-bed trappings view,

Pale and gem’d with frozen dew!

Perfect was my Hubert’s mind,

Train’d to arms, by love refined!

Speaking was his hazle eye,

Smooth his cheek, of ruddy dye.

Raven black his glossy hair,

Shading o’er his forehead fair:

Night’s impervious curtains so

Veil the mountain’s spotless snow!

Onward rush’d his palfrey white,

Deck’d with silver bosses bright;

Bosses, doom’d their rays to shed

O’er my Hubert’s funeral bed!

O’er his golden helmet gay

Gaudy plumage fann’d the day:

Hapless plumes! ye wave no more,

Hubert’s crest is drench’d in gore!

When the battle’s fierce alarms

Lured my hero from my arms,

Who my parting throb can tell?

Who, but those that love as well?

But, when o’er the tented heath

Horror wing’d the lance of Death;

When my gallant Hubert fell,

None, alas! my woes can tell.

N N1v 98

Three short moons beheld me rave

O’er my mangled lover’s grave!

Countless moons shall see my ghost

Hovering near yon shadowy host!

Nightly will I glide along

Near the vast terrific throng!

Nightly shall my mournful strain

Echo o’er this haunted plain!

For, perchance, amidst the throng

Hubert’s shade shall catch the song;

Though a strain of rending wo,

Hubert Bertha’s strain will know!

Then, my love again may join

Tender sighs and plaints to mine;

Or to some more peaceful shore

We may glide, to part no more!

See, the yellow dawn appears!

Gentle wanderer, check thy tears:

See, my shadow shuns the day!

Haste thee, mortal, haste away!

The Doublet of Grey.

Beneath the tall turrets that nod o’er the dell,

A dark forest now blackens the mound;

Where often, at dawn-light, the deep-sounding
bell

Tolls sadly and solemn a soul-parting knell,

While the ruin re-echoes the sound.

Yet long has the castle been left to decay,

For its ramparts are skirted with thorn;

And no one by moonlight will venture that way,

Lest they meet the poor maid, in her doublet of grey,

As she wanders, all pale and forlorn!

“And why should she wander? O tell me I pray,

And, oh! why does she wander alone?”

Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay,

With no shroud, but a coarse simple doublet of
grey,

Lies her bosom as cold as a stone.

Time was when no form was so fresh or so fair,

Or so comely, when richly array’d:

She was tall, and the jewels that blazed in her
hair

Could no more with her eye’s living lustre
compare,

Than a rose with the cheek of the maid.

She loved!—but the youth, who had vanquish’d her heart,

Was the heir of a peasant’s hard toil;


For no treasure had he: yet, a stranger to art,

He would oft by a look to the damsel impart

What the damsel received with a smile.

Whene’er to the wake or the chase she would
go,

The young Theodore loiter’d that way;

Did the sun-beams of summer invitingly glow,

Or across the bleak common the winter winds blow,

Still he watch’d till the closing of day.

Her parents so wealthy, her kindred so proud,

Heard the story of love with dismay;

They raved, and they storm’d, by the Virgin
they vow’d,

That, before they would see her so wedded, a
shroud

Should be Madeline’s bridal array.

One night, it was winter, all dreary and cold,

And the moon-beams shone paly and clear;

When she open’d her lattice, in hopes to behold

Her Theodore’s form, when the turret-bell
toll’d,

And the blood in her heart froze with fear.

Near the green-mantled moat her stern father
she spied,

And a grave he was making with speed;

The light, which all silver’d the castle’s strong
side,

Display’d his wild gestures, while madly he
cry’d—

“Cursed caitiff! thy bosom shall bleed!”

Distracted, forlorn, from the castle of pride,

She escaped at the next close of day:

Her soft blushing cheek with dark berries all
dyed,

With a spear on her shoulder, a sword by her
side,

And her form in a doublet of grey.

She traversed the courts, not a vassal was seen,

Through the gate, hung with ivy, she flew:

The sky was unclouded, the air was serene,

The moon shot its rays, the long vistas between,

And her doublet was spangled with dew.

O’er the cold breezy downs to the hamlet she
hied,

Where the cottage of Theodore stood;

For its low roof of rushes she oft had descried,

When she drank of the brook that foam’d wild
by its side,

While the keen hunters traversed the wood.

The sky on a sudden grew dark, and the wind,

With a deep sullen murmur, rush’d by;

She wander’d about, but no path could she find,

While horrors on horrors encompass’d her mind

When she found that no shelter was nigh.

N2r 99

And now, on the dry wither’d fern, she could
hear

The hoofs of swift horses rebound;

She stopp’d and she listen’d, she trembled with
fear,

When a voice most prophetic and sad met her
ear,

And she shudder’d and shrunk at the sound.

“’Tis here we will wait, cried the horseman;

for see

How the moon with black clouds is o’erspread;

No hut yields a shelter, no forest a tree—

This heath shall young Theodore’s bridal-couch
be,

And the cold earth shall pillow his head.

Hark! some one approaches:—now stand we
aside,

We shall know him—for see, the moon’s clear;

In a doublet of grey he now waits for his bride,

But, ere dawn-light, the carle shall repent of his
pride,

And his pale mangled body rest here.”

Again, the moon shrouded in clouds, o’er the
plain

The horsemen were scatter’d far wide;

The night became stormy, the fast falling rain

Beat hard on her bosom, which dared not complain,

And the torrent roll’d swift by her side.

Now clashing of swords overwhelm’d her with
dread,

While her ear met the deep groan of death;

“Yield, yield thee, bold peasant, the murderer
said,

This turf with thy heart’s dearest blood shall
be red,

And thy bones whiten over the heath.”

Now shrieking, despairing, she starts from the
ground,

And her spear, with new strength, she lets go:

She aim’d it at random, she felt it rebound

From the sure hand of Fate, which inflicted the
wound,

As it drank the life-blood of her foe.

The morning advanced, o’er the pale chilling
skies

Soon the warm rosy tints circled wide;

But, oh God! with what anguish, what terror
she flies,

When her father, all cover’d with wounds, she
descries

With her lover’s pale corpse by his side!

Half frantic she fell on her parent’s cold breast,

And she bathed her white bosom with gore;

Then, in anguish the form of young Theodore
press’d—

“I will yet be thy bride, in the grave we will
rest,”

She exclaim’d; and she suffer’d no more.


Now o’er the wild heath when the winter winds
blow,

And the moon-silver’d fern branches wave,

Pale Theodore’s spectre is seen gliding slow,

As he calls on the damsel in accents of wo,

Till the bell warns him back to his grave.

And while the deep sound echoes over the wood,

Now the villagers shrink with dismay;

For, as legends declare, where the castle once
stood,

’Mid the ruins, by moonlight, all covered with
blood,

Shrieks the maid—in her doublet of grey!

The Foster-Child.

In imitation of Spenser.

Canto I.

’Mid Cambria’s hills a lowly cottage stood,

Circled with mossy tufts of sombre green;

A vagrant brook flow’d wildly through the
wood,

Flashing in lucid lapse the shades between;

And, clothed in mist, a distant hut was seen:

A village spire above the copse rose white;

And oft, when summer closed the day serene,

The broad horizon glisten’d golden-bright,

Beskirted here and there with purple-tinted
light.

Close by the river’s marge a ruin stands,

Which time for ages taught to moulder
slow;

And there, as legends tell, the Druid bands

To Snowden’s summit raised the dirge of
wo,

Whene’er the warriors’ blood was bade to
flow:

And when the yellow dawn, with weeping eye,

Above the ivy’d battlements ’gan glow,

From the black towers their fading ghosts
would cry,

’Till the wide gates of day flamed in the eastern
sky.

And there the minstrel’s airy harp would
sound,

In soft vibrations musically sad;

And there a stream of light would quiver
’round,

While spectres gleam’d, in shroudy vestments
clad;

And many, hearing their loud shrieks, grew
mad!

And still the little cot was cheerful seen;

And the poor foster-mother, smiling, glad

N2v 100

That pride and pomp had ne’er her portion
been,

But all her nights and days pass’d on in peace
serene,

Sprung from a race obscure, she little knew

The many snares that lurk in paths of state:

She, mountain-cherish’d with the guileless
few,

Nor fear’d the cunning nor obey’d the great;

Her bosom tranquil, and her soul elate;

She from soft slumbers merrily awoke

Ere morn with humid fingers oped her gate;

And listen’d, cheerful, while the woodman’s
stroke

Levell’d the loftiest pine, or cleft the proudest
oak.

And happy had the foster-mother been,

But that her wedded mate was old and
poor;

Though as no splendid days the pair had seen,

They envied not the rich their shining store,

The costly banquet, nor the marble floor.

Pleased with her toil, the nurse of lusty
health,

She found contentment, and she sought no
more;

While time, which conquers e’en the brave by
stealth,

Scatter’d ’mid folly’s train the miseries of
wealth.

Full sixty summers had old Owen seen,

And now his hair grew whiter every day;

And he, who once a sturdy hind had been,

Now found his strength was wasting quick
away,

Whil creeping Palsy shook his feeble clay;

And now came Discontent, with pining mien,

And eager Avarice, which, gossips say,

Is age’s bitter curse; and so, I ween,

Old Owen found the hag, the nurse of envious
spleen.

And now he hobbled through the splashy lane,

While the night-breeze his weary bones
would shake;

And now the mountain’s summit to attain

He panted loud, as though his heart would
break,

And sorely did his limbs begin to ache:

And when the snow was drifted, or the rain

Swell’d the small rivulet to foaming rage,

He felt the chilling mist in every vein,

And, like a wounded deer, droop’d languid o’er
the plain.

And sometimes to the ruin he would hie,

And there, upon a mossy fragment, wait,

Watching the red blaze of the evening sky,

Gilding with flaming gold the roofs of state,

The fretted column, and the trophied gate:

And thus he ponder’d on the wrecks of Time,

While o’er his head the bird of gloom would
cry,


And all around the blackening ivy climb,

Shadowing the sacred haunts of solitude sublime.

And then the varying destiny of man

Employ’d his thoughts till twilight’s veil
was spread;

And much he murmur’d at the chequer’d plan,

And many a tear, repining sore, he shed;

And now in mute reflection bow’d his head,

With arms enwoven, and with downcast eyes,

The page of human misery he read,

Where wealth for honesty its thralment tries,

While at Oppression’s feet the child of Virtue
dies.

Then Fancy led him to the battle’s rage,

Where flush’d ambition rear’d its sanguine
crest,

Where men with men, like tigers, fierce engage.

The brother’s sword against the brother’s
breast:

And then he raised his eyes to Heaven, and
bless’d;

For blood had never stain’d his trembling
hand,

But holy Innocence, by Pity drest,

Spurning the pride of insolent command,

Had nerved his shuddering heart to scorn the oppressor’s brand.

Thus did he ruminate; while many a tale

Told by the gabbling gossips of the plain,

O’er his lean cheek diffused a deadly pale,

Bidding him seek his cheerful home again.

Now fancy bade him ken the warrior train

Winding the mazes of the merry dance,

With pages silken-clad, and ladies vain,

And banners thickly pierced with many a
lance,

And palfries milky-white, that champing loud
did prance;

While airy harps, by sainted Druids smote,

Pour’d the soft cadence from their golden
strings;

And groans of murder’d chieftains seem’d to
float

O’er Cambria’s towering pride, on echo’s
wings:

And now the gushing of a thousand springs

Call’d forth the elfin tribes, in dew bedight;

And now the vaulted arch with clamours
rings;

And starry eyes, spangling the face of night,

Seem’d through the murky gloom to shed translucent
light.

Now Owen, rising from his moss-clad seat,

Through the lone forest bent his silent
way;

And faint the pulses of his bosom beat,

Till, peering calm and clear, the moony ray

Diffused o’er Snowden’s summit mimic
day;

N3r 101

And, while the dry leaves whisper’d through
the wood,

He mark’d the casement of his hut display

A long pale stream of light—and swift his blood

Danced in his shrivell’d veins, like youth’s returning
flood.

But suddenly a voice was heard to moan,

Soft as the sighing of the southern wind;

And then a milder and a milder tone:—

He started, stopp’d, and trembling look’d
behind.

What feeble spells can hold the human
mind?

And now, in tears, before old Owen stood

A beauteous lady! Of the loftiest kind

So did she seem; but those of loftiest blood

Live not in noblest deeds, as noblest natures
should.

The moony light fell clear upon her vest,

For whiteness rivalling the stately swan;

And yet less snowy than her beating breast,

Whose fires the quenching tears fell fast
upon;

And mournful was her mien, and wo-be-
gone:

Yet her soft eyes might ruffian-rage command,

Though her cold cheek and lip were deadly
wan;

For on her heart she laid her trembling hand,

And, like a guilty wretch, did faint and feeble
stand.

And now she rush’d the woody brakes among;

And now again she’d quit the dim retreat,

While suddenly her nerves grew firm and
strong,

For in her arms she bore a baby sweet,

Wrapp’d in a costly robe, with trappings
meet,

That glisten’d where the moon’s pale lustre
fell;

And now she knelt forlorn at Owen’s feet,

While with such rending woes her heart ’gan
swell

As only those who feel can ever learn to tell.

Slow from her breast a purse of gold she drew,

(Ah, poison fatal to the soul of man!)

While o’er the world a misty vapour flew;

For nature shrunk the guilty deed to scan:

The fount in Owen’s bosom chilly ran;

The lady sigh’d—the babe his finger press’d—

The lonely owl its nightly shriek began,

The ring-dove murmur’d in its leafy nest,

While the fell murderer’s ghost laugh’d in his
grave unblest.

And now the lady spoke, with faultering
tongue,

“Know’st thou the torrent by the mountain’s
side?


There a fantastic crag with wild weeds hung

Frowns o’er the thunders of the foaming
tide;

No mortal sounding yet the gulph has
tried?”

Now Owen shudder’d, for his heart grew cold;

And now again the lady sternly cried,—

“Down the black rock this baby must be
roll’d!

Nay, shrink not from the deed; be rich, as thou
art bold.

Waste not in vulgar toil thy feeble age;

Bid Poverty, with all its ills, retire:

Ought Conscience warfare with the heart
to wage,

When all its passions, all its joys, expire?

Who shall condemn Ambition’s glorious fire?

Who bid thee linger through thy little day

The slave of gilded fools? whose ruthless ire

Will bend thee to the grave, a willing prey,

And bid, in envious scorn, thy very name decay.

The soldier sheds, for gold, a brother’s
blood;

The sons of Rapine revel wild in joys;

For gold the sailor ploughs the billowy flood;

The statesman barters for Ambition’s toys:

And shall vile Misery thy peace annoy?

Shall threatening Famine pinch thee to the
heart

While gold can every scorpion care destroy,

Pouring its unction sweet on every smart,

And blunting, ere it falls, Oppression’s withering
dart?”

And now again the babe his finger press’d,

Imploring silently his fostering care:

’Twas Nature’s eloquence—it touch’d his
breast,

For Nature’s spark was not extinguish’d
there!

He to his bosom snatch’d the treasure rare;

It nestled fondly: while the lady base

Rush’d through the forest; and the morning-air,

Fanning with fragrant wings the baby’s face,

O’erspread his dimpled cheek with tints of rosy
grace.

Now to the margin of the rock they came:

The hunter’s merry horn was heard afar;

The cold dew glitter’d, while the sunny flame

Rush’d unimpeded o’er the morning-star,

Rolling o’er clouds of gold Day’s burning
car:

And now the lark its hymn of rapture sung,

The sheep-bell tinkled, and the deafening
jar

Of tumbling torrents through the valley rung,

While the young playful kid frisk’d the dank
weeds among.

N3v 102

Now Owen, pacing by the bounding flood,

With arms extended held the fearless child;

And soon an icy langour chill’d his blood;

And now his starting eye-balls gazing wild,

Fix’d on the baby, as it sweetly smiled,

While the rude crag the trembling caitiff trod;

When lo! his wither’d hands, by gold defiled,

Were numb’d and palsied like a senseless clod,

Smote by the chastening power of Nature’s shuddering
God!

Now up the mazes of the darkening dell

The foster-mother, like a maniac, hied;

And bursting sighs her bosom taught to swell,

For at the dawn of day her son had died!

Her only son—old Owen’s lusty pride!

But grief to horror turn’d when Owen told

The story of the lady—who, to hide

Her guilt and shame, had sought, by ’witching
gold,

To have her own dear babe down the black
mountain roll’d!

And ere the setting sun, with vivid ray,

Gilded the casement of their hovel low,

She saw the raven cross the foamy way;

She heard the screech-owl o’er the mountain
go;

While the true sheep-dog howl’d, portending
wo:

Now a dim circle round the moon was roll’d,

And now the church-yard elms waved to
and fro,

While the small death-watch bitter griefs foretold

For Owen’s cheek was pale, and Owen’s heart
was cold!

Canto II.

Eight years pass’d on, and still the stripling
grew,

But nothing lovely in his face was seen;

His stature low, his brow of swarthy hue,

And coarse and vulgar was his infant mien;

A more unseemly thing scarce lived, I ween;

Yet in his soul the pure affections shone,

Meek charity, with modest pride serene;

While truth and dauntless courage were his
own,

Though, when he wept, his tear would melt a
heart of stone.

The village gossips, ’round the blazing hearth,

Would talk in wonder of the foster-child;

And one would say he was of lowly birth,

While others thought him born of savage
wild;

And so they many a freezing night beguiled:

Till, falling once from an o’erhanging tree,

Amidst the torrent strong, he fearless smiled!


And then the wrinkled hags with devilish glee,

Swore “the undaunted boy some witch’s brat
must be!”

And oft, upon the brow of mountain-steep,

As slow the landscape faded from his view,

With devious steps he wander’d far, to weep

(While all around the sultry vapours flew),

Heedless of withering bolt, or drizzly dew:

And as the giant shadows vanquish’d day,

Veiling the woodland dell in dusky hue,

By the small tinkling sheep-bell would he
stray,

And, like to elfin ghost, bemoan the hours
away:

And often, on the mossy bank, alone,

Strange figures would he draw, and features
vile;

And, building a rude seat of rugged stone,

Would sit whole hours, and ponder all the
while;

Or, talking to himself would nod and smile;

And sometimes by the starry light he’d go

Where the dank yew o’erhangs the church-
yard stile,

And there, with hemlock, nightshade, misletoe,

Weaving a poison’d wreath, would chaunt a
strain of wo.

No wealth had he, no garland of renown;

Slow pass’d the minutes through the live-
long day,

Till from the upland mead, or thistled down,

He watch’d the sun’s last lustre fade away:

And if perchance his little heart was gay,

It beat to hear some merry minstrel’s note,

Or goat-herd caroling his roundelay

On craggy cliffs, while from the linnet’s
throat

Full many a winding thrill on airy wings did
float:

And when the wintry moon, with crystal eye,

Above the promontory bleak ’gan sail,

Shrouding her modest brow in amber sky,

While shrill the night-breeze whistled o’er
the vale,

Oft would he tell some melancholy tale

To the deep lucid stream that wander’d slow,

Listless and weary, indolent and pale,

His bosom swelling high with bitter wo,

Which none but luckless wight with tender
heart can know.

And oft to others’ plaints would he give heed:

For all that grieved, his bosom learn’d to
sigh:

He could not see the fleecy victim bleed,

Nor snare the free-born tenant of the sky,

Nor lesser wight be teazed when he stood
by;

N4r 103

For brute Oppression roused his little rage;

In combat fierce the younker to defy

He would, with breathless ire, his limbs engage,

While neither threats nor pain his anger could
assuage.

With ebon locks umkempt, and mean attire,

A mountain weather-beaten wight was he:

And passing meek; save when resentful ire

Bade from his glance the living lightning
flee,

To think that Vice should Virtue’s master
be:

For though no classic knowledge graced his
mind

From legends old, or feats of chivalry,

Still ’round his heart the wondrous instinct
twined

Which throbb’d in every vein—the love of human
kind.

One night, the murky eve of Christmas-day,

When mystic-fraught the wintry tempest
blows,

Dim shadows hover’d in the blunted ray,

While red the moon o’er Snowden’s summit
rose:

And soon fierce hurricanes the heavens unclose;

Howling, the wild blaze danced upon the
wave;

And now a blazing fire the mountain
shows;

The troubled streams like blood their margent
lave;

And rays of livid light gleam o’er old Owen’s
grave.

The foster-mother rose in dread dismay,

And to the wayward stripling’s chamber
went;

And now the paly stream of tardy day

Stole down the hill, with frozen dew besprent,

Silvering with light the little tenement:

The swarthy boy upon his pallet rude

Slept sweet and soundly, dreaming of content;

While eager-eyed the foster-mother stood,

Like a fell bird of prey watching a victim brood:

For idle tales had now been widely spread,—

That potent witchcraft had possest the
child;

That mystic spells, from poisonous herbage
shed,

The urchin’s wandering senses had beguiled,

Filling his brain with incantations wild:

And some did swear that, by a fiend possest,

Like a vile killcrop, A witch’s changeling. breathing airs defiled,

The corn would mildew, by his fingers prest,

And new-born babes expire, meeting his glance
unblest.


Near where the black-thorn mark’d the barren
hill,

Dotting with frequent tufts its rugged side,

In a clay hut, a wither’d imp of ill

Her art accurst for many a year had plied:

Bearded she was, and swart, and haggard-
eyed;

And on her back a lump deforming grew;

A huge dried snake about her waist was
tied,

And hideous forms upon the floor she drew

With hemlock’s poison’d juice mingled with
midnight dew:

The wings of bats, the hides of toads, were
seen

Clothing the walls of her infernal cell;

And spiders grim, hiding their webs between,

Watch’d the foul hag weaving her potent
spell,

Low muttering like a sullen fiend of hell:

A murderer’s skull, fallen from a gibbet high,

And fill’d with water from a stagnant well,

Oft to her skinny lips she would apply,

With many a bitter curse and many a labour’d
sigh:

Close at her feet a brindled mastiff lay,

Watching her bloody toil with bloodshot
eyes;

And now he howl’d, as if with dire dismay,

Shaking the hovel with his fearful cries;

And now, with hide erect, he couching lies:

A ravening kite, which on the lattice stood,

With side-glance keen the wither’d sorceress
spies,

His talons streaming with the wild kid’s
blood,

Which down the thorny steep roll’d in a crimson
flood.

Thither in haste the foster-mother flew,

To traffic with the wicked imp of hell:

For every starry path the sorceress knew;

Could mark how high the stormy flood
would swell;

Of comets prattle, and eclipse foretel;

Draw from their mouldering shrouds the
guilty dead;

Ride on the whirlwind over hill and dell;

Dance on the murderer’s grave, and fearless
tread

O’er the wide yawning wave of ocean’s foamy
bed.

And now the foster-mother told her tale

(The sorceress listening with malignant
smile),

How the lorn boy would wander, sad and
pale;

Or pluck the yew-tree from the church-yard
stile;

Or bind his brows with weeds and herbage
vile:

How he would sing his wild song to the blast,

And so night’s melancholy noon beguile;

N4v 104

Or, when the death-knell o’er the meadow
pass’d,

Sigh through the dreary hour, and wish it were
his last.

And now again the witch, with ghastly grin,

Turn’d to her rushy bed, and shriek’d with
joy:

For, there full many a wither’d branch was
seen,

And many an herb infectious, to destroy,

Gather’d at dawn-light by the foster-boy;

For, ofttimes he the spiteful hag would taunt,

And, scattering poisons, her lone hours annoy;

Or, shrieking like a ghost, her threshold
haunt,

Till morn above the steep its gaudy beams would
flaunt:

And now across her path the straw he threw,

Or scratch’d her shrivel’d arm with crooked
pin;

Now up the moon-light lane her feet pursue,

And shout behind her with insulting din:—

To mock the old and feeble were a sin:

But that the subtle hag, with menaced rage,

Would urge the daily warfare to begin;

And oft with stick and stone in fight engage,

Mingling with potent wrath the peevish bent of
age.

The tale being told, the little wretch forlorn

Was sentenced to endure each wounding
wrong;

Assail’d by all the shafts of ribald scorn,

And mark’d the make-game of a senseless
throng;—

For, Persecution is a giant strong.

And now his food was frequently denied;

His sport was seldom, and his labour long;

His hunger, herbs medicinal supplied,

With ears of mildew’d corn, steep’d in the sandy
tide.

One morn the foster-mother early rose;

’Twas the blythe morn of love-inspiring
May:

But fearful dreams had haunted her repose,

Darkening the splendour of the rising day:

She sought the boy,—but he was far away!

For sharp unkindness did his peace annoy!

And little could he brook the rigid sway,

Which tyrant natures, tyrant souls, enjoy;

Their cruel sport to wound—their triumph to
destroy!

Yet whither could the little wanderer go?

A stranger to the world’s wide mazes he;

Despair his guide, his sole companion Wo—

A solitary exile doom’d to be:


He gazed aghast; no friend his eyes could
see;

And yet in fancy he beheld the day

When, smiling, on his foster-mother’s knee,

He oftentimes has heard her sighing say,

How to her cot he came bedight in rich array.

Perchance he thought, some lord his sire might
live;

Some lady sweet his bashful mother prove,

While shame might bid her to a stranger give

The holy treasure of a parent’s love.

O barbarous pride! which Nature cannot
move;

Shall her poor offspring ever plead in vain?

Shall they, unown’d by guilty greatness,
rove;

Or, lost in ignorance, unblest remain,

Like a wild withering tree, placed on a desert
plain?

And now his feverish brain began to burn,

While Memory conjured up each hour to
view

Which, erst so tranquil, never could return—

Ah, Memory! sad thy visions are, and true!

When dark Despair a gloomy picture drew;

While Fancy madden’d on the varied scene:

And now the clouds resumed a cheerful
hue;

Yet, while he watch’d the rays of light between,

On all the earth there breathed no wretch so
lorn, I ween.

O’er hill and dale the friendless foster-child,

With weary footsteps, bent his lonely way:

And now he hasten’d o’er the thorny wild;

Now by the rippling brook would musing
stay;

Or dream, on flowery banks, of visions gay:

Then, starting wild, his pilgrimage pursue,

Not knowing whither he was doom’d to
stray,

While his wan cheek was sprent with chilling
dew,

Or fierce the angry storm athwart his bosom
flew.

At length gaunt Poverty, of sallow hue,

And cold Neglect, with all their rueful
train,

About his heart their withering mischiefs
threw;

And sorely was he pinch’d with bitter pain:

Yet proud was he, and fraught with high
disdain,

Though many a day he fasted sad and lone;

And all night long across the dismal plain

He pour’d, amid the blast, his rending groan,

While the faint glimmering stars in chilling lustre
shone:

O1r 105

And many a burning day, and freezing night,

The little traveller on his journey bent;

And often, by the moon-beam’s quivering
light,

He watch’d his shadow lengthening as he
went,

And, so companion’d, seem’d awhile content:

Yet when, perchance, he met a lady gay,

With sudden pangs his little heart was rent;

For then remembrance show’d the rich array

Which (so the tale was told) bedeck’d his natal
day.

It so befel that, on a summer’s eve,

A stately mansion met his tearful eyes:

And suddenly his soul forgot to grieve;

And straight a beauteous lady he espies:

With unknown hopes his heavy heart did
rise,

For on her cheek a gentle smile was seen;

And now she mark’d his form with fond
surprise!

For, by his father’s smile, his father’s mien,

Her own wrong’d baby-boy she knew full well,
I ween.

’Twas instinct rushing through her beating
breast!

Instinct, the lamp divine that lights the
soul;

For many a night, deprived of balmy rest,

Her feverish eye-balls had been taught to
roll:

Oh! what can conscious agony control?

And, when she ponder’d on the foaming tide,

From her shrunk heart hope’s soothing
visions stole;

And sickening was the luxury of pride,

While all the mother’s fears beat high against
her side.

Now the wide country ’round with revels
rung:

“The stranger boy” was sovereign of the
scene;

And there the minstrel play’d, the peasant
sung,

And dancing circles dotted o’er the green;

Such rural merriment had ne’er been seen:

The soft harp echo’d down the woody dell;

And sporting gay the sombre shades between,

The wild goat wanton’d; while afar the swell

On the light breeze was borne, of many a distant
bell.

But who can paint the mother’s silent joy?

Who measure the full transport of her soul?

While on the smiling cheek of her lost boy

Her tears repentant swiftly now ’gan roll:

And wo to him who would their course
control!


For ’twas the extract of the wounded heart,

Wafted to Heaven by sighs that nature
stole—

Sighs which more sacred rapture can impart

Than all the pomp of wealth, and all the smiles
of art!

The Lady of the Black
Tower.

Watch no more the twinkling stars;

Watch no more the chalky bourne;

Lady! from the holy wars

Never will thy love return!

Cease to watch, and cease to mourn,

Thy lover never will return!

Watch no more the yellow moon,

Peering o’er the mountain’s head;

Rosy day, returning soon,

Will see thy lover, pale and dead!

Cease to weep, and cease to mourn,

Thy lover will no more return!

Lady, in the Holy wars,

Fighting for the Cross, he died;

Low he lies, and many scars

Mark his cold and mangled side;

In his winding sheet he lies,

Lady! check those rending sighs.

Hark! the hollow sounding gale

Seems to sweep in murmurs by,

Sinking slowly down the vale;

Wherefore, gentle lady, sigh?

Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh?

Lady, all that live must die.

Now the stars are fading fast:

Swift their brilliant course are run;

Soon shall dreary night be past:

Soon shall rise the cheering sun!

The sun will rise to gladden thee:

Lady, lady, cheerful be.

So spake a voice! While sad and lone,

Upon a lofty tower, reclined,

A lady sat: the pale moon shone,

And sweetly blew the summer wind;

Yet still, disconsolate in mind,

The lovely lady sat reclined.

The lofty tower was ivy clad;

And round a dreary forest rose;

The midnight bell was tolling sad—

’Twas tolling for a soul’s repose!

The lady heard the gates unclose,

And from her seat in terror rose.

O O1v 106

The summer moon shone bright and clear;

She saw the castle gates unclose;

And now she saw four monks appear,

Loud chanting for a soul’s repose.

Forbear, oh, lady! look no more—

They pass’d—a livid corpse they bore.

They pass’d, and all was silent now;

The breeze upon the forest slept;

The moon stole o’er the mountain’s brow;

Again the lady sigh’d and wept:

She watch’d the holy fathers go

Along the forest path below.

And now the dawn was bright, the dew

Upon the yellow heath was seen;

The clouds were of a rosy hue,

The sunny lustre shone between:

The lady to the chapel ran,

While the slow matin prayer began.

And then, once more, the fathers grey

She mark’d employ’d in holy prayer:

Her heart was full, she could not pray,

For love and fear were masters there.

Ah, lady! thou wilt pray ere long

To sleep those lonely aisles among!

And now the matin prayers were o’er;

The barefoot monks of order grey,

Were thronging to the chapel door,

When there the lady stopp’d the way:

“Tell me,” she cried, “whose corpse so pale,

Last night ye bore along the vale?”

“Oh, lady! question us no more:

No corpse did we bear down the dale!”

The lady sunk upon the floor,

Her quivering lip was deathly pale.

The bare-foot monks now whisper’d, sad,

“God grant our lady be not mad.’”

The monks departing, one by one,

The chapel gates in silence close;

When from the altar-steps of stone,

The trembling lady feebly goes:

While the morning sheds a ruby light,

The painted windows glowing bright.

And now she heard a hollow sound;

It seem’d to come from graves below;

And now again she look’d around,

A voice came murmuring sad and slow;

And now she heard it feebly cry,

“Lady! all that live must die!”

“Watch no more from yonder tower,

Watch no more the star of day!


Watch no more the dawning hour,

That chases sullen night away!

Cease to watch, and cease to mourn,

Thy lover will no more return!”

She look’d around, and now she view’d,

Clad in a doublet gold and green,

A youthful knight: he frowning stood,

And noble was his mournful mien;

And now he said, with heaving sigh,

“Lady, all that live must die!”

She rose to quit the altar’s stone,

She cast a look to heaven and sigh’d,

When lo! the youthful knight was gone;

And, scowling by the lady’s side,

With sightless skull and bony hand,

She saw a giant spectre stand!

His flowing robe was long and clear,

His ribs were white as drifted snow:

The lady’s heart was chill’d with fear;

She rose, but scarce had power to go:

The spectre grinn’d a dreadful smile,

And walk’d beside her down the aisle.

And now he waved his rattling hand;

And now they reach’d the chapel door,

And there the spectre took his stand;

While, rising from the marble floor,

A hollow voice was heard to cry,

“Lady, all that live must die!”

“Watch no more the evening star!

Watch no more the glimpse of morn!

Never from the holy war,

Lady, will thy love return!

See this bloody cross; and see

His bloody scarf he sends to thee!”

And now again the youthful knight

Stood smiling by the lady’s side;

His helmet shone with crimson light,

His sword with drops of blood was dyed:

And now a soft and mournful song

Stole the chapel aisles among.

Now from the spectre’s paley cheek

The flesh began to waste away;

The vaulted doors were heard to creak,

And dark became the summer day!

The spectre’s eyes were sunk, but he

Seem’d with their sockets still to see!

The second bell is heard to ring:

Four barefoot monks of orders grey,

Again their holy service sing;

And round the chapel altar pray:

The lady counted o’er and o’er,

And shudder’d while she counted—four

O2r 107

“Oh! fathers, who was he, so gay,

That stood beside the chapel door?

Oh! tell me, fathers, tell me pray.”

The monks replied, “ We fathers four,

Lady no other have we seen,

Since in this holy place we’ve been!”

Part Second.

Now the merry bugle horn

Through the forest sounded far;

When on the lofty tower, forlorn,

The lady watch’d the evening star;

The evening star that seem’d to be

Rising from the darken’d sea!

The summer sea was dark and still,

The sky was streak’d with lines of gold,

The mist rose grey above the hill,

And low the clouds of amber roll’d:

The lady on the lofty tower

Watch’d the calm and silent hour.

And, while she watch’d, she saw advance

A ship, with painted streamers gay:

She saw it on the green wave dance,

And plunge amid the silver spray;

While from the forest’s haunts, forlorn,

Again she heard the bugle horn.

The sails were full; the breezes rose;

The billows curl’d along the shore;

And now the day began to close;—

The bugle horn was heard no more,

But, rising from the watery way,

An airy voice was heard to say:

“Watch no more the evening star;

Watch no more the billowy sea;

Lady, from the holy war

Thy lover hastes to comfort thee:

Lady, lady, cease to mourn;

Soon thy lover will return.”

Now she hastens to the bay;

Now the rising storm she hears;

Now the sailors smiling say,

“Lady, lady, check your fears:

Trust us, lady; we will be

Your pilots o’er the stormy sea.”

Now the little bark she view’d,

Moor’d beside the flinty steep;

And now upon the foamy flood,

The tranquil breezes seem’d to sleep.

The moon arose; her silver ray

Seem’d on the silent deep to play.

Now music stole across the main:

It was a sweet but mournful tone;


It came a slow and dulcet strain;

It came from where the pale moon shone:

And, while it pass’d across the sea,

More soft, and soft, it seem’d to be.

Now on the deck the lady stands;

The vessel steers across the main;

It steers towards the holy land,

Never to return again;

Still the sailors cry, “ We’ll be

Your pilots o’er the stormy sea.”

Now she hears a low voice say,

“Deeper, deeper, deeper still;

Hark! the black’ning billows play;

Hark! the waves the vessel fill:

Lower, lower, down we go;

All is dark and still below.”

Now a flash of vivid light

On the rolling deep was seen!

And now the lady saw the knight,

With doublet rich of gold and green;

From the sockets of his eyes,

A pale and streaming light she spies!

And now his form transparent stood,

Smiling with a ghastly mien;—

And now the calm and boundless frood

Was, like the emerald, bright and green;

And now ’twas of a troubled hue,

While, “Deeper, deeper,” sang the crew.

Slow advanced the morning light,

Slow they plough’d the wavy tide;

When, on a cliff of dreadful height,

A castle’s lofty towers they spied:

The lady heard the sailor-band

Cry, “Lady, this is holy land.

Watch no more the glittering spray;

Watch no more the weedy sand;

Watch no more the star of day;

Lady, this is holy land:

This castle’s lord shall welcome thee;

Then, lady, lady, cheerful be.”

Now the castle-gates they pass;

Now across the spacious square,

Cover’d high with dewy grass,

Trembling steals the lady fair:

And now the castle’s lord was seen,

Clad in a doublet gold and green.

He led her through the gothic hall,

With bones and skulls encircled round;

“Oh, let not this thy soul appal!

He cried, for this is holy ground.”

He led her through the chambers lone,

’Mid many a shriek and many a groan.

O2v 108

Now to the banquet-room they came:

Around a table of black stone

She mark’d a faint and vapoury flame;

Upon the horrid feast it shone—

And there, to close the maddening sight,

Unnumber’d spectres met the light.

Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright;

Their eyes were blue as sapphire clear;

Their bones were of a polish’d white;

Gigantic did their ribs appear!—

And now the knight the lady led,

And placed her at the table’s head!—

Just now the lady woke:—for she

Had slept upon the lofty tower,

And dreams of dreadful phantasie

Had fill’d the lonely moon-light hour:

Her pillow was the turret-stone,

And on her breast the pale moon shone.

But now a real voice she hears:

It was her lover’s voice;—for he,

To calm her bosom’s rending fears,

That night had cross’d the stormy sea:

“I come,” said he, “from Palestine,

To prove myself, sweet lady, thine.”

All Alone.

Ah! wherefore by the church-yard side,

Poor little lorn one, dost thou stray?

Thy wavy locks but thinly hide

The tears that dim thy blue-eye’s ray;

And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,

And weep, that thou art left alone?

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,

The traveller stops to hear thy tale;

No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!

For though thy mother’s cheek is pale,

And withers under yon grave stone,

Thou art not, urchin, left alone.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair

In silky waves I oft have seen;

Thy dimpled face so fresh and fair,

Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien,

Were all to me, poor orphan, known,

Ere Fate had left thee—all alone!

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,

Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!

Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,

And bare thy bosom meets the gale;

And oft I hear thee deeply groan,

That thou, poor boy, art left alone.


Thy naked feet are wounded sore

With thorns, that cross thy daily road;

The winter winds around thee roar,

The church-yard is thy bleak abode;

Thy pillow now a cold grave stone—

And there thou lov’st to grieve—alone!

The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;

The nipping frost thy bosom froze;

And still, the yew-tree shades among,

I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;

I heard thee, till the day-star shone

In darkness weep—and weep alone!

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,

Upon thy lovely mother’s knee;

For when she lived, thou wert her joy,

Though now a mourner thou must be!

For she lies low, where yon grave stone

Proclaims that thou art left alone.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill

The village bells are ringing, gay;

The merry reed, and brawling rill

Call thee to rustic sports away.

Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,

A truant from the throng—alone?

I cannot the green hill ascend,

I cannot pace the upland mead;

I cannot in the vale attend

To hear the merry-sounding reed:

For all is still beneath yon stone,

Where my poor mother’s left alone!

I cannot gather gaudy flowers

To dress the scene of revels loud—

I cannot pass the evening hours

Among the noisy village crowd;

For all in darkness, and alone

My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

See how the stars begin to gleam,

The sheep-dog barks—’tis time to go;

The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam

Peeps through the yew-trees’ shadowy row:

It falls upon the white grave-stone,

Where my dear mother sleeps alone.

O stay me not, for I must go,

The upland path in haste to tread;

For there the pale primroses grow,

They grow to dress my mother’s bed.

They must ere peep of day, be strown,

Where she lies mouldering all alone.

My father o’er the stormy sea

To distant lands was borne away,

And still my mother stay’d with me,

And wept by night and toil’d by day.

O3r 109

And shall I ever quit the stone

Where she is left to sleep alone.

My father died, and still I found

My mother fond and kind to me;

I felt her breast with rapture bound

When first I prattled on her knee—

And then she blest my infant tone,

And little thought of yon grave-stone.

No more her gentle voice I hear,

No more her smile of fondness see;

Then wonder not I shed the tear,

She would have died to follow me!

And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone,

And I still live—to weep alone.

Thy playful kid, she loved so well,

From yon high clift was seen to fall;

I heard afar his tinkling bell,

Which seem’d in vain for aid to call—

I heard the harmless sufferer moan,

And grieved that he was left alone.

Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,

The lightning smote our cottage low—

We had no resting-place beside,

And knew not whither we should go:

For we were poor—and hearts of stone

Will never throb at misery’s groan.

My mother still survived for me,

She led me to the mountain’s brow,

She watch’d me, while at yonder tree

I sat, and wove the ozier bough;

And oft she cried, “fear not, mine own!

Thou shalt not, boy, be left alone.”

The blast blew strong, the torrent rose

And bore our shatter’d cot away;

And where the clear brook swiftly flows,

Upon the turf, at dawn of day,

When bright the sun’s full lustre shone,

I wander’d, friendless—and alone!

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen

Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,

And while the morning sky serene

Spread o’er the hill a yellow hue,

I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,

Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

And when the summer noontide hours

With scorching rays the landscape spread,

I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flowers

To deck thy mother’s silent bed!

Nor at the church-yard’s simple stone

Wert thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

I follow’d thee along the dale,

And up the woodland’s shad’wy way:


I heard thee tell thy mournful tale

As slowly sunk the star of day:

Nor when its twinkling light had flown

Wert thou a wanderer all alone.

O! yes, I was! and still shall be

A wanderer, mourning and forlorn;

For what is all the world to me—

What are the dews and buds of morn?

Since she who left me sad, alone

In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

No brother’s tear shall fall for me,

For I no brother ever knew;

No friend shall weep my destiny,

For friends are scarce, and tears are few;

None do I see, save on this stone,

Where I will stay and weep alone.

My father never will return,

He rests beneath the sea-green wave;

I have no kindred left to mourn

When I am hid in yonder grave:

Not one to dress with flowers the stone!

Then—surely, I am left alone!

Old Barnard.

A Monkish Tale.

Old Barnard was still a lusty hind,

Though his age was full fourscore;

And he used to go

Through hail and snow,

To a neighb’ring town,

With his old coat brown,

To beg at his grandson’s door!

Old Barnard briskly jogg’d along,

When the hail and the snow did fall;

And whatever the day,

He was always gay,

Did the broad sun glow,

Or the keen wind blow,

While he begg’d in his grandson’s hall.

His grandson was a squire, and he

Had houses, and lands, and gold;

And a coach beside,

And horses to ride,

And a downy bed

To repose his head,

And he felt not the winter’s cold.

O3v 110

Old Barnard had neither house nor lands,

Nor gold to buy warm array;

Nor a coach to carry

His old bones weary,

Nor beds of feather,

In freezing weather

To sleep the long nights away.

But Barnard a quiet conscience had,

No guile did his bosom know;

And when evening closed

His old bones reposed,

Though the wintry blast

O’er his hovel pass’d,

And he slept while the winds did blow.

But his grandson he could never sleep

Till the sun began to rise;

For a feverish pain

Oppress’d his brain,

And he fear’d some evil,

And dream’d of the devil

Whenever he closed his eyes!

And whenever he feasted the rich and gay,

The devils still had his joke;

For however rare

The sumptuous fare,

When the sparkling glass

Was seen to pass—

He was fearful the draught would choke!

And whenever, in fine and costly geer,

The squire went forth to ride

The owl would cry,

And the raven fly

Across his road,

While the sluggish toad

Would crawl by his palfrey’s side.

And he could not command the sunny day,

For the rain would wet him through;

And the wind would blow

Where his nag did go,

And the thunder roar,

And the torrents pour,

And he felt the chill evening dew.

And the cramp would ring his youthful bones,

And would make him groan aloud;

And the doctor’s art

Could not cure the heart,

While the conscience still

Was o’ercharged with ill;

And he dream’d of the pick-axe and shroud.

And why could old Bernard sweetly sleep,

Since so poor and so old was he?

Because he could say

At the close of day,


“I have done no wrong

To the weak or strong,

And so Heaven look kind on me!”

One night the grandson hied him forth

To a monk that lived hard by;

“O father! said he,

I am come to thee,

For I’m sick of sin,

And would fain begin

To repent me before I die!”

“I must pray for your soul, the monk replied,

But will see you to-morrow, ere noon:”

Then the monk flew straight

To old Barnard’s gate,

And he bade him haste

O’er the dewy waste,

By the light of the waning moon.

In the monkish cell did old Barnard wait,

And his grandson went thither soon;

In a habit of grey,

Ere the dawn of day,

With a cowl and cross,

On the sill of moss,

He knelt by the light of the moon.

“O! shrive me, father! the grandson cried,

For the devil is waiting for me!

I have robb’d the poor,

I have shut my door,

And kept out the good

When they wanted food,

And I come for my pardon to thee.”

“Get home, young sinner, old Barnard said,

And your grandsire quickly see;

Give him half your store,

For he’s old and poor,

And avert each evil,

And cheat the devil,

By making him rich as thee.”

The squire obey’d; and old Barnard now

Is rescued from every evil:

For he fears no wrong

From the weak or strong,

And the squire can snore

When the loud winds roar,

For he dreams no more of the devil.

The Haunted Beach.

Upon a lonely desert beach,

Where the white foam was scatter’d,

A little shed uprear’d its head,

Though lofty barks were shatter’d.

O4r 111

The sea-weeds gathering near the door,

A sombre path display’d;

And, all around, the deafening roar

Re-echoed on the chalky shore,

By the green billows made.

Above a jutting cliff was seen

Where sea-birds hover’d craving;

And all around the craggs were bound

With weeds—for ever waving.

And here and there, a cavern wide

Its shadowy jaws display’d;

And near the sands, at ebb of tide,

A shiver’d mast was seen to ride

Where the green billows stray’d.

And often, while the moaning wind

Stole o’er the summer ocean,

The moonlight scene was all serene,

The waters scarce in motion;

Then, while the smoothly slanting sand

The tall cliff wrapp’d in shade,

The fisherman beheld a band

Of spectres gliding hand in hand—

Where the green billows play’d.

And pale their faces were as snow,

And sullenly they wander’d;

And to the skies with hollow eyes

They look’d as though they ponder’d.

And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,

They dismal howlings made,

And while the blast blew strong and loud,

The clear moon mark’d the ghastly crowd,

Where the green billows play’d.

And then above the haunted hut

The curlews screaming hover’d;

And the low door, with furious roar,

The frothy breakers cover’d.

For in the fisherman’s lone shed

A murder’d man was laid,

With ten wide gashes in his head,

And deep was made his sandy bed

Where the green billows play’d.

A shipwreck’d mariner was he,

Doom’d from his home to sever

Who swore to be through wind and sea

Firm and undaunted ever!

And when the wave resistless roll’d,

About his arm he made

A packet rich of Spanish gold,

And, like a British sailor bold,

Plung’d where the billows play’d.

The spectre band, his messmates brave,

Sunk in the yawning ocean,

While to the mast he lash’d him fast,

And braved the storm’s commotion.


The winter moon upon the sand

A silvery carpet made,

And mark’d the sailor reach the land,

And mark’d his murderer wash his hand

Where the green billows play’d.

And since that hour the fisherman

Has toil’d and toil’d in vain;

For all the night the moony light

Gleams on the specter’d main!

And when the skies are veil’d in gloom,

The murderer’s liquid way

Bounds o’er the deeply yawning tomb,

And flashing fires the sands illume,

Where the green billows play.

Full thirty years his task has been,

Day after day more weary;

For Heaven design’d his guilty mind

Should dwell on prospects dreary.

Bound by a strong and mystic chain,

He has not power to stray;

But destined misery to sustain,

He wastes, in solitude and pain,

A loathsome life away.

The Trumpeter.

An Old English Tale.

It was in the days of a gay British king

(In the old fashion’d custom of merry-making)

The palace of Woodstock with revels did ring,

While they sang and caroused—one and all:

For the monarch a plentiful treasury had,

And his courtiers were pleased, and no visage
was sad,

And the knavish and foolish with drinking were
mad,

While they sat in the banquetting hall.

Some talk’d of their valour, and some of their
race,

And vaunted, till vaunting was black in the
face;

Some bragg’d for a title, and some for a place,

And, like braggarts, they bragg’d one and all!

Some spoke of their scars in the holy crusade,

Some boasted the banner of fame they display’d,

And some sang their loves in the soft serenade,

As they sat in the banquetting hall.

And here sat a baron, and there sat a knight,

And here stood a page in his habit all bright,

And here a young soldier in armour bedight

With a friar caroused, one and all.

Some play’d on the dulcimer, some on the lute,

And some, who had nothing to talk of, were mute,

Till the morning, awaken’d, put on her grey
suit—

And the lark hover’d over the hall.

O4v 112

It was in a vast gothic hall that they sate,

And the tables were cover’d with rich gilded
plate,

And the king and his minions were toping in
state,

Till their noddles turn’d round, one and all—

And the sun through the tall painted windows
’gan peep,

And the vassals were sleeping, or longing to
sleep,

Though the courtiers, still waking, their secrets
did keep,

While the minstrels play’d sweet, in the hall.

And, now in their cups, the bold topers began

To call for more wine, from the cellar yeoman,

And, while each one replenish’d his goblet or
can,

The monarch thus spake to them all:

“It is fit that the nobles do just what they
please,

That the great live in idleness, riot, and ease,

And that those should be favour’d, who mark
my decrees,

And should feast in the banquetting hall.

It is fit,” said the monarch, “that riches
should claim

A passport to freedom, to honour, and fame,—

That the poor should be humble, obedient, and
tame,

And, in silence, submit—one and all.

That the wise and the holy should toil for the
great,

That the vassals should tend at the tables of
state,

That the pilgrim should—pray for our souls at
the gate

While we feast in our banquetting hall.

That the low-lineaged carles should be scantily
fed—

That their drink should be small, and still smaller
their bread;

That their wives and their daughters to ruin be
led,

And submit to our will, one and all!

It is fit that whoever I choose to defend—

Shall be courted, and feasted, and loved as a friend,

While before them the good and enlighten’d shall
bend

While they sit in the banquetting hall.”

Now the topers grew bold, and each talk’d of his
right,

One would fain be a baron, another a knight;

And another (because at the tournament fight

He had vanquish’d his foes, one and all)

Demanded a track of rich lands, and rich fare,

And of stout serving vassals a plentiful share;

With a lasting exemption from penance and
prayer,

And a throne in the banquetting hall.

But one, who had neither been valiant nor wise,

With a tone of importance, thus vauntingly cries,


“My liege he knows how a good subject to
prize—

And I therefore demand—before all—

I this castle possess: and the right to maintain

Five hundred stout bowmen to follow my train,

And as many strong vassals to guard my domain

As the lord of the banquetting hall!”

“I have fought with all nations, and bled in the
field,

See my lance is unshiver’d, though batter’d my
shield,

I have combatted legions, yet never would yield,

And the enemy fled—one and all!

I have rescued a thousand fair donnas, in Spain,

I have left in gay France every bosom in pain,

I have conquer’d the Russian, the Prussian, the
Dane,

And will reign in the banquetting hall!”

The monarch now rose, with majestical look,

And his sword from the scabbard of jewels he
took,

And the castle with laughter and ribaldry shook,

While the braggart accosted thus he:

“I will give thee a place that will suit thy demand,

What to thee is more fitting than vassals or
land—

I will give thee,—what justice and valour command,

For a trumpeter bold—thou shalt be!”

Now the revellers rose, and began to complain—

While they menaced with gestures, and frown’d
with disdain,

And declared that the nobles were fitter to reign

Than a prince so unruly as he.

But the monarch cried, sternly, they taunted
him so,

“From this moment the counsel of fools I forego

And on wisdom and virtue will honours bestow,

For such, only, are welcome to me!”

So saying, he quitted the banquetting hall,

And leaving his courtiers and flatterers all—

Straightway for his confessor loudly ’gan call,

“Oh, father! now listen, said he:

I have feasted the fool, I have pamper’d the
knave

I have scoff’d at the wise, and neglected the
brave—

And here, holy man, absolution I crave—

For a penitent now I will be.”

From that moment the monarch grew sober and
good,

(And nestled with birds of a different brood,)

For he found that the pathway which wisdom
pursued

Was pleasant, safe, quiet, and even!

P1r 113

That by temperance, virtue, and liberal deeds,

By nursing the flowerets, and crushing the weeds,

The loftiest traveller always succeeds—

For his journey will lead him to Heaven.

The Poor Singing Dame.

Beneath an old wall, that went round an old
castle,

For many a year, with brown ivy o’erspread;

A neat little hovel, its lowly roof raising,

Defied the wild winds that howl’d over its
shed:

The turrets, that frown’d on the poor simple
dwelling,

Were rock’d to and fro, when the tempest would
roar,

And the river, that down the rich valley was
swelling,

Flow’d swiftly beside the green step of its door.

The summer sun gilded the rushy roof slanting,

The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound
hedge,

And above, on the ramparts, the sweet birds
were chanting,

And wild buds thick dappled the clear river’s
edge,

When the castle’s rich chambers were haunted
and dreary,

The poor little hovel was still and secure;

And no robber e’er enter’d, nor goblin nor fairy,

For the splendours of pride had no charms to
allure.

The lord of the castle, a proud surly ruler,

Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music
ring,

For the old dame that lived in the little hut
cheerly,

Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily
sing:

When with revels the castle’s great hall was
resounding,

The old dame was sleeping, not dreaming of
fear;

And when over the mountains the huntsmen
were bounding

She would open her lattice, their clamours to
hear.

To the merry-toned horn she would dance on the
threshold,

And louder, and louder repeat her old song:

And when winter its mantle of frost was displaying,

She caroll’d, undaunted, the bare woods
among:

She would gather dry fern, ever happy and singing,

With her cake of brown bread, and her jug
of brown beer,


And would smile when she heard the great castle-bell
ringing,

Inviting the proud to their prodigal cheer.

Thus she lived, ever patient an ever contented,

Till envy the lord of the castle possess’d,

For he hated that poverty should be so cheerful,

While care could the fav’rites of fortune molest;

He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent
her,

And still would she carol her sweet roundelay;

At last, an old steward relentless he sent her—

Who bore her, all trembling, to prison away!

Three weeks did she languish, then died broken-
hearted,

Poor dame! how the death-bell did mournfully
sound!

And along the green path six young bachelors
bore her,

And laid her for ever beneath the cold ground!

And the primroses pale ’mid the long grass were
growing,

The bright dews of twilight bespangled her
grave,

And morn heard the breezes of summer soft
blowing,

To bid the fresh flowerets in sympathy wave.

The lord of the castle, from that fatal moment

When poor singing Mary was laid in her grave,

Each night was surrounded by screech-owls
appalling,

Which o’er the black turrets their pinions would
wave!

On the ramparts that frown’d on the river, swift
flowing,

They hover’d, still hooting a terrible song,

When his windows would rattle, the winter
blast blowing,

They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys
among!

Wherever he wander’d they followed him crying;

At dawnlight, at eve, still they haunted his
way!

When the moon shone across the wide common
they hooted,

Nor quitted his path till the blazing of day.

His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying,

And he hung his proud head, and he perish’d
with shame;

And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying,

O’ershadows the grave of the poor singing
dame!

The Widow’s Home.

Close on the margin of a brawling brook

That bathes the low dell’s bosom, stands a cot,

O’ershadow’d by broad alders. At its door

A rude seat, with an ozier canopy,

P P1v 114

Invites the weary traveller to rest.

Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within

The sweets of joy domestic oft have made

The long hour not uncheerly, while the moor

Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak
blast

Swept with impetuous wing the mountain’s
brow!

On every tree of the near sheltering wood

The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,

Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling

Love-songs spontaneous, greets him merrily.

The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn,

And thinly scatter’d with blue mists that float

On their bleak summits dimly visible,

Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air

Breathes healthful fragrance. On the cottage roof

The gadding ivy, and the tawny vine

Bind the brown thatch, the shelter’d winter-hut
roof

Of the tame sparrow, and the red-breast bold.

There dwells the soldier’s widow! young and
fair,

Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day

She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,—

And every hour anticipates the day

(Deceived, yet cherish’d, by the flatterer Hope)

When she shall meet her hero. On the eve

Of sabbath rest, she trims her little hut

With blossoms fresh and gaudy, still herself

The queen-flower of the garland! The sweet
rose

Of wood-wild beauty, blushing through her
tears.

One little son she has, a lusty boy,

The darling of her guiltless mourning heart,

The only dear and gay associate

Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek

Is never blanch’d with fear, though he will
climb

The broad oak’s branches, and with brawny
arm

Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye

Beams all his mother’s gentleness of soul;

While his brave father’s warm intrepid heart

Throbs in his infant bosom. ’Tis a wight

Most valorous, yet pliant as the stem

Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew

Presses its perfumed head. Eight years his
voice

Has cheer’d the homely hut, for he could lisp

Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet

Could measure the smooth path-way.

On the hills

He watches the wide waste of wavy green

Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes

Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main,

Rolling and blazing, seems a second sun!

And, if a distant whitening sail appears,

Skimming the bright horizon, while the mast

Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold,

He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old tree

Is his lone watch-tower; ’tis a blasted oak

Which from a vagrant acorn, ages past,


Sprang up to triumph like a savage bold,

Braving the season’s warfare. There he sits

Silent and musing the lone evening hour,

’Till the short reign of sunny splendour fades

At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings;

Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours

The tune mellifluous which his father sung,

When he could only listen.

On the sands

That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,

When morn unlocks the east, and flings afar

The rosy day-beam! There the boy will stop

To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves

On the bleak strand, while winter o’er the main

Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again

He chants his father’s ditty. Never more,

Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb

To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear

Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word

Expression magical! Thy father, boy,

Sleeps on the bed of death! His tongue is mute,

His fingers have forgot their pliant art,

His oaten pipe will ne’er again be heard

Echoing along the valley! Never more

Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile

Of peace domestic, or the circling arm

Of valour, temper’d by the milder joys

Of rural merriment. His very name

Is now forgotten! for no trophied tomb

Tells of his bold exploits: such heraldry

Befits not humble worth; for pomp and praise

Wait in the gilded palaces of pride

To dress ambition’s slaves. Yet, on his grave,

The unmark’d resting place of valour’s sons,

The morning beam shines lust’rous; the meek
flower

Still drops the twilight tear, and the night
breeze

Moans melancholy music!

Then, to me,

O! dearer far is the poor soldier’s grave,

The widow’s lone and unregarded cot,

The brawling brook, and the wide alder-bough,

The ozier canopy, and plumy choir,

Hymning the morn’s return, than the rich dome

Of gilded palaces! and sweeter far—

O! far more graceful, far more exquisite,

The widow’s tear bathing the living rose,

Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast

Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me—

The widow’s lowly home: The soldier’s heir;

The proud inheritor of Heaven’s best gifts—

The mind unshackled, and the guiltless soul!

Mistress Gurton’s Cat.

A Domestic Tale.

Old Mistress Gurton had a cat,

A tabby, loveliest of the race,

Sleek as a doe, and tame and fat,

With velvet paws and whisker’d face;

P2r 115

The doves of Venus not so fair,

Nor Juno’s peacock half so grand

As Mistress Gurton’s tabby Rose,

The proudest of the purring band:—

So dignified in all her paces,

She seem’d a pupil of the Graces!

There never was a finer creature

In all the varying whims of Nature!

All liked Grimalkin, passing well!

Save Mistress Gurton—and, ’tis said,

She oft with furious ire would swell,

When, through neglect or hunger keen,

Puss with a pilfer’d scrap was seen

Purring beneath the pent-house shed:

For, like some favourites, she was bent

On all things, yet with none content;

And still, whate’er her place or diet,

She could not pick her bone in quiet.

Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole,

And sometimes—overset the bowl!

For over eagerness will prove

Ofttimes the bane of what we love;

And sometimes, to her neighbour’s home

Grimalkin like a thief would roam,

Teaching poor cats of humbler kind,

For high example aways the mind!

Sometimes she paced the garden wall,

Thick guarded by the shatter’d pane,

And, lightly treading with disdain,

Fear’d not ambition’s certain fall!

Old china broke, or scratch’d her dame,

And brought domestic friends to shame!

And many a time this cat was cursed,

Of squalling thieving things the worst!

Wish’d dead, and menaced with a string,

For cats of such scant fame deserved to swing!

One day Report, for every busy,

Resolved to make Dame Gurton easy;

A neighbour came, with solemn look,

And thus the dismal tidings broke.

Know you that poor Grimalkin died

Last night, upon the pent-house side?

I heard her for assistance call;

I heard her shrill and dying squall!

I heard her, in reproachful tone,

Pour to the stars her feeble groan!

Alone I heard her piercing cries—

“With not a friend to close her eyes!”

Poor puss! I vow it grieves me sore

Never to see thy beauties more!

Never again to hear thee purr,

To stroke thy back of zebra fur;

To see thy emerald eyes so bright,

Flashing around their lustrious light

Amid the solemn shades of night!


Methinks I see her pretty paws—

As gracefully she paced along;

I hear her voice, so shrill, among

The chimney rows! I see her claws,

While like a tyger she pursued

Undauntedly the pilfering race:

I see her lovely whisker’d face

When she her nimble prey subdued!

And then how she would frisk and play,

And purr the evening hours away:

Now stretch’d beside the social fire;

Now on the sunny lawn at noon,

Watching the vagrant birds that flew

Across the scene of varied hue,

To peck the fruit. Or when the moon

Stole o’er the hills in silvery suit,

How would she chant her lovelorn tale,

Soft as the wild Eolian lyre!

Till every brute, on hill, in dale,

Listen’d with wonder mute!

“O cease! exclaim’d Dame Gurton straight,

Has my poor puss been torn away?

Alas! how cruel is my fate,

How shall I pass the tedious day?

Where can her mourning mistress find

So sweet a cat? so meek, so kind!

So keen a mouser, such a beauty,

So orderly, so fond, so true,

That every gentle task of duty

The dear domestic creature knew!

Hers was the mildest tenderest heart!

She knew no little cattish art;

Not cross, like favourite cats, was she,

But seem’d the queen of cats to be!

I cannot live—since doom’d, alas! to part

From poor grimalkin kind, the darling of my
heart!”

And now Dame Gurton, bathed in tears,

With a black top-knot vast appears:

Some say that a black gown she wore,

As many oft have done before,

For beings valued less, I ween,

Than this of tabby cats the favourite queen!

But, lo! soon after, one fair day,

Puss, who had only been a roving,

Across the pent-house took her way

To see her dame, so sad and loving;

Eager to greet the mourning fair,

She enter’d by a window, where

A china bowl of luscious cream

Was quivering in the sunny beam.

Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry

And somewhat fond of bev’rage sweet,

Beholding such a tempting treat,

Resolved its depth to try.

She saw the warm and dazzling ray

Upon the spotless surface play;

P2v 116

She purr’d around its circle wide,

And gazed, and long’d, and mew’d, and sigh’d!

But fate, unfriendly, did that hour control,

She overset the cream, and smash’d the gilded
bowl!

As Mistress Gurton heard the thief,

She started from her easy chair,

And, quite unmindful of her grief,

Began aloud to swear!

“Curse that voracious beast! she cried,

Here, Susan, bring a cord—

I’ll hang the vicious, ugly creature—

The veriest plague e’er form’d by nature!”

And Mistress Gurton kept her word—

And poor grimalkin—died!

Thus often we with anguish sore

The dead in clamorous grief deplore;

Who, were they once alive again,

Would meet the sting of cold disdain!

For friends, whom trifling faults can sever,

Are valued most—when lost for ever!

The Lascar.

In Two Parts.

Another day, ah! me, a day

Of dreary sorrow is begun!

And still I loath’d the temper’d ray,

And still I hate the sickly sun!

Far from my native Indian shore,

I hear our wretched race deplore;

I mark the smile of taunting scorn,

And curse the hour when I was born!

I weep, but no one gently tries

To stop my tear, or check my sighs;

For while my heart beats mournfully,

Dear Indian home, I sigh for thee!

Since, gaudy sun! I see no more

Thy hottest glory gild the day;

Since, sever’d from my burning shore,

I waste the vapid hours away;

O! darkness come! come deepest gloom;

Shroud the young summer’s opening bloom!

Burn, temper’d orb, with fiercer beams

This northern world! and drink the streams

That through the fertile valleys glide

To bathe the feasted fiends of pride!

Or hence, broad sun! extinguish’d be!

For endless night encircles me!

What is to me the city gay?

And what the board profusely spread?


I have no home, no rich array,

No spicy feast, no downy bed!

I with the dogs am doom’d to eat,

To perish in the peopled street,

To drink the tear of deep despair,

The scoff and scorn of fools to bear!

I sleep upon the pavement stone,

Or pace the meadows, wild—alone!

And if I curse my fate severe

Some christian savage mocks my tear!

Shut out the sun, O! pitying night!

Make the wide world my silent tomb!

O’ershade this northern, sickly light,

And shroud me in eternal gloom!

My Indian plains now smiling glow,

There stands my parent’s hovel low,

And there the towering aloes rise,

And fling their perfumes to the skies!

There the broad palm trees covert lend,

There sun and shade delicious blend;

But here, amid the blunted ray,

Cold shadows hourly cross my way.

Was it for this, that on the main

I met the tempest fierce and strong,

And steering o’er the liquid plain,

Still onward, press’d the waves among?

Was it for this the Lascar brave

Toil’d like a wretched Indian slave;

Preserved your treasures by his toil,

And sigh’d to greet this fertile soil?

Was it for this, to beg, to die!

Where plenty smiles, and where the sky

Sheds cooling airs; while feverish pain

Maddens the famish’d Lascar’s brain?

Oft I the stately camel led,

And sung the short-hour’d night away;

And oft, upon the top-mast’s head,

Hail’d the red eye of coming day.

The Tanyan’s back my mother bore;

And oft the wavy Ganges roar

Lull’d her to rest, as on she pass’d,

’Mid the hot sands an burning blast!

And oft beneath the Banyan tree

She sate and fondly nourish’d me;

And while the noontide hour pass’d slow

I felt her breast with kindness glow.

Where’er I turn my sleepless eyes

No cheek so dark as mine I see,

For Europe’s suns with softer dyes

Mark Europe’s favour’d progeny!

Low is my stature, black my hair,

The emblem of my soul’s despair!

My voice no dulcet cadence flings,

To touch soft pity’s throbbing strings;

Then wherefore, cruel Briton, say,

Compel my aching heart to stay?

P3r 117

To-morrow’s sun may rise to see

The famish’d Lascar bless’d as thee!

The morn had scarcely shed its rays,

When from the city’s din he ran;

For he had fasted four long days,

And faint his pilgrimage began!

The Lascar now, without a friend,

Up the steep hill did slow ascend;

Now o’er the flowery meadows stole,

While pain and hunger pinch’d his soul;

And now his feverish lip was dried,

And burning tears his thirst supplied,

And ere he saw the evening close,

Far off, the city dimly rose.

Again the summer sun flamed high,

The plains were golden far and wide;

And fervid was the cloudless sky,

And slow the breezes seem’d to glide:

The gossamer, on briar and spray,

Shone silvery in the solar ray;

And sparkling dew-drops, falling round,

Spangled the hot and thirsty ground;

The insect myriads humm’d their tune

To greet the coming hour of noon,

While the poor Lascar boy, in haste,

Flew, frantic, o’er the sultry waste.

And whither could the wand’rer go?

Who would receive a stranger poor?

Who, when the blasts of night should blow,

Would ope to him the friendly door?

Alone, amid the race of man,

The sad, the fearful alien ran!

None would an Indian wand’rer bless;

None greet him with the fond caress;

None feed him, though with hunger keen

He at the lordly gate were seen

Prostrate, and humbly forced to crave

A shelter for an Indian slave.

The noon-tide sun, now flaming wide,

No cloud its fierce beam shadow’d o’er,

But what could worse to him betide

Than begging at the proud man’s door?

For closed and lofty was the gate,

And there in all the pride of state,

A surly porter turn’d the key,

A man of sullen soul was he—

His brow was fair; but in his eye

Sat pamper’d scorn and tyranny;

And near him a fierce mastiff stood,

Eager to bathe his fangs in blood.

The weary Lascar turn’d away,

For trembling fear his heart subdued,

And down his cheek the tear would stray,

Though burning anguish drank his blood!

The angry mastiff snarl’d as he

Turn’d from the house of luxury;


The sultry hour was long, and high

The broad sun flamed athwart the sky—

But still a throbbing hope possess’d

The Indian wanderer’s feverish breast,

When from the distant dell a sound

Of swelling music echoed round.

It was the church-bell’s merry peal;

And now a pleasant house he view’d:

And now his heart began to feel

As though it were not quite subdued!

No lofty dome show’d loftier state,

No pamper’d porter watch’d the gate,

No mastiff like a tyrant stood,

Eager to scatter human blood;

Yet the poor Indian wanderer found,

E’en where Religion smiled around,

That tears had little power to speak

When trembling on a sable cheek!

With keen reproach, and menace rude,

The Lascar boy away was sent;

And now again he seem’d subdued,

And his soul sicken’d as he went.

Now on the river’s bank he stood;

Now drank the cool refreshing flood;

Again his fainting heart beat high;

Again he rais’d his languid eye;

Then from the upland’s sultry side

Look’d back, forgave the wretch, and sigh’d

While the proud pastor bent his way

To preach of charity—and pray!

Part Second.

The Lascar boy still journey’d on,

For the hot sun he well could bear,

And now the burning hour was gone,

And Evening came, with softer air.

The breezes kiss’d his sable breast,

While his scorch’d feet the cold dew press’d;

The waving flowers soft tears display’d,

And songs of rapture fill’d the glade;

The south wind quiver’d o’er the stream,

Reflecting back the rosy beam;

While as the purpling twilight closed,

On a turf bed—the boy reposed.

And now, in fancy’s airy dream,

The Lascar boy his mother spied;

And from her breast a crimson stream

Slow trickled down her beating side:

And now he heard her, wild, complain,

As loud she shriek’d—but shriek’d in vain!

And now she sunk upon the ground,

The red stream trickling from her wound;

And near her feet a murderer stood,

His glittering poniard tipp’d with blood!

And now, “farewell, my son!” she cried,

Then closed her fainting eyes—and died!

P3v 118

The Indian wanderer, waking, gazed,

With grief, and pain, and horror, wild;

And though his feverish brain was crazed,

He raised his eyes to heaven and smiled:

And now the stars were twinkling clear,

And the blind bat was whirling near

And the lone owlet shriek’d, while he

Still sate beneath a sheltering tree;

And now the fierce-toned midnight blast

Across the wide heath howling pass’d,

When a long cavalcade he spied

By torch-light near the river’s side.

He rose, and hastening swiftly on,

Call’d loudly to the sumptuous train,

But soon the cavalcade was gone,

And darkness wrapp’d the scene again.

He follow’d still the distant sound;

He saw the lightning flashing round;

He heard the crashing thunder roar;

He felt the whelming torrents pour;

And now, beneath a sheltering wood,

He listened to the tumbling flood—

And now, with faltering, feeble breath,

The famish’d Lascar pray’d for death.

And now the flood began to rise,

And foaming rush’d along the vale;

The Lascar watch’d, with stedfast eyes,

The flash descending quick and pale;

And now again the cavalcade

Pass’d slowly near the upland glade;

But he was dark, and dark the scene,

The torches long extinct had been;

He call’d, but in the stormy hour

His feeble voice had lost its power,

Till, near a tree, beside the flood,

A night-bewilder’d traveller stood.

The Lascar now with transport ran,

“Stop! stop!” he cried, with accents bold;

The traveller was a fearful man,

And next his life he prized his gold.

He heard the wanderer madly cry;

He heard his footsteps following nigh;

He nothing saw, while onward prest,

Black as the sky the Indian’s breast,

Till his firm grasp he felt; while cold

Down his pale cheek the big drop roll’d;

Then, struggling to be free, he gave

A deep wound to the Lascar slave.

And now he groan’d, by pain oppress’d,

And now crept onward, sad and slow:

And while he held his bleeding breast

He feebly pour’d the plaint of wo:

“What have I done! the Lascar cried,

That Heaven to me the power denied

To touch the soul of man, and share

A brother’s love, a brother’s care?


Why is this dingy form decreed

To bear oppression’s scourge and bleed?

Is there a God in yon dark heaven,

And shall such monsters be forgiven.

Here, in this smiling land we find

Neglect and misery sting our race;

And still, whate’er the Lascar’s mind,

The stamp of sorrow marks his face!”

He ceased to speak; while from his side

Fast roll’d life’s sweetly-ebbing tide,

And now, though sick and faint was he,

He slowly climb’d a tall elm tree,

To watch if near his lonely way

Some friendly cottage lent a ray,

A little ray of cheerful light,

To gild the Lascar’s long, long night!

And now he hears a distant bell,

His heart is almost rent with joy

And who but such a wretch can tell

The transports of the Indian boy?

And higher now he climbs the tree,

And hopes some sheltering cot to see;

Again he listens, while the peal

Seems up the woodland vale to steal;

The twinkling stars begin to fade,

And dawnlight purples o’er the glade;

And while the severing vapours flee

The Lascar boy looks cheerfully.

And now the sun begins to rise

Above the eastern summit blue;

And o’er the plain the day-breeze flies,

And sweetly bloom the fields of dew.

The wandering wretch was chill’d, for he

Sate shivering in the tall elm tree;

And he was faint, and sick, and dry,

And bloodshot was his feverish eye;

And livid was his lip, while he

Sate silent in the tall elm tree,

And parch’d his tongue, and quick his breath,

And his dark cheek was cold as death!

And now a cottage low he sees,

The chimney smoke, ascending grey,

Floats lightly on the morning breeze

And o’er the mountain glides away.

And now the lark, on fluttering wings,

Its early song, delighted, sings;

And now, across the upland mead,

The swains their flocks to shelter lead;

The sheltering woods wave to and fro;

The yellow plains far distant glow;

And all things wake to life and joy,

All! but the famish’d Indian boy!

And now the village throngs are seen,

Each lane is peopled, and the glen

From every opening path-way green

Sends forth the busy hum of men.

P4r 119

They cross the meads, still, all alone,

They hear the wounded Lascar groan!

Far off they mark the wretch, as he

Falls, senseless, from the tall elm tree!

Swiftly they cross the river wide,

And soon they reach the elm tree’s side;

But ere the sufferer they behold,

His wither’d heart is dead—and cold!

The
Shepherd’s Dog.

A shepherd’s dog there was; and he

Was faithful to his master’s will,

For well he loved his company

Along the plain or up the hill;

All seasons were to him the same,

Beneath the sun’s meridian flame;

Or when the wintry wind blew shrill and keen,

Still the old shepherd’s dog was with his master
seen.

His form was shaggy clothed; yet he

Was of a bold and faithful breed,

And kept his master company

In smiling days, and days of need;

When the long evening slowly closed,

When every living thing reposed,

When e’en the breeze slept on the woodlands
round,

The shepherd’s watchful dog was ever waking
found.

All night upon the cold turf he

Contented lay, with listening care;

And though no stranger company,

Or lonely traveller rested there,

Old Trim was pleased to guard it still;

For ’twas his aged master’s will:

And so pass’d on the cheerful night and day,

’Till the poor shepherd’s dog was very old and
grey.

Among the villagers was he

Beloved by all the young and old;

For he was cheerful company

When the north wind blew keen and cold:

And when the cottage scarce was warm,

While round it flew the midnight storm,

When loudly, fiercely roll’d the swelling tide—

The shepherd’s faithful dog crept closely by his
side.

When spring in gaudy dress would be

Sporting across the meadows green,

He kept his master company,

And all amid the flowers was seen;

Now barking loud, now pacing fast,

Now backward he a look would cast,


And now, subdued and weak with frolic play,

Amid the waving grass the shepherd’s dog would
stay.

Now, up the rugged path would he

The steep hill’s summit slowly gain,

And still be cheerful company,

Though shivering in the pelting rain;

And when the brook was frozen o’er,

Or the deep snow conceal’d the moor,

When the pale moon-beams scarcely shed a ray,

The shepherd’s faithful dog would mark the
dangerous way.

On Sunday, at the old yew tree,

Which canopies the church-yard stile,

Forced from his master’s company,

The faithful Trim would mope awhile;

For then his master’s only care

Was the loud psalm, or fervent prayer;

And, ’till the throng the chruch-yard path retrod,

The shepherd’s patient guard lay silent on the
sod.

Near their small hovel stood a tree,

Where Trim was every morning found—

Waiting his master’s company,

And looking wistfully around;

And if, along the upland mead,

He heard him tune the merry reed,

O then! o’er hedge and ditch, through brake
and briar

The shepherd’s dog would haste, with eyes that
seem’d on fire.

And now he paced the valley free,

And now he bounded o’er the dew,

For well his master’s company

Would recompense his toil he knew;

And where a rippling rill was seen

Flashing the woody brakes between,

Fearless of danger, through the lucid tide

The shepherd’s eager dog, yelping with joy,
would glide.

Full many a year the same was he,

His love still stronger every day,

For in his master’s company

He had grown old, and very grey;

And now his sight grew dim; and slow

Up the rough mountain he would go,

And his loud bark, which all the village knew,

With every wasting hour, more faint and peevish
grew.

One morn to the low mead went he,

Roused from his threshold-bed, to meet

A gay and lordly company!—

The sun was bright, the air was sweet;

Old Trim was watchful of his care,

His master’s flocks were feeding there;

P4v 120

And, fearful of the hounds, he yelping stood

Beneath a willow tree, that waved across the
flood.

Old Trim was urged to wrath, for he

Was guardian of the meadow bounds;

And, heedless of the company,

With angry snarl attack’d the hounds!

Some felt his teeth, though they were old,

For still his ire was fierce and bold;

And ne’er did valiant chieftain feel more strong

Than the old shepherd’s dog, when daring foes
among.

The sun was setting o’er the sea,

The breezes murmuring sad and slow,

When a gay lordly company

Came to the shepherd’s hovel low;

Their arm’d associates stood around

The sheep-cote fence’s narrow bound,

While its poor master heard, with fix’d despair,

That Trim, his friend, deem’d mad, was doom’d
to perish there!

The kind old shepherd wept, for he

Had no such guide to mark his way,

And, kneeling, pray’d the company

To let him live his little day!

“For many a day my dog has been

The only friend these eyes have seen;

We both are old and feeble, he and I—

Together we have lived, together let us die!

Behold his dim, yet speaking eye,

Which ill befits his visage grim;

He cannot from your anger fly,

For slow and feeble is old Trim!

He looks as though he fain would speak,—

His beard is white—his voice is weak—

He is not mad! O! then in pity spare

The only watchful friend of my small fleecy
care!”

The shepherd ceased to speak, for he

Lean’d on his maple staff subdued;

While pity touch’d the company,

And all poor Trim with sorrow view’d:

Nine days upon a willow bed

Old Trim was doom’d to lay his head,

Oppress’d and sever’d from his master’s door,

Enough to make him mad—were he not so before.

But not forsaken yet was he,

For every morn, at peep of day,

To keep his old friend company

The lonely shepherd bent his way:

A little boat across the stream,

Which glitter’d in the sunny beam,

Bore him, where foes no longer could annoy,

Where Trim stood yelping loud, and almost
mad with joy!


Six days had pass’d, and still was he

Upon the island left to roam,

When on the stream a wither’d tree

Was gliding rapid ’midst the foam!

The little boat now onward prest,

Danced o’er the river’s bounding breast,

Till dash’d impetuous ’gainst the old tree’s side,

The shepherd plunged and groan’d, then sunk
amid the tide.

Old Trim, now doom’d his friend to see

Beating the foam with wasted breath,

Resolved to bear him company

Even in the icy arms of death:

Soon with exulting cries he bore

His feeble master to the shore,

And, standing o’er him, howl’d in cadence sad,

For fear and fondness now, had nearly made
him mad.

Together still their flocks they tend,

More happy than the proudly great;

The shepherd has no other friend—

No lordly home, no bed of state!

But on a pallet, clean and low,

They hear unmoved the wild winds blow;

And though they ne’er another spring may see,

The shepherd and his dog are cheerful company.

Deborah’s Parrot.

A Village Tale.

’Twas in a little western town

An ancient maiden dwelt:

Her name was Miss, or Mistress, Brown,

Or Deborah, or Debby: she

Was doom’d a spinster pure to be,

For soft delights her breast ne’er felt:

Yet, she had watchful ears and eyes

For every youthful neighbour,

And never did she cease to labour

A tripping female to surprize.

And why was she so wondrous pure,

So stiff, so solemn—so demure?

Why did she watch with so much care

The roving youth, the wandering fair?

The tatler, Fame, has said that she

A spinster’s life had long detested,

But ’twas her quiet destiny

Never to be molested!—

And had Miss Debby’s form been graced,

Fame adds,—she had not been so chaste;—

But since for frailty she would roam,

She ne’er was taught—to look at home.

Q1r 121

Miss Debby was of mien demure,

And blush’d like any maid!

She could not saucy man endure,

Lest she should be betray’d!

She never fail’d at dance or fair

To watch the wily lurcher’s snare;

At church she was a model godly!

Though sometimes she had different eyes

Than those uplifted to the skies,

Leering most oddly!

And Scandal, ever busy, thought

She rarely practised—what she taught.

Her dress was always stiff brocade,

With laces broad and dear;

Fine cobwebs! that would thinly shade

Her shrivell’d cheek of sallow hue,

While, like a spider, her keen eye,

Which never shed soft pity’s tear,

Small holes in others geer could spy,

And microscopic follies prying view.

And sorely vex’d was every simple thing

That wander’d near her never-tiring sting!

Miss Debby had a parrot who,

If Fame speaks true,

Could prate, and tell what neighbours did,

And yet the saucy rogue was never chid!

Sometimes he talk’d of roving spouses

Who wander’d from their quiet houses:

Sometimes he call’d a spinster pure

By names that virtue can’t endure!

And sometimes told an ancient dame

Such tales as made her blush with shame!

Then gabbled how a giddy miss

Would give the boisterous squire a kiss!

But chiefly he was taught to cry,

“Who with the parson toy’d? O fie!”

This little joke Miss Debby taught him,

To vex a young and pretty neighbour;

But by her scandal-zealous labour

To shame she brought him!

For the old parrot, like his teacher,

Was but a false and canting preacher,

And many a gamesome pair had sworn

Such lessons were not to be borne.

At last, Miss Debby sore was flouted,

And by her angry neighbours scouted;

She never knew one hour of rest,—

Of every saucy boor the jest:

The young despised her, and the sage

Look’d back on Time’s impartial page:

They knew that youth was given to prove

The season of ecstatic joy,

That none but cynics would destroy

The early buds of love.

They also knew that Debby sigh’d

For charms that envious Time denied;


That she was vex’d with jealous spleen

That Hymen pass’d her by, unseen.

For though the spinster’s wealth was
known,

Gold will not purchase love—alone.

She and her parrot now were thought

The torments of their little sphere:

He, because mischievously taught,

And she, because a maid austere!—

In short, she deem’d it wise to leave

A place where none remain’d to grieve.

Soon, to a distant town removed,

Miss Debby’s gold a husband brought;

And all she had her parrot taught

(Her parrot now no more beloved)

Was quite forgotten. But alas!

As Fate would have it come to pass,

Her spouse was given to jealous rage;

For, both in person and in age,

He was the partner of his love,

Ordain’d her second self to prove!

One day, old Jenkins had been out

With merry friends to dine,

And, freely talking, had no doubt

Been also free with wine.

One said, of all the wanton gay

In the whole parish, search it round,

None like the parson could be found,

Where a frail maid was in the way.

Another thought the parson sure

To win the heart of maid or wife;

And would have freely pledged his life

That, young or old, rich or poor,

None could defy

The magic of his roving eye!

Jenkins went home, but all the night

He dream’d of this strange tale!

Yet bless’d his stars, with proud delight,

His partner was not young, nor frail.

Next morning, at the breakfast table,

The parrot, loud as he was able,

Was heard repeatedly to cry,

“Who with the parson toy’d? O fie!”

Old Jenkins listen’d, and grew pale,

The parrot then more loudly scream’d;

And Mistress Jenkins heard the tale,

And much alarm’d she seem’d!

Trembling, she tried to stop his breath,

Her lips and cheek as pale as death!

The more she trembled, still the more

Old Jenkins view’d her o’er and o’er:

And now her yellow cheek was spread

With blushes of the deepest red.

And now again the parrot’s tale

Made his old tutoress doubly pale;

Q Q1v 122

For cowardice and guilt, they say,

Are the twin brothers of the soul:

So Mistress Jenkins her dismay

Could not control!

While the accuser, now grown bold,

Thrice o’er the tale of mischief told.

Now Jenkins from the table rose,

“Who with the parson toy’d? he cried.

So, Mistress Frailty, you must play

And sport your wanton hours away.

And with your gold, a pretty joke,

You thought to buy a pleasant cloak,

A screen to hide your shame—but know

I will not blind to ruin go.—

I am no modern spouse, d’ye see,

Gold will not gild disgrace, with me!”

Some say he seized his fearful bride,

And came to blows!

Day after day the contest dire

Augmented, with resistless ire!

And many a drubbing Debby bought

For mischief she her parrot taught!

Thus, slander turns against its maker:

And if this little story reaches

A spinster who her parrot teaches,

Let her a better task pursue,

And here the certain vengeance view

Which surely will, in time, o’ertake her.

The Murdered Maid.

High on the solitude of Alpine hills,

O’er-topping the grand imag’ry of nature,

Where one eternal winter seems to reign,

A hermit’s threshold, carpeted with moss,

Diversified the scene. Above the flakes

Of silvery snow, full many a modest flower,

Peep’d through its icy veil, and blushing oped

Its variegated hues; the orchis sweet,

The bloomy cistus, and the fragrant branch

Of glossy myrtle. In his rushy cell

The lonely anchoret consumed his days,

Unnoticed and unblest. In early youth,

Cross’d in the fond affections of his soul

By false ambition, from his parent home

He solitary wander’d; while the maid,

Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart

Pined in monastic horrors! Near his sill

A little cross he rear’d, where prostrate low,

At day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting sun

Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,

His orisons he pour’d, for her whose hours

Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d,

And summers faded, slow, uncheerly all

To the lone hermit’s sorrows: for still love

A dark, though unpolluted, altar rear’d


On the white waste of wonders!

From the peak

Which mark’d his neighbouring hut, his humid
eye

Oft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below;

Oft traced the glow of vegetating spring,

The full-blown summer splendours, and the hue

Of tawny scenes autumnal: vineyards vast

Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide

The promised tide nectareous; while for him

The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen

Flashing amid the trees its silvery wave!

Far distant the blue mist of waters rose,

Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,

Blended with clouds, and shutting out the sun.

The seasons still revolved, and still was he

By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast

Sigh’d in responsive sadness to the gale

That swept her prison turrets. Five long years

Had seen his graces wither, ere his spring

Of life was wasted. From the social scenes

Of human energy an alien driven,

He almost had forgot the face of man.—

No voice had met his ear, save when perchance

The pilgrim wanderer, or the goat herd swain,

Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hour,

Implored the hermit’s aid, the hermit’s prayers;

And nothing loath, by pity or by prayer

Was he to save the wretched. On the top

Of his low rushy dome, a tinkling bell

Oft told the weary traveller to approach

Fearless of danger. The small silver sound

In quick vibrations echo’d down the dell

To the dim valleys quiet, while the breeze

Slept on the glassy Leman. Thus he past

His melancholy days, an alien man

From all the joys of social intercourse,

Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!

His scrip each morning bore the day’s repast

Gather’d on summits mingling with the clouds,

From whose bleak altitude the eye look’d down,

While fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear.

Oft would he start from visionary rest,

When roaming wolves their midnight chorus
howl’d,

Or blasts tremendous shatter’d the white cliffs,

While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,

Plunged to the dell below. Oft would he sit

In silent sadness on the jutting block

Of snow-encrusted ice, and shuddering mark

(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)

Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,

Hang o’er his hovel, terribly sublime.

And oft, when summer breath’d ambrosial gales,

Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dew

Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze

Traced the swift storm advancing, whose broad
wing

Blacken’d the rushy dome of his low hut;

Q2r 123

While the pale lightning smote the pathless top

Of towering Cenis, scattering high and wide

A mist of fleecy snow. Then would he hear

(While Memory brought to view his happier
days)

The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth

From its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliff

Vast and stupendous! strengthening as it fell,

And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude.

So lived the hermit, like a hardy tree

Placed on a mountain’s solitary brow,

And destined, through the seasons, to endure

Their wondrous changes. To behold the face

Of ever-varying Nature, and to mark

In each grand lineament the work of God!

And happier he, in total solitude,

Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent
soul

That God has nobly organized, but taught,

For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge

Of sharp adversity and vulgar pride.

Happier, oh! happier far, than those who feel,

Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding still

The throbbing heart with anguish or with
scorn.

One dreary night, when winter’s icy breath

Half petrified the scene, when not a star

Gleam’d o’er the bleak infinity of space,

Sudden the hermit started from his couch

With painful agitation. On his cheek

The blanch’d interpreter of horror mute

Sat terribly impressive! In his breast

The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow’d,

And his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,

Gazed vacantly aghast! His feeble lamp

Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale

Pierced the thin texture of his narrow cell;

And silence, like a fearful sentinel

Marking the peril which awaited near,

Conspired with sullen night to wrap the scene

In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose, and thrice

His feet recoil’d; and still the livid flame

Lengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning wind

Pass’d through the rushy crevice, while his heart

Beat, like the death-watch, in his shuddering
breast.

Like the pale image of Despair he sat,

The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,

When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,

And roused him into action. To the sill

Of his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fear

Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,

And force men into bravery,) and soon

The wicker bold unfasten’d. The swift blast

Now unrestrain’d, flew by; and in its course

The quivering lamp extinguish’d, and again

His soul was thrill’d with terror. On he went,


Even to the snow-fringed margin of the crag,

Which to his citadel a platform made,

Slippery and perilous. ’Twas darkness, all!

All solitary gloom!—The concave vast

Of heaven frown’d chaos; for all varied things

Of air, and earth, and waters blended, lost

Their forms in blank oblivion! Yet not long

Did Nature wear her sable panoply:

For, while the hermit listen’d, from below

A stream of light ascended, spreading round

A partial view of trackless solitudes;

And mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,

To break the spell of horrors. Down the steep

The hermit hasten’d, when a shriek of death

Re-echoed to the valley. As he flew,

(The treacherous pathway yielding to his speed,)

Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene

Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly

The torches were extinct, and second night

Came doubly hideous; while the hollow tongues

Of cavern’d winds, with melancholy sound,

Increased the hermit’s fears. Four freezing
hours

He watch’d and pray’d: and now the glimmering
dawn

Peer’d on the eastern summits; (the blue light

Shedding cold lustre on the colder brows

Of Alpine deserts;) while the filmy wing

Of weeping twilight swept the naked plains

Of the Lombardian landscape.

On his knees

The anchoret bless’d Heaven, that he had ’scaped

The many perilous and fearful falls

Of waters wild and foamy, tumbling fast

From the shagg’d altitude. But, ere his prayers

Rose to their destined Heaven, another sight,

Than all preceding far more terrible,

Palsied devotion’s ardour. On the snow,

Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made

By steps precipitate; a rugged path

Down the steep frozen chasm had mark’d the
fate

Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form

Had toppled from the summit. Lower still

The anchoret descended, ’till arrived

At the first ridge of silvery battlements,

Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow

On which her cheek reposed, his darling maid

Slept in the dream of death! Frantic and wild

He clasp’d her stiffening form, and bathed with
tears

The lilies of her bosom—icy cold—

Yet beautiful and spotless.

Now, afar

The wond’ring hermit heard the clang of arms

Re-echoing from the valley: the white cliffs

Trembled as though an earthquake shook their
base

With terrible concussion! Thundering peals

From warfare’s brazen throat proclaim’d the
approach

Q2v 124

Of conquering legions: onward they extend

Their dauntless columns! In the foremost group

A ruffian met the hermit’s startled eyes,

Like hell’s worst demon! For his murderous
hands

Were smear’d with gore; and on his daring
breast

A golden cross, suspended, bore the name

Of his ill-fated victim! To his cell

The soul-struck exile turn’d his trembling feet,

And after three lone weeks of pain and prayer,

Shrunk from the scene of solitude—and died!

The Negro Girl.

Dark was the dawn, and o’er the deep

The boisterous whirlwinds blew;

The sea-bird wheel’d its circling sweep,

And all was drear to view,

When on the beach that binds the western shore

The love-lorn Zelma stood, listening the tempest’s
roar.

Her eager eyes beheld the main,

While on her Draco dear

She madly call’d, but call’d in vain,

No sound could Draco hear,

Save the shrill yelling of the fateful blast,

While every seamen’s heart quick shudder’d as
it past.

White were the billows, wide display’d

The clouds were black and low;

The bittern shriek’d, a gliding shade

Seem’d o’er the waves to go!

The livid flash illumed the clamorous main,

While Zelma pour’d, unmark’d, her melancholy
strain.

“Be still! she cries, loud tempest cease!

O! spare the gallant souls!”

The thunder rolls—the winds increase—

The sea like mountains rolls.

While from the deck the storm-worn victims
leap,

And o’er their struggling limbs the furious billows
sweep.

O! barbarous power! relentless Fate!

Does Heaven’s high will decree

That some should sleep on beds of state—

Some in the roaring sea?

Some nursed in splendour deal oppression’s
blow,

While worth and Draco pine—in slavery and
wo!


Yon vessel oft has plough’d the main

With human traffic fraught;

Its cargo—our dark sons of pain—

For worldly treasure bought!

What had they done? O Nature tell me why

Is taunting scorn the lot of thy dark progeny?

Thou gav’st, in thy caprice, the soul

Peculiarly enshrined;

Nor from the ebon casket stole

The jewel of the mind!

Then wherefore let the suffering Negro’s breast

Bow to his fellow man, in brighter colours drest.

Is it the dim and glossy hue

That marks him for despair?

While men with blood their hands embrue,

And mock the wretch’s prayer,

Shall guiltless slaves the scourge of tryants feel,

And, e’en before their God, unheard, unpitied kneel.

Could the proud rulers of the land

Our sable race behold;

Some bow’d by torture’s giant hand,

And others basely sold!

Then would they pity slaves, and cry, with
shame,

Whate’er their tints may be, their souls are still
the same!

Why seek to mock the Ethiop’s face?

Why goad our hapless kind?

Can features alienate the race—

Is there no kindred mind?

Does not the cheek which vaunts the roseate hue

Oft blush for crimes the Ethiops never knew?

Behold! the angry waves conspire

To check the barbarous toil!

While wounded Nature’s vengeful ire

Roars round this trembling isle!

And hark! her voice re-echoes in the wind—

Man was not form’d by Heaven to trample on
his kind!

Torn from my mother’s aching breast,

My tyrant sought my love—

But in the grave shall Zelma rest,

Ere she will faithless prove;

No, Draco!—Thy companion I will be

To that celestial realm where Negroes shall be
free!

The tyrant white man taught my mind

The letter’d page to trace;

He taught me in the soul to find

No tint, as in the face:

He bade my reason blossom like the tree—

But fond affection gave the ripen’d fruits to
thee.

Q3r 125

With jealous rage he mark’d my love;

He sent thee far away;

And prison’d in the plaintain grove

Poor Zelma pass’d the day;

But ere the moon rose high above the main

Zelma and love contrived to break the tyrant’s
chain.

Swift, o’er the plain of burning sand

My course I bent to thee;

And soon I reach’d the billowy strand

Which bounds the stormy sea.

Draco! my love! Oh yet thy Zelma’s soul

Springs ardently to thee, impatient of control.

Again the lightning flashes white

The rattling cords among!

Now by the transient vivid light,

I mark the frantic throng!

Now up the tatter’d shrouds my Draco flies,

While o’er the plunging prow the curling billows
rise.

The topmast falls—three shackled slaves

Cling to the vessel’s side!

Now lost amid the maddening waves—

Now on the mast they ride—

See! on the forecastle my Draco stands,

And now he waves his chain, now clasps his
bleeding hands.

Why, cruel white-man! when away

My sable love was torn,

Why did you let poor Zelma stay,

On Afric’s sands to mourn?

No! Zelma is not left, for she will prove

In the deep troubled main her fond—her faithful
love!

The labouring ship was now a wreck,

The shrouds were fluttering wide;

The rudder gone, the lofty deck

Was rock’d from side to side—

Poor Zelma’s eyes now dropp’d their last big
tear,

While from her tawny cheek the blood recoil’d
with fear.

Now frantic, on the sands she roam’d,

Now shrieking stopp’d to view

Where high the liquid mountains foam’d

Around the exhausted crew—

’Till, from the deck, her Draco’s well-known
form

Sprung ’mid the yawning waves, and buffetted
the storm.

Long on the swelling surge sustain’d,

Brave Draco sought the shore,

Watch’d the dark maid, but ne’er complain’d,

Then sunk to gaze no more!


Poor Zelma saw him buried by the wave,

And with her heart’s true love, plunged in a
watery grave.

The
Deserted Cottage.

Who dwelt in yonder lonely cot?

Why is it thus forsaken?

It seems by all the world forgot,

Above its path the high grass grows,

And through its thatch the north-wind blows

—Its thatch by tempests shaken.

And yet it tops a verdant hill

By summer gales surrounded:

Beneath its door a shallow rill

Runs brawling to the vale below,

And near it sweetest flowerets grow

By banks of willow bounded.

Then why is every casement dark?

Why looks the cot so cheerless?

Ah! why does ruin seem to mark

The calm retreat where love should dwell,

And friendship teach the heart to swell

With rapture pure and fearless?

There far above the busy crowd,

Man may repose in quiet;

There smile that he has left the proud,

And blest with liberty, enjoy

More than Ambition’s gilded toy,

Or Folly’s sickening riot.

For there, the ever tranquil mind

On calm Religion resting,

May in each lonely labyrinth find

The Deity, whose boundless power

Directs the blast, or tints the flower—

No mortal foe molesting.

Stranger, yon spot was once the scene

Where Peace and Joy resided:

And oft the merry time has been

When Love and Friendship warm’d the breast,

And Freedom, making wealth a jest,

The pride of Pomp derided.

Old Jacob was the cottage lord,

His wide domain surrounding

By nature’s treasure amply stored;

He from his casement could behold

The breezy mountain tinged with gold,

The varied landscape bounding!

Q3v 126

The coming morn, with lustre gay,

Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling;

The twilight veil of parting day

Stole softly o’er his quiet shed,

Hiding the mountain’s misty head,

Where the night-breeze was swelling.

One lovely girl old Jacob rear’d,

And she was fair and blooming;

She like the morning star appear’d,

Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest,

While her blue eyes her soul confess’d,

No borrow’d rays assuming.

Twas hers the vagrant lamb to lead,

To watch the wild goat playing;

To join the shepherd’s tuneful reed,

And, when the sultry sun rose high,

To tend the herds, deep-lowing nigh,

Where the swift brook was straying.

One sturdy boy, a younker bold,

Ere they were doom’d to sever,

Maintain’d poor Jacob, sick and old;

But now where yon tall poplars wave,

Pale primroses adorn the grave—

Where Jacob sleeps, for ever!

Young, in the wars, the brave boy fell!

His sister died of sadness!

But one remain’d their fate to tell,

For Jacob now was left alone,

And he, alas! was helpless grown,

And pined in moody madness.

At night, by moonshine would he stray

Along the upland dreary;

And, talking wildly all the way,

Would fancy, ’till the sun uprose,

That Heaven, in pity, mark’d the woes

Of which his soul was weary.

One morn, upon the dewy grass

Poor Jacob’s sorrows ended,

The woodland’s narrow winding pass

Was his last scene of lonely care,

For, gentle stranger, lifeless there

Was Jacob’s form extended!

He lies beneath yon poplar tree

That tops the church-yard, sighing:

For sighing oft it seems to be,

And as its waving leaves, around,

With morning’s tears begem the ground

The zephyr trembles, flying.

And now behold yon little cot

All dreary and forsaken;

And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot

To fall, like Jacob and his race,


And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace

Which way thy course is taken.

Yet, if for truth and feeling known,

Thou still shalt be lamented:

For when thy parting sigh has flown,

Fond memory on thy grave shall give

A tear—to bid thy virtues live!

Then—smile, and be contented!

To
an Infant Sleeping.

Sweet baby boy! thy soft cheek glows

An emblem of the living rose;

Thy breath a zephyr seems to rise,

And placid are thy half-closed eyes;

And silent is thy snowy breast,

Which gently heaves in transient rest;

And dreaming is thy infant brain

Of pleasure undisturb’d by pain.

Soon will thy youth to sorrow rise,

And tears will dim those half-closed eyes;

And storms shall fade that living rose,

And keen unkindness wound repose.

Soon will thy slumbers painful be,

And thou wilt watch and weep—like me!

And thou wilt shrink with fear aghast

From wild Misfortune’s chilling blast.

Ah! then no more in balmy sleep

Shall memory fond her garland steep;

No more shall visions sweetly gay

Sport in the coming beams of day;

No more thy downy pillow be

A pillow, boy, of down for thee!

For many a thorn shall ruthless care

In envious rancour scatter there!

Sweet baby boy! then sleep awhile,

For youth will never wake to smile;

Time flings its poisons round the bed

Where manhood lays his weary head:

The summer day of life will lower

As long, poor boy, as winter’s hour,

Unless the goddess Fortune brings

The magic of her golden wings!

A Madrigal.

Oh! sad and watchful waits the lover

Whose fate depends upon a smile,

Who counts the weary minutes over,

And chides his fluttering heart the while.

Q4r 127

Oh! proud and maddening is the pleasure

When to my sight thy form appears,

Array’d in Nature’s winning treasure

Of blushing hopes and graceful fears.

Then, rose of beauty, haste and cheer me,

With lips like rubies come and smile;

Ah! trust my faith, and do not fear me,

I love too fondly to beguile!

The false and cunning may allure thee,

And win thee only to betray;

I would not, lady, so secure thee,

Nor win thy favour for a day.

Then come and bless me, Nature’s treasure!

Oh! come and bid my sorrows fly;

Instruct my heart to throb with pleasure,

Or bid me cease to hope—and die!

Ah! rose of beauty, since thy lover

For thee a thousand lives would give,

One grateful thought at least discover,

One little sigh to bid him—live!

To
the Wanderer.

Welcome! once more, to this sad breast,

Where pain and sorrow dwell;

Where feeling bids the quick pulse tell

How long this heart has sigh’d for rest:

Welcome, O memory, to this brain,

Which long has throbb’d with feverish pain;

For thou in every thought canst prove

That time has never flown from love.

Reproach me not, with icy scorn,

The fault was ever thine;

For thou awhile wert pleas’d to twine

With Hope’s fair flowers Affliction’s thorn.

Thou by caprice and folly led,

In all my paths its influence shed,

And bade my sighing spirit prove

That weary time could menace love!

Then wonder not, if months and years,

I strove to fly from thee,

If vainly struggling to be free,

I bathed the bonds of truth with tears!

Ah! wonder not that others tried

To touch the deaden’d sense of pride;

That others thought awhile to prove

How time neglected flies from love.

Then O! forbear reproachful lays

To mingle with thy fears;

While Hope in lovely garb appears,

With happier hours and calmer days.


Thrice twelve long months have taught my mind

The patient task of peace resign’d;

And must I, * *, must I prove

That time has fail’d to vanquish love:

Stanzas to Flora.

Let others wreaths of roses twine,

With scented leaves of eglantine;

Enamell’d buds and gaudy flowers,

The pride of Flora’s painted bowers;

Such common charms shall ne’er be wove

Around the brows of him I love.

Fair are their beauties for a day,

But swiftly do they fade away;

Each pink sends forth its choicest sweet

Aurora’s warm embrace to meet;

And each inconstant breeze that blows

Steals essence from the musky rose.

Then lead me, Flora, to the vale,

Where, shelter’d from the fickle gale,

In modest garb, amidst the gloom,

The constant myrtle sheds perfume;

And hid secure from prying eyes,

In spotless beauty blooms and dies.

And should its velvet leaves dispense

No powerful odours to the sense;

Should no proud tints of gaudy hue

With dazzling lustre pain the view;

Still shall its verdant boughs defy

The northern blast, and wintry sky.

Ah, Venus! should this hand of mine

Steal from thy tree a wreath divine,

Assist me, while I fondly bind

Two hearts, by holy friendship join’d;

Thy cherish’d branches then shall prove

Sacred to truth, as well as love.

Stanzas to Love.

Tell me, Love, when I rove o’er some far distant
plain,

Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my
breast?

Or will absence subdue the keen rigours of pain,

And the swift wing of Time bring the balsam
of rest?

Shall the image of him I was born to adore

Inshrined in my bosom my idol still prove!

Or, seduced by caprice, shall fine feeling no more

With the incense of truth gem the altar of
Love?

Q4v 128

When I view the deep tint of the dew-dropping
rose,

Where the bee sits enamour’d its nectar to
sip;

Then, ah say! will not memory fondly disclose

The softer vermilion that glow’d on his lip?

Will the sun, when he rolls in his chariot of fire,

So dazzle my mind with the glare of his rays,

That my senses one moment shall cease to admire

The more perfect refulgence that beam’d in
his ray?

When the shadows of twilight steal over the
plain,

And the nightingale pours its lorn plaint in
the grove;

Ah! will not the fondness that thrills through
the strain,

Then recall to my mind his dear accents of
love!

Then spare, thou sweet urchin, thou soother of
pain,

Oh! spare the soft picture engraved on my
heart;

As a record of love let it ever remain;

My bosom thy tablet—thy pencil a dart.

Love and Reason.

Love said to Reason, “ Know my power,

Nor vaunt thy pedant rules;

I can the sweetest natures sour,

And make the wisest fools.

I bid Philosophy submit, I make the dullest gay; To idiots lend a gleam of wit Or darken Wisdom’s ray. I can teach proud and freezing Scorn To feel my potent skill; The sternest face with smiles adorn, The cold with rapture thrill. ‘’Tis true, indignant Reason said, Too much of power’s thy own. Yet ’tis where I refuse my aid, That only thou art known.’ But Time, that conquers e’en thy art, Bids Reason’s altar burn, And as he calms the feverish heart, I triumph in my turn.”

To a Friend.

Cold blows the wind upon the mountain’s brow;

In murmuring cadence wave the leafless
woods;


The feathery tribe mope on the frozen bough,

And icy fetters hold the silent floods:

But endless spring the poet’s breast shall prove,

Whose genius kindles at the torch of Love.

For him, unfading, blooms the fertile mind,

The current of the heart for ever flows;

Fearless his bosom braves the wintry wind,

While through each nerve eternal summer
glows;

In vain would chilling Apathy control

The lambent fire that warms the liberal soul!

To me the limpit brook, the painted mead,

The crimson dawn, the twilight’s purple
close;

The mirthful dance, the shepherd’s tuneful reed,

The musky fragrance of the opening rose,

To me, alas! all pleasures senseless prove,

Save the sweet converse of the friend I love.

Life.

“What is this world?—thy school, O misery! Our only lesson is to learn to suffer.” Young.

Love, thou sportive fickle boy,

Source of anguish, child of joy,

Ever wounding—ever smiling,

Soothing still, and still beguiling:

What are all thy boasted treasures,

Tender sorrows, transient pleasures?

Anxious hopes, and jealous fears,

Laughing hours and mourning years.

Fancy’s balm for every wound,

Ever sought, but rarely found!

Deck’d with brightest tints at morn,

At twilight withering on a thorn;

Like the gentle rose of spring,

Chill’d by every zephyr’s wing:

Ah! how soon its colour flies,

Blushes, trembles, falls, and dies.

What is Youth?—a smiling sorrow,

Blithe to-day, and sad to-morrow;

Never fix’d, for ever ranging,

Laughing, weeping, doating, changing!

Wild, capricious, giddy, vain,

Cloy’d with pleasure, nursed with pain;

Age steals on with wintry face,

Every rapturous hope to chase;

Like a wither’d, sapless tree,

Bow’d to chilling Fate’s decree;

Strip’d of all its foliage gay,

Drooping at the close of day;

R1r 129

What of tedious life remains?

Keen regrets and cureless pains;

Till death appears, a welcome friend,

To bid the scene of sorrow end.

To――

“I will instruct my sorrows to be proud.” Shakespeare.

’Tis past! and now, remorseless Fate,

Thy victim braves thy direst hate,

My mind resists thy poison’d dart,

And conscious pride sustains my heart;

Behold my placid smiles disclose,

The pang is past that seal’d my woes!

Since now, no more to grief a prey,

My tranquil hours shall glide away;

Since Reason from my sated brain

Shall tear the records of past pain;

Since warring passions sink to rest,

And fierce resentment leaves my breast;

Since from the wreath fond Fancy made,

Hope’s transient flowers for ever fade;

One proud indignant tear shall prove

The signal of expiring love.

Sweet offspring of long cherish’d wo,

No more thy glittering fount shall flow;

But trembling in its azure cell,

Conceal’d in haughty silence dwell;

Or if, perchance, one drop should steal,

The pangs of memory to reveal,

On my cold bosom shalt thou shine,

A peerless gem—on Feeling’s shrine!

Now if remorse can touch thy heart,

Or gracious deeds one joy impart;

Oh, if Reflection turns at last

To all my proud affection past,

Which shared each pang that wrung thy
breast,

And soothed thy wounded mind to rest;

When soft-eyed Sympathy entwined

A feathery chain thy heart to bind;

And with responsive sighs dispell’d

Each wayward passion that rebell’d:

Calming with Freindship’s dulcet sounds

The anguish of dark Falsehood’s wounds;

When friends were cold, and foes severe,

And smiling Envy stung thine ear;

Who, with meek Counsel, bade thee know

The specious garb that veil’d the foe?

And turning from thy breast his wound,

Saw, in strong spells, the mischief bound?

When Fortune, smiling on my lot,

Illumed with joy my favoured cot;


When sportive Love a wreath entwined,

The graces of my breast to bind;

When Youth rush’d forward to bestow

On my warm lip the ruby’s glow;

When Health spread rapture o’er my cheek,

That bade the blushing roses speak,

And gave my eye the spark divine—

Say, were not all these treasures thine?

When lustrous summers deck’d my bowers,

And hung my couch with rarest flowers;

When Plenty crown’d my little board,

With all abundant nature stored;

When social Mirth’s enlivening strain

Mock’d the dull groan of worldly pain;

When e’en Philosophy confess’d

That Love’s pure flame could warm the breast;

When Wisdom listen’d as I sung,

To catch new precepts from my tongue;—

Say, did such trivial flatteries move

The heart enslaved by thee and love?

’Tis past! now Reason’s sober light

Steals through the gloom of mental night

Since Love’s fond tale can cheat no more,

And e’en false Hope’s bright dream is o’er.

Come, gentle Peace! these eye-lids close

On some blest pallet of repose;

And thou, dear Muse, in pity give

One wreath, to bid my memory live:

Then will I smile at envious Fate’s decree,

Forget my woes, myself, the world, and thee.

To a False Friend.

In Imitation of Sappho.

The seasons, lover false! are changing slow,

Now winter passes by on snowy wing;

Swiftly the zephyrs bid their pinions go,

Wafting the perfumed harbinger of spring!

The summer blushes as she steals away,

And short, though splendid, is her glowing day!

Then autumn comes, in tawny graces drest,

And in majectic solemn pomp retires;

Rich are the trappings of her burning breast.

And her broad eye flames undulating fires!

I greet thee, season! for my ardent soul

Like thee, must own, the stormy hours control!

The spring of joy no more shall bid me see

Young budding blossoms of delightful hue!

Nor shall luxuriant summer smile for me;

Nor thou, red autumn, open to my view!

R R1v 130

Then come, thou season turbulent, and prove

How weak thy storm opposed to hopeless love!

In vain you fly me! on the maddening main

Sappho shall haunt thee ’mid the whirlwind’s
roar;

Sappho shall o’er the mountains chaunt her
strain,

And echo bear it to thy distant shore!

No scene upon the world’s wide space shall be

A scene of rest, ungrateful man, to thee!

When the wind howls along the forest drear,

Or faintly whispers on the curling sea,

My voice upon the dying gale to hear

Thou shalt awake—and call, in vain, on me!

And when the morning beam illumes the sky,

My faded form shall meet thy sleepless eye!

False lover! no, upon the towering steep,

Where fame her temple rears, defying time,

Sappho shall mark unawed the bounding deep,

And meet her fate with fortitude sublime!

And while thy name to blank oblivion fades,

Sappho shall smiling seek th’ Elysian shades.

Stanzas
to a Friend.

Ah! think no more that life’s delusive joys

Can charm my thoughts from friendship’s
dearer claim;

Or wound a heart that scarce a wish employs,

For age to censure, or discretion blame.

Tired of the world, my weary mind recoils

From splendid scenes and transitory joys;

From fell Ambition’s false and fruitless toils,

From hope that flatters, and from bliss that
cloys.

With thee, above the taunts of empty pride,

The rigid frowns to youthful error given,

Content in solitude my griefs I’ll hide,

Thy voice my counsellor, thy smiles my
Heaven.

With thee I’ll hail the morn’s returning ray,

Or climb the dewy mountain bleak and cold;

On the smooth lake observe the sun-beams play,

Or mark the infant flowers their buds unfold.

Pleased will I watch the glittering queen of
night

Spread her white mantle o’er the face of
Heaven;

And from thy converse snatch the pure delight,

By truth sublime to mental feeling given.


And as the varying seasons glide away,

This moral lesson shall my bosom learn:

How time steals on, while blissful hours decay

Like fleeting shadows—never to return!

And when I see thy warm unspotted mind

Torn with the wound of broken friendship’s
dart;

When sickness chills thy breast with pangs unkind,

Or ruthless sorrow preys upon thy heart;

The task be mine to soothe thee to repose,

To check the sigh, and stay the trickling tear,

Or with soft sympathy to share thy woes;—

O proudest rapture of the soul sincere!

And ye who flutter through the vacant hour,

Where tasteless Apathy’s empoison’d wand

Arrests the vagrant sense with numbing power,

While vanquish’d Reason bows at her command;

O say, what bliss can transient life bestow,

What balm so grateful to the social mind

As Friendship’s voice—where gentle precepts
flow

From the blest source of sentiment refined?

When Fate’s stern hand shall close my weeping
eye,

And seal, at length, my wandering spirit’s
doom;

Oh! may kind Friendship catch my parting
sigh,

And cheer with hope the terrors of the tomb!

Stanzas.

When fragrant gales and summer showers

Call’d forth the sweetly scented flowers;

When ripen’d sheaves of golden grain

Strew’d their rich treasures o’er the plain;

When the full grape did nectar yield,

In tepid drops of purple hue;

When the thick grove and thirsty field

Drank the soft shower, and bloom’d anew:

O then my joyful heart did say,

“Sure this is Nature’s holy-day!”

But when the yellow leaf did fade,

And every gentle flower decay’d;

When whistling winds and drenching rain

Swept with rude force the naked plain;

When o’er the desolated scene

I saw the drifted snow descend,

And sadness darken’d all the green,

And Nature’s triumphs seem’d to end:

O then my mourning heart did say,

“Thus youth shall vanish, life decay!”

R2r 131

When Beauty blooms, and Fortune smiles,

And Wealth the easy breast beguiles;

When Pleasure from her downy wings

Her soft bewitching incense flings;

Then friends look kind—and round the heart

The brightest flames of Passion move,

False Flattery’s soothing strains impart

The warmest friendship, fondest love:

But when capricious Fortune flies,

Then Friendship fades,—and Passion dies.

Lines

Written on the Sea-Coast.

Swift o’er the bounding deep the vessel glides,

Its streamers fluttering in the summer gales,

The lofty mast the breezy air derides,

As gaily o’er the glittering surf she sails.

Now beats each gallant heart with innate joys,

Bright hopes and tender fears alternate vie,

Dear schemes of pure delight the mind employs,

And the soul glistens in the tearful eye.

The fond expecting maid delighted stands

On the bleak summit of yon chalky bourn,

With waving handkerchief and lifted hands

She hails her darling sailor’s safe return.

Ill-fated maid, ne’er shall thy gentle breast

The chaste reward of constant passion prove;

Ne’er shall that timid form again be press’d

In the dear bondage of unsullied love:

Stern Heaven forbids—the dark o’erwhelming
deep

Mocks the poor pilot’s skill, and braves his
sighs;

O’er the high deck the frothy billows sweep,

And the fierce tempest drowns the sea-boy’s
cries.

The madd’ning ocean swells with furious roar;

See the devoted bark, the shatter’d mast!

The splitting hulk, dash’d on the rocky shore,

Rolls ’midst the howlings of the direful blast.

O’er the vex’d deep the vivid sulphur flies,

The jarring elements their clamours blend,

The deaf’ning thunder roars along the skies,

And whistling winds from lurid clouds descend.

The labouring wreck, contending with the wave,

Mounts to the blast, or plunges in the main;

The trembling wretch, suspended o’er his grave,

Clings to the tatter’d shrouds; the pouring rain


Chills his sad breast:—methinks I see him weep,

I hear his fearful groan, his mutter’d prayer.

O cease to mourn! behold the yawning deep,

Where soon thy weary soul shall mock Despair!

Yes, soon thy aching heart shall rest in peace:

For in the arms of death all human sorrows cease.

To Pope’s Oak.

“Enough for me that to the listening swains First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.” Pope.

Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest, bearing
the following Inscription:

“Here Pope first sung!” O hallow’d tree!

Such is the boast thy bark displays;

Thy branches, like thy patron’s lays,

Shall ever, ever, sacred be;

Nor with’ring storm nor woodman’s stroke,

Shall harm the Poet’s favourite Oak.

’Twas here he woo’d his Muse of fire,

While Inspiration’s wondrous art,

Sublimely stealing through his heart,

Did Fancy’s proudest themes inspire;

’Twas here he wisely learnt to smile

At empty praise and courtly guile.

Retired from flattering, specious arts,

From fawning sycophants of state,

From knaves with ravaged wealth elate,

And little slaves with tyrant hearts:

In conscious freedom nobly proud,

He scorn’d the envious groveling crowd.

Though splendid domes around them rise,

And pompous titles lull to rest

Each struggling virtue in the breast,

’Till Power the place of Worth supplies;

The wretched herd can never know

The sober joys these haunts bestow.

Does the fond muse delight to dwell,

Where freezing penance spreads its shade?

Where scarce the sun’s warm beams pervade

The hoary Hermit’s dreary cell?

Ah! no—there Superstition blind

With torpid langour chills the mind.

Or does she seek life’s busy scene,

Ah! no, the sordid mean and proud,

The little, trifling, fluttering crowd,

Can never taste her bliss serene;

She flies from Fashion’s tinsel toys,

Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.

R2v 132

Nor can the dull pedantic mind

E’er boast her bright creative fires;

Above constraint her wing aspires,

Nor rigid spells her flight can bind;

The narrow track of musty schools

She leaves to plodding vapid fools.

To scenes like these she bends her way,

Here the best feelings of the soul

Nor interest taints, nor threats control,

Nor vice allures, nor snares betray;

Here, from each trivial hope removed,

Our bard first sought the Muse he loved.

Still shall thy pensive gloom diffuse

The verse sublime, the dulcet song;

While round the poet’s seat shall throng

Each rapture sacred to the Muse;

Still shall thy verdant branches be

The bower of wondrous minstrelsy.

When glow-worms light their little fires,

The amorous swain and timid maid

Shall sit and talk beneath thy shade,

As eve’s last rosy tint expires;

While on thy boughs the plaintive dove

Shall learn from them the tale of love.

When round the quivering moon-beams play,

And fairies form the grassy ring,

’Till the shrill lark unfurls his wing,

And soars to greet the blushing day,

The nightingale shall pour to thee

Her song of love-lorn melody.

When through the forest dark and drear

Full oft, as ancient stories say,

Old Herne the hunter Shakspeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor. loves to stray,

While village-damsels quake with fear;

Nor sprite or spectre shall invade

The deep repose that marks thy shade.

Blest oak! thy mossy trunk shall be

As lasting as the laurel’s bloom

That decks immortal Virgil’s tomb,

And famed as Shakspeare’s hallow’d tree;

For every grateful Muse shall twine

A votive wreath to deck thy shrine.

Stanzas

To the Rose.

Sweet picture of life’s chequer’d hour!

Ah, wherefore droop thy blushing head?

Tell me, oh tell me, hapless flower,

Is it because thy charms are fled?


Come, gentle rose, and learn from me

A lesson of philosophy.

Thy scented buds life’s joys disclose,

They strew our paths with magic sweets,

Where many a thorn like thine, fair rose,

Full oft the weary wanderer meets:

And when he sees thy charms depart,

He feels thy thorn within his heart.

When morn’s bright torch illumed the sky,

Vainly thy flaunting buds display’d

Enamell’d leaves of crimson die,—

Ill-fated blossoms doom’d to fade:

’Tis so with beauty, hapless flower,

Its lustre blooms but for an hour.

Come, blushing rose, and on my breast

Recline thy gentle head, and die;

Thy scatter’d leaves shall there be press’d,

Bathed with a tear from Pity’s eye:

There shall thy balmy sweets impart

An essence grateful to my heart.

Thus Sympathy, with lenient power,

Shall bid thy fading charms bestow

Soft odours for life’s happy hour,

Kind healing balsam for its wo!

If such thy virtues, rose divine!

Oh! may thy envied fate be mine.

To the Myrtle.

Unfading branch of verdant hue,

In modest sweetness drest,

Shake off thy pearly tears of dew,

And decorate my breast.

Dear emblem of the feeling mind,

Truth’s consecrated tree!

Still shall thy trembling blossoms find

A faithful friend in me.

Nor chilling breeze, nor drizzling rain,

Thy glossy leaves can spoil,

Their sober beauties fresh remain

In every varying soil.

If e’er this aching heart of mine

A wandering thought should prove,

O let thy branched round it twine,

And bind it fast to love!

For, ah! the little fluttering thing,

Amidst Life’s tempest rude,

Has felt Affliction’s sharpest sting,

Yet triumphs unsubdued!

R3r 133

Like thee it braves the wintry wind

And mocks the storm’s fierce power;

Though from its hopes the blast unkind

Had torn each promised flower.

Though round its fibres barbarous fate

Has twin’d an icy spell,

Still in its central fires elate

The purest passions dwell.

When life’s disastrous scene is fled,

This humble boon I crave:

Oh! bind your branches round my head,

And blossom on my grave!

Stanzas.

Why, if perchance thy gaze I meet,

Glows my wan cheek with crimson dye?

Why do my languid pulses beat

With quicken’d throbs when thou art nigh?

Why does my faultering language fail,

My trembling form its strength forego;

Why do my quivering lips turn pale,

Chill’d by the touch of secret wo?

Say, when thy tuneful voice I hear,

Why does my anguish’d bosom swell?

Why steals the fond unbidding tear

The soul’s dire agony to tell?

Why when my feeble hand you press,

And whisper passion’s transport sweet,

Why do I shun the fond caress,

And dread thy ardent flame to meet?

Ah! tis because too well I know

Love is a tyrant fickle boy;

His smiles conceal the pangs of wo,

His dearest gift is short-lived joy,

He soars aloft on lovers’ sighs;

In breaking hearts his temple rears,

With cunning care he blinds our eyes,

Then, laughing, mocks our falling tears.

Inscribed to Maria,
My Beloved Daughter.

The rose that hails the morning,

Array’d in all its sweets,

Its mossy couch adorning,

The sun enamour’d meets;

Yet when the warm beam rushes

Where, hid in gloom, it lies,

O’erwhelm’d with glowing blushes,

The hapless victim dies!


Sweet maid, this rose discovers

How frail is beauty’s doom,

When Flattery round it hovers

To spoil its proudest bloom.

Then shun each gaudy pleasure

That lures thee on to fade,

And guard thy beauty’s treasure,

To decorate a shade!

Lines
to
Him Who Will Understand Them.

Thou art no more my bosom’s friend;

Here must the sweet delusion end,

That charm’d my senses many a year,

Through smiling summers, winters drear.—

O, friendship! am I doom’d to find

Thou art a phantom of the mind?

A glittering shade, an empty name,

An air-born vision’s vaporish flame?

And yet, the dear deceit so long

Has waked to joy my matin song,

Has bid my tears forget to flow,

Chased every pain, soothed every wo;

That truth unwelcome to my ear,

Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear,

Gives to the sense the keenest smart,

Checks the warm pulses of the heart,

Darkens my fate and steals away

Each gleam of joy through life’s sad day.

Britain, farewell! I quit thy shore,

My native country charms no more;

No guide to mark the toilsome road;

No destined clime; no fix’d abode;

Alone and sad, ordain’d to trace

The vast expanse of endless space;

To view, upon the mountain’s height,

Through varied shades of glimmering light

The distant landscape fade away

In the last gleam of parting day:

Or, on the quivering lucid stream,

To watch the pale moon’s silvery beam;

Or, when in sad and plaintive strains,

The mournful Philomel complains,

In dulcet notes bewails her fate,

And murmurs for her absent mate;

Inspired by sympathy divine,

I’ll weep her woes—for they are mine.

Driven by my fate, where’er I go

O’er burning plains, o’er hills of snow,

Or on the bosom of the wave,

The howling tempest doom’d to brave,

Where’er my lonely course I bend

Thy image shall my steps attend;

R3v 134

Each object I am doom’d to see

Shall bid remembrance turn to thee.

Yes; I shall view thee in each flower,

That changes with the transient hour:

Thy wandering fancy I shall find

Borne on the wings of every wind:

Thy wild impetuous passions trace

O’er the white wave’s tempestuous space:

In every changing season prove

An emblem of thy wavering love.

Torn from my country, friends, and you,

The world lies open to my view;

New objects shall my mind engage;

I will explore th’ historic page;

Sweet poetry shall soothe my soul;

Philosophy each pang control:

The muse I’ll seek, her lambent fire

My soul’s quick senses shall inspire;

With finer nerves my heart shall beat,

Touch’d by heaven’s own Promethean heat;

Italia’s gales shall bear my song

In soft-link’d notes her woods among;

Upon the blue hills misty side,

Through trackless desarts waste and wide,

O’er craggy rocks, whose torrents flow

Upon the silver sands below.

Sweet land of melody! ’tis thine

The softest passions to refine;

Thy myrtle groves, thy melting strains,

Shall harmonize and soothe my pains.

Nor will I cast one thought behind

On foes relentless, friends unkind;

I feel, I feel their poison’d dart

Pierce the life-nerve within my heart;

’Tis mingled with the vital heat,

That bids my throbbing pulses beat;

Soon shall that vital heat be o’er,

Those throbbing pulses beat no more!

No—I will breathe the spicy gale;

Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale;

O’er my pale cheek diffuse the rose,

And drink oblivion to my woes.

Pastoral Stanzas.

Written at Fifteen Years of Age.

When Aurora’s soft blushes o’erspread the blue
hill,

And the mist dies away at the glances of
morn;

When the birds join the music that floats on the
rill,

And the beauties of spring the young woodlands
adorn;


To breathe the pure air, and enliven my soul,

I bound from my cottage exulting and gay;

No care to molest me, no power to control,

I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless as
they.

Yet the bright tear of pity bedews my fond eyes,

When I think that for man the dear victims
must fall,

While nature such stores of provision supplies,

And the bounties of Heaven are common to
all.

Ah! tell me, Reflection, why custom decreed

That the sweet feather’d songsters so slaughter’d
should be?

For the board of the rich the poor minstrels may
bleed,

But the fruits of the field are sufficient for me.

When I view the proud palace, so pompously
gay,

Whose high gilded turrets peep over the
trees;

I pity its greatness and mournfully say,

Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!

Can a pillow of down soothe the wo-stricken
mind,

Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and
pain;

Can fetters of gold love’s true votaries bind,

Or the gems of Peru Time’s light pinions restrain?

Can those limbs which bow down beneath sorrow
and age,

From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour
receive;

Can the pomp of the proud death’s grim tyrant
assuage;

Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to
live?

Ah no! then sweet Peace, lovely offspring of
Heaven,

Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I’ll
be;

Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and
even,

And the winter of age be enliven’d by thee!

Written on seeing a Rose still blooming at a Cottage
door on Egham Hill, the 1800-10-2525th of October, 1800.

Why dost thou linger still, sweet flower?

Why yet remain, thy leaves to flaunt?

This is for thee no fostering hour—

The cold wind blows,

And many a chilling, ruthless shower

Will now assail thee, beauteous rose!

R4r 135

Around thee hardy trees may show

Their verdant branches later still;

But thy soft blushes, taught to glow

For summer’s day,

Must, when the wintry tempests blow,

Like Beauty’s cheek, fade fast away.

Youth’s glowing emblem! wherefore stay

And waste thy balmy breath around?

This is for thee a killing day—

Then wherefore here

Waste thy sweet life in sighs away,

Bathed with chill Winter’s frozen tear?

Thou emblemest the beauteous mind

Thrown on oblivion’s gloomy scene:

Unheeded, with the wild weeds twined,

Thou here art placed—

Thou, whom by Nature’s hand design’d,

Might’st Beauty’s breast have proudly graced.

Sweet rose! methinks I hear thee say—

I might have tasted Beauty’s smile;

Have bask’d beneath her blue-eye’s ray,

And sank in death!

Short would have been my glowing day,

And transient pass’d my fleeting breath.

I might have bound the golden hair,

Whose folds luxuriant wave and glow

Round youth’s unfurrow’d forehead fair!

But one short day

Had seen my beauties rich and rare

Droop and for ever fade away!

Here the poor hovel still displays

My lingering form, while other flowers

Long since have seen their sunny days,

And shed their sweets:

Yet here my bosom morning’s rays

And morning’s tear unvanquish’d meets.

Then happier far the lowly cot

Where Nature’s modest children reign,

Than e’en ambition’s loftier lot;

For wealth and power,

In blank oblivion’s gloom forgot,

Soon move but the phantoms of a summer
hour.

Lines

Written by the Side of a River.

Flow soft river, gently stray,

Still a silent waving tide

O’er thy glittering carpet glide,

While I chant my roundelay,

As I gather from thy bank,

Shelter’d by the poplar dank,


King-cups, deck’d in golden pride,

Harebells sweet, and “daisies pied;”

While beneath the evening sky

Soft the western breezes fly.

Gentle river, should’st thou be

Touch’d with mournful sympathy,

When reflection tells my soul

Winter’s icy breath shall quell

Thy sweet bosom’s graceful swell,

And thy dimpling course control;

Should a crystal tear of mine,

Fall upon thy lucid breast,

Oh receive the trembling guest,

For ’tis Pity’s drop divine!

Gentle zephyr, softly play,

Shake thy dewy wings around,

Sprinkle odours o’er the ground,

While I chant my roundelay.

While the woodbine’s mingling shade

Veils my pensive, drooping head,

Fan, oh fan, the busy gale,

That rudely wantons round my cheek,

Where the tear of sufferance meek

Glitters on the lily pale:

Ah! no more the damask rose

There in crimson lustre glows;

Thirsty fevers from my lip

Dare the ruddy drops to sip;

Deep within my burning heart

Sorrow plants an icy dart,

From whose point the soft tears flow,

Melting in the vivid glow;

Gentle zephyr, should’st thou be

Touch’d with tender sympathy

When reflection calls to mind

The bleak and desolating wind

That soon thy silken wing shall tear,

And waft it on the freezing air;

Zephyr, should a tender sigh

To thy balmy bosom fly,

Oh! receive the fluttering thing,

Place it on thy filmy wing,

Bear it to its native sky,

For ’tis Pity’s softest sigh.

O’er the golden lids of day

Steals a veil of sober grey;

While the flowerets sink to rest

On the moist earth’s glittering breast;

Homeward now I’ll bend my way,

And chant my plaintive roundelay.

Morning.

O’er fallow plains and fertile meads

Aurora lifts the torch of day;

The shadowy brow of night recedes,

Cold dew-drops fall from every spray;

R4v 136

Now o er the thistle’s rugged head

Thin veils of filmy vapour fly,

On every violet’s perfumed bed

The sparkling gems of Nature lie.

The hill’s tall brow is crown’d with gold,

The milk-maid trills her jocund lay,

The shepherd-boy unpens his fold,

The lambs along the meadows play;

The pilfering lark, with speckled breast,

From the ripe sheaf s rich banquet flies;

And lifting high his plumy crest,

Soars the proud tenant of the skies.

The peasant steals with timid feet,

And gently taps the cottage door;

Or on the green sod takes his seat,

And chants some well-known ditty
o’er;

Waked by the strain, the blushing maid,

Unpractised in love’s mazy wiles,

In clean, but homely garb array’d,

From the small casement peeps—and
smiles.

Proud chanticleer unfolds his wing,

And fluttering struts in plumage gay;

The glades with vocal echoes ring,

Soft odours deck the hawthorn spray;

The school-boy saunters o’er the green,

With satchel fill’d with learning’s store;

While with dejected, sullen mien,

He cons his tedious lesson o’er.

When winter spreads her banner chill,

And sweeps the vale with freezing
power,

And binds in spells the vagrant rill,

And shrivels every lingering flower;

When Nature quits her verdant dress,

And drops to earth her icy tears,

E’en then thy tardy glance can bless,

And soft thy weeping eye appears.

Then at the horn’s enlivening peal,

Keen sportsmen for the chase prepare;

Through the young copse shrill echoes steal,

Swift flies the timorous panting hare;

From every stray-thatch’d cottage soars

Blue curling smoke in many a cloud;

Around the barn’s expanded doors

The feather’d throng impatient crowd.

Such are thy charms, health-breathing
scene!

Where Nature’s children revel gay;

Where Plenty smiles with radiant mien,

And Labour crowns the circling day;

Where Peace, in conscious Virtue blest,

Invites the heart to joy supreme;

While polish’d Splendour pants for rest,

And pines in Fashion’s feverish dream.


Stanzas to Time.

Capricious foe to human joy,

Still varying with the fleeting day;

With thee the purest raptures cloy,

The fairest prospects fade away;

Nor worth, nor power thy wings can bind,

All earthly pleasures fly with thee;

Inconstant as the wavering wind

That plays upon the summer sea.

I court thee not, ungentle guest,

For I have e’er been doom’d to find

Life’s gayest hours but idly drest

With sweets that pall the sick’ning mind:

When smiling Hope, with placid mien,

Around my couch did fondly play,

Too oft thy aery form I’ve seen,

On downy pinions glide away.

But when perplex’d with pain or care,

My couch with thorns was scatter’d round:

When the pale priestess of Despair

My mind in fatal spells had bound;

When the dull hours no joy could bring,

No bliss my weary fancy prove,

I mark’d thy leaden ponderous wing,

With tardy pace, unkindly move.

If such thy gifts, O Time! for thee

My sated heart shall ne’er repine;

I bow content to Fate’s decree,

And with thy thorns thy roses twine;

Yet ere thy fickle reign shall end,

The balmy sweets of Friendship’s hour

I’ll with my cup of sorrow blend,

And smile, regardless of thy power.

The Reply to Time.

“Cannot my favouring power prolong The lovely lesson of thy song; Cannot I deck thy bust with bays, And lift thee to immortal praise? Then check, sweet Nymph, that angry rhyme, That wounds thy fond adorer—Time.” Oracle, 1790-03-13March 13, 1790

O time! forgive the mournful song

That on thy pinions stole along,

When the rude hand of pain severe

Chased down my cheek the burning tear:

When sorrow chill’d each warm desire

That kindles Fancy’s lambent fire;

When Hope, by fostering Friendship rear’d,

A phantom of the brain appear’d;

Forgive the song, devoid of art,

That stole spontaneous from my heart;

S1r 137

For when that heart shall throb no more,

And all its keen regrets be o’er,

Should kind remembrance shed one tear

To sacred friendship o’er my bier,

When the dark precincts of the tomb

Shall hide me in its deepest gloom;

O! shouldst thou on thy wafting wing

The sigh of gentle sorrow bring,

Or fondly deign to bear the name

Of one, alas! unknown to fame,

Then shall my weak untutor’d rhyme

Exulting boast the gifts of Time.

But while I feel youth’s vivid fire,

Fann’d by the breath of care, expire;

While no blest ray of hope divine

O’er my chill’d bosom deigns to shine;

While doom’d to mark the vapid day

In tasteless langour waste away;

Still, still, my sad and plaintive rhyme

Must blame the ruthless power of Time.

Each infant flower of rainbow hue,

That bathes its head in morning dew,

At twilight droops; the mountain pine,

Whose high and waving brows incline

O’er the white cataracts foamy way,

Shall at thy withering touch decay!

The craggy cliffs that proudly rise

In awful splendour ’midst the skies

Shall to the vale in fragments roll,

Obedient to thy fell control!

The loftiest fabric rear’d to fame,

The sculptured bust, the poet’s name;

The softest tint of Titian die,

The boast of magic minstrelsy;

The vows to holy friendship dear,

The sainted smile of love sincere;

The flame that warms th’ empassion’d heart,

All that fine feeling can impart;

The wonders of exterior grace,

The spells that bind the fairest face,

Fade in oblivion’s torpid hour

The victims of thy tyrant power!

To Simplicity.

Sweet blushing nymph, who loves to dwell

In the dark forest’s silent gloom;

Who smiles within the hermit’s cell,

And sighs upon the rustic’s tomb;

Who, pitying, sees the busy throng,

The slaves of fashion’s giddy sway;

And in a wild and artless song

Warbles the feathery hours away.

Oft have I flown thy steps to trace

In the low valley’s still retreat,


Oft have I view’d thy blooming face

In the small cottage, proudly neat:

I’ve seen thee veil’d in vestal lawn,

In the cold cloister’s hallow’d shade;

I’ve seen thee at the peep of dawn,

In simple russet garb array’d.

I’ve seen thee, crown’d with April flowers,

Light bounding o’er the rural mead;

I’ve heard thee in sequester’d bowers

Sing to the shepherd’s pastoral reed;

When pleasure led the nymphs along

In moonlight gambols o’er the green,

I’ve marked thee, fairest of the throng,

With modest eye and timid mien.

No more my eager gaze shall trace

Thy varying footsteps, blithe and free;

For what art thou but native grace,

Soft Beauty’s child, Simplicity!

’Tis thine in every path to dwell

Where Truth and Innocence are seen,

In cottage low, or hermit’s cell,

Or splendid dome, or rural green.

The spotless mind, the brow serene,

Tis thine, enchanting maid, to boast!

The sweet, benignant, humble mien,

And all that Virtue values most!

Thy blushes paint Duncannon’s Now Countess of Besborough. cheek,

Thy light hand weaves her golden hair,

Around her form, thy charms I’ll seek,

For all the graces revel there!

To Absence.

When from the craggy mountain’s pathless
steep,

Whose flinty brow hangs o’er the raging sea,

My wandering eye beholds the foamy deep,

I mark the restless surge—and think of thee.

The curling waves, the passing breezes move,

Changing and treacherous as the breath of love;

The “sad similitude” awakes my smart,

And thy dear image twines about my heart.

When at the sober hour of sinking day

Exhausted Nature steals to soft repose

When the hush’d linnet slumbers on the spray

And scarce a zephyr fans the drooping rose;

I glance o’er scenes of bliss to friendship dear,

And at the fond remembrance drop a tear;

Nor can the balmy incense soothe my smart,

Still cureless sorrow preys upon my heart.

S S1v 138

When the loud gambols of the village throng

Drown the lorn murmurs of the ring-dove’s
throat,

I think I hear thy fascinating song

Join the melodious minstrel’s tuneful note;

My listening ear soon tells me—’tis not thee,

Nor thy loved song, nor thy soft minstrelsy

In vain I turn away to hide my smart,

Thy dulcet numbers vibrate in my heart.

When with the sylvan train I seek the grove,

Where May’s soft breath diffuses incense
round,

Where Venus smiles serene, and sportive Love

With thornless roses spreads the fairy ground;

The voice of pleasure dies upon mine ear,

My conscious bosom sighs—Thou art not here!

Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart,

And sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.

When at my matin prayers I prostrate kneel,

And court Religion’s aid to soothe my wo,

The meek-eyed saint who pities what I feel

Forbids the sigh to heave, the tear to flow;

For ah! no vulgar passion fills my mind,

Calm Reason’s hand illumes the flame refined,

All the pure feelings Friendship can impart

Live in the centre of my aching heart.

When at the still and solemn hour of night

I press my lonely couch to find repose,

Joyless I watch the pale moon’s chilling light

Where through the mouldering tower the
north-wind blows;

My feverish lids no balmy slumbers own,

Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone;

Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart

’Till death’s cold spell is twined about my heart.

To Cesario. Miss M. Vaughan, daughter of Thomas Vaughan,
Esq., of Molesy Hurst, Surry.

“If haply, these wild simple flowers To thee some loved image convey; Ah! me, then the neighbouring bowers Yield none half so lovely as they.” Cesario to Laura.
Oracle, 1790-01-18Jan. 18, 1790.

Cesario, thy lyre’s dulcet measure

So sweetly, so tenderly flows,

That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,

Thy music would soften its woes.


But ah, gentle soother, where anguish

Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;

Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,

’Tis rapture to cherish the smart.

The mind where pale Misery sits brooding,

Repels the soft touch of repose;

Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,

The balm of mild comfort bestows.

There is luxury oft in declining

What Pity’s kind motives impart,

And to bear hapless fate unrepining

Is the proudest delight of the heart.

Still, still shall thy lyre’s gentle measure

In strains of pure melody flow,

While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,

Save mine—the doom’d victim of wo.

Stanzas.

The savage hunter, who afar,

On some rude mountain’s pathless height,

Sees in the west the twilight star

Just peering on the brow of night,

O’er cliffs of ice, or plains of snow,

Still bends his long and toilsome way,

And, as he tempts the famish’d foe,

Anticipates the joys of day.

For he, by hope inspired, surveys

The moon’s wan lustre gild the dome

That on some jutting point displays,

Oh! blest retreat! his cavern’d home:

Where, when the journeying sun shall fade,

And cold oblivion’s reign return,

The torch of love shall cheer the shade,

And midst the frozen desart burn.

For love can warm the shivering breast,

And bid Siberian fierceness sigh;

Make flinty caves the couch of rest,

And mark with joy the frowning sky.

But I, who taste no pleasing dreams

To smooth the paths of endless care,

Still darkness know ’midst sunny beams,

And find in bowers of bliss, despair!

Written on a Faded Bouquet

Fair was this blushing rose of May,

And fresh it hail’d morn’s breezy hour,

When every spangled leaf look’d gay,

Besprinkled with the twilight shower;

S2r 139

When to its mossy buds, so sweet,

The butterfly enamour’d flew,

And hovering o’er the fragrant treat,

Oft bath’d its silken leaves in dew.

Sweet was this primrose of the dale,

When on its native turf it grew;

And deck’d with charms this lily pale,

And rich this violet’s purple hue.

This odorous woodbine fill’d the grove

With musky gales of balmy power,

When, with the myrtle interwove,

It hung luxuriant round my bower.

Ah, rose! forgive the hand severe

That snatch’d thee from thy scented bed,

Where, bow’d with many a pearly tear,

Thy widow’d partner droops its head.

And thou, sweet violet, modest flower!

Oh! take my soft relenting sigh,

Nor stain the heart, whose glowing power

With too much fondness bade thee die!

Sweet lily, had I never gazed

With rapture on thy gentle form,

Thou might’st have died, unknown, unpraised,

The victim of some ruthless storm!

Where fickle Love his altar rears,

Your tiny bells had learn’d to wave;

Or, sadly gem’d with kindred tears,

Had strown some hapless lover’s grave.

Inconstant woodbine! wherefore rove,

With gadding stem, about my bower?

Why, with my darling myrtle wove,

In bold defiance mock my power?

Why quit thy native garden fair,

To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling,

And idly greet the passing air,

On every wanton zephyr’s wing?

Oh! yet repine not, though stern Fate

Hath nipp’d thy leaves of varying hue,

Since all that’s lovely, soon or late,

Shall sicken, fade, and die like you!

The fire of youth, the port of age,

Nor wisdom’s voice, nor beauty’s bloom,

Th’ insatiate tyrant can assuage,

Nor check the hand that seal’d your doom!

To the Aspin Tree.

Why tremble so, broad aspin tree?

Why shade thy leaves unceasing!

At rest thou never seem’st to be:

For when the air is still and clear,

Or when the nipping gale increasing

Shakes from thy boughs soft twilight’s tear,

Thou tremblest still, poor aspin tree,

And never resting seem’st to be!


Beneath thy shade, at sultry noon,

I oft have sat deep musing,—

And oft I watch’d the rising moon

Above the dusky summit shine,

A placid light diffusing!

When all around, a calm divine,

The rest of nature seem’d to be,

Still didst thou tremble, aspin tree!

Hadst thou sensation, I should say

Thou wert like me,—uncheerly

Ordain’d to waste life’s hour away,

Indignant at the vulgar crowd,

And doom’d to feel severely,

Scorning the dull, the base, the proud:

But thou art senseless, aspin tree!

Then wherefore thus—a trembler be?

Who shall molest thee, shivering tree?

Who shall thy branches sever?

The seasons change—and still to thee

Another spring shall give its sweets,

And yet thou tremblest ever!

Each whispering gale thy bosom meets,

As though it came to menace thee,

Oh! beauteous, trembling aspin tree!

Hadst thou a soul, a sensate mind,

Well might thy branches quiver;

If round thy heart affliction twined,

To bid each fibre, torture rung,

Tremble and ache for ever!

Oh! then thy throbbing veins among

The stormy passions wild would be,

And thou wouldst tremble, aspin tree.

Hadst thou e’er loved, or ever felt

Warm friendship’s ardour glowing;

Hadst thou in pity learn’d to melt,

Or to another’s anguish gave

The tear, spontaneous flowing:

Then, sighing might thy branches wave,

And many a gentle shower from thee

Might fall in tears, sweet aspin tree.

Hadst thou e’er known Ingratitude,

Thou wouldst have cause to tremble;

For in misfortune’s tempest rude,

The deadliest foe the heart can wound

Is he—who can dissemble!

He who enthralls the willing mind,

And bids the captive bosom be

A trembler—like the aspin tree.

Pity’s Tear.

What falls so sweet on summer flowers

As Nature’s blest refreshing showers?

S2v 140

What bids the bud its sweet exhale,

Like evening’s mild refreshing gale?

Yet sweeter—more delicious far,

And brighter than Hesperean star,

Decking the intellectual sphere,

Is Pity’s meek and balmy tear.

What bids Despair her sorrows hide?

What checks Affliction’s torturing tide?

What heals the wound of mental pain,

And calms the feverish throbbing brain?

What soothes the rage of jealous pride,

And makes the maddening pang subside?

Lulling to rest distrust and fear,

Soft Pity’s kind and holy tear!

Yet not that pity form’d to give

A pang, which bids affliction live;

Not pity that can taunting show

Superior pride, untouch’d by wo!

Not pity that, with haughty smile,

Consoles, and murders all the while!

But pity, which is form’d to prove

The bonds of faith, the test of love.

Stanzas
from the Natural Daughter.

Unhappy is the pilgrim’s lot

Who wanders o’er the desert heath,

By friends and by the world forgot,

Whose only hope depends on death!

Yet may he smile when memory shows

The torturing stings, the weary woes

Which forced his bosom to abide

The vulgar scorn of vulgar pride.

Forlorn is he who on the sand

Of some bleak isle his hovel rears,

Or shipwreck’d on the breezy strand,

The billows’ deepening murmur hears.

Yet, when his aching eyes survey

The white sails gliding far away,

He feels he shall no more abide

The vulgar scorn of vulgar pride.

Sadly the exiled traveller strays,

Benighted in some forest drear,

Where, by the paly star-light rays,

He sees no hut, no hovel, near.

The fire-eyed wolf, which howls for prey,

Glares hideous in his briery way,

Yet he can smile—for he has borne

The sneers of pride and vulgar scorn.

Of all the ills the feeling mind

Is destined in this world to share;

Of pain and poverty combined,

Of Friendship’s frown, or Love’s despair;


Still reason arms the conscious soul,

And bids it every pang control,

Save when the patient heart is tried

By vulgar scorn and vulgar pride.

Go, Wealth, and in the hermit’s cell

Behold that peace thou canst not have;

Go, Rank, and list the passing knell

That warns thee to oblivion’s grave.

Go, Power, and when the peasant’s breast

Enjoys the balm of conscious rest,

Confess that virtue can deride

The vulgar scorn of vulgar pride.

The
Sorrows of Memory.

In vain to me the howling deep

Stern Winter’s awful reign discloses:

In vain shall Summer’s zephyrs sleep

On fragrant beds of budding roses;

To me, alike each scene appears,

Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly;

While Memory writes in frequent tears

That I have loved thee very dearly!

How many summers pass’d away,

How many winters sad and dreary,

And still I taught thee to be gay

Whene’er of life thy soul was weary;

When lingering sickness wrung thy breast,

And bow’d thee to the earth, or nearly,

I strove to lull thy mind to rest—

For then I loved thee, Oh! how dearly!

And though the flush of joy no more

Shall o’er my cheek its lustre throwing,

Bid giddy fools that cheek adore,

And talk of passion—ever glowing;

Still to my mind should time impart

A charm to bid it feel sincerely,

Nor idly wound a breaking heart,

That loved long and loved thee dearly.

Could gold thy truant nature bind,

A faithful heart would still content me,

For oh! to keep that heart unkind,

I gave thee all that Fortune lent me!

In youth, when suitors round me press’d,

Who vow’d to love, and love sincerely;

When wealth could never charm my breast,

Though thou wert poor I loved thee dearly.

Seek not the fragile dreams of love,

Such fleeting phantoms will deceive thee;

They will but transient idols prove—

In wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee.

S3r 141

Ah! dost thou hope the sordid mind

When thou art poor will feel sincerely?

Wilt thou in such that friendship find

Which warm’d the heart that loved thee
dearly?

Though fickle passions cease to burn

For her so long thy bosom’s treasure,

Ah! think that reason may return

When far from thee my steps I measure;

Say who will then thy conscience heal,

Or who shall bid thy heart beat cheerly?

Or from that heart the memory steal

Of her who loved thee long and dearly?

When war shall rouse the brooding storm,

And horrors haunt thy thorny pillow;

When fancy shall present my form

Borne on the wild and restless billow;

Or where wilt thou an helpmate find

Whose pulse, like mine, shall throb sincerely?

Or who thy heart in spells shall bind

When hers is broke that loved thee dearly?

I will not court thy fickle love,

Soon shall our fates and fortunes sever;

Far from thy scorn will I remove,

And smiling, sigh adieu for ever!

Give to the sordid fiend thy days,

Still trust that they will act sincerely,

And when the specious mask decays,

Lament the heart that loved thee dearly!

For time will swiftly journey on,

And age and sickness haste to meet thee;

Friends proved deceitful—will be gone

When they no more with smiles can cheat
thee.

Then wilt thou seek in vain to find

A faithful heart that beats sincerely;

A passion centering in a mind

Which, scorning interest, loved thee dearly.

When in the grave this heart shall sleep,

No soothing dream will bless thy slumber,

For thou perchance mayest wake to weep,

And with remorse thy sorrows number!

My shade will haunt thy aching eyes,

My voice in whispers tell thee clearly

How cold at last that bosom lies

Which loved thee long, and loved thee dearly!

To the Mole.

Thou creep’st in darkness, busy thing!

The progress of the brightest day

To thee can nothing cheerful bring,

No soul-expanding ray!


For, ever labouring, ever dreary,

Thou never feel’st of sweet delight

That one, the proudest sense, which cheery

Scatters the sullen mist of night!

Thou canst not see thy mazy way,

Slow yielding to thy gloomy toils;

Thou find’st no brightly smiling ray

Give pleasure as it smiles!

Thou know’st not when thy task pursuing,

Where that dull task will end;

Or when, to work thy own undoing,

Thou bid’st the fairy hill ascend.

And yet, poor, blind, incautious mole,

What am I more refined than thee?

’Tis true I own a sensate soul,

And all around I see!

But do I ’scape the snare that, waiting,

Crosses my dreary way?

Or, for myself at home creating,

Smooth busy life’s precarious way?

Do I not toil! and toil like thee,

Unknowing where that toil will end?

Do I not blindly seek to be

Of foes, unseen, the friend?

Can human wisdom shun the ruin

Which lurks my live to snare?

And still, the passions wild subduing,

Defy the hidden shaft of care?

Do I presume to scan the power,

Which bids me, ever reasoning, try

To buffet with the stormy hour,

’Till fate shall bid me die?

Do I, my future being knowing,

Trace what I then shall be;

Or, while this fervid heart is glowing,

Its long and freezing hour foresee?

To the Wild Brook.

Unheeded emblem of the mind!

When weeping twilight’s shadows close,

I wander where thy mazes wind,

And watch thy current as it flows

Now dimpling, silent, calm, and even;

Now brawling, as in anger driven;

Now ruffled, foaming, madly wild,

Like the vex’d sense of Sorrow’s hopeless
child!

Beside thy surface now I see,

Reflected in thy placid breast,

Flush’d summer’s painted progeny,

In smiles and sweets redundant drest.

They flaunt their forms of varying dye,

To greet as thou passest by.

S3v 142

And, bending, sip thy ample wave,

And in its lucid lapse their blushing bosoms
lave.

While on thy tranquil breast appears

No freezing gale, no passing storm,

The sunbeam’s vivid lustre cheers,

And seems thy silvery bed to warm;

The thronging birds, with amorous play,

Sweep with their wings thy glittering way;

And o’er thy banks fond zephyr blows,

To dress with sweets the smallest flower that
grows.

But when destroying blasts arise,

And clouds o’ershade thy withering bounds;

When swift the eddying foliage flies,

And loud the ruthless torrent sounds:

Thy dripling charms are seen no more,

Thy minstrel’s caroll’d praise is o’er;

While not a floweret, sunny-drest,

Courts the chill’d current of thy alter’d breast.

Such is the human mind:—serene

When fortune’s glowing hour appears;

And lovely as thy margin green

Are buds of hope which fancy rears:

Then adulation, like the flower,

Bends as it greets us on our way;

But in the dark and stormy hour,

Leaves us, unmark’d, to trace our troubled
way.

Stanzas.

Hark! ’tis the merry bells that ring

On yonder upland sunny green;

Their sounds to mournful memory bring

The blissful days and hours I’ve seen:

Their swelling changes die away,

So did my heart’s best love decay!

Hark! ’tis the beetle flitting round,

O’er yonder hawthorn fresh and sweet;

Once could I mock the drowsy sound,

With Henry on the greensward seat:

But now I weep to hear its tone,

For, O! my heart’s true love is flown!

Hark! ’tis the raven’s dismal croak,

My boding breast is chill’d with fear!

Yet once beneath yon spreading oak

The bird of wo I smiled to hear:

For love and fancy cheer’d the gloom,

Where now the turf is Henry’s tomb!

Come, pale-cheek’d vestal of the night,

And spangle the long grass with dew;


Deck the tall woods with silvery light,

And buds of fragrant flowerets strew;

While love in secret sorrow hies

To guard the grave—where Henry lies!

There will I lay me down forlorn,

And close my weeping eyes, and die!

And when the smiling blushing morn

Shall rush along the eastern sky,

There shall the thronging village see,

To part no more, my love and me!

Stanzas
from the Natural Daughter.

’Tis night! and o’er the barren plain

The weary wanderer bends his way;

While on his path the silvery ray

Soothes him with hope that he shall see

The moony shadows quickly flee,

And morn return again.

The blast blows nipping on his breast,

Swift flies the wild and foamy stream;

Yet hope presents a feeble gleam,

That ere day rises he shall close

His weary lids in soft repose

Upon a bed of rest.

The moon is dim, by clouds o’ercast,

Loud roars the torrent down the vale;

The wanderer’s cheek is cold and pale,

He hears the owl with boding cry

Across the dreary desert fly,

He starts, and stops aghast!

And now in haste, with dumb despair,

O’er bush and brier he bends his way;

No cottage taper’s lengthening ray

Gleams faint across the barren heath,

He trembles, sighs, and thinks of death,

And breathes a timid prayer.

And now the dawn is rising fast,

Soft flies the fresh and cheering gale;

The reddening clouds on light wings sail,

The dew begems the fragrant heath:

No more he starts or thinks of death,

Or sighs for sorrows past.

So, through life’s journey we descry

Man gay or sad; he weeps or smiles

As cares annoy, or hope beguiles;

Then blest are those who wisely say,

“We will enjoy the present day,—

To-morrow we may die!”

S4r 143

Stanzas on 1799-05May 1799.

Sweet May! once the parent of love, we behold

Sighing sad for her verdant array;

While the glow of her bosom is check’d by the
cold,

And her tears tremble still on the spray.

Say, Nature! O why is this change so severe?

Why does spring wear so chilling a frown?

Why does noon still present unabsorb’d morning’s
tear,

Why does May still expect its green gown?

Is love grown so cold, does the bosom no more

Glow with ardour to greet thee, sweet May?

Is the smile and the frolic of youth ever o’er,

And extinct the bright torch of thy day?

Alas! all is changed; the fine feelings subside,

’Tis the triumph of apathy cold!

Affection is driven from the bosom of pride,

And the fiend that expels her—is gold!

Sour interest keeps her aloof, while no more

Soft philanthropy smiles on despair;

Though profusion and folly wide scatter their
store,

For the dull and the vicious to share.

All Nature is alter’d; her energies now

Shall no more in our valleys prevail;

No swain on our mountains repeats his soft vow,

And no damsel breathes love with the gale.

War teaches the bosom of Nature to sigh,

While she gazes with anguish around,

While the tear of Religion falls fast from her eye,

And each morn blushes deep on her wound.

O May! let thy smiles and thy graces return,

Let thy breath Nature’s treasures inclose;

Let her tears on thy flowerets embellish the urn

Where the ashes of valour repose.

Let the revels of pride and of folly be o’er.

Give to merit the prodigal feast;

And let pity the haunts of the wretched explore,

Till the portion of pain be decreased

And let wealth to the mansions of sorrow repair,

With its weeds the sweet olive entwine;

With the sigh of regret fan the breast of despair,

And the wreath of false splendour resign.

Stanzas.

As o’er the world, by sorrow prest,

I wander sad and weary,


In hopes to find a place of rest

From scenes forlorn and dreary;

Where’er I go, I’m doom’d to trace,

If fortune smiles, the smiling face;

But if she frowns, I’m sure to see

All frown on me!

When morning blushes through her tears,

And Nature flaunts her treasures,

How gaudy every path appears!

How rich in boundless pleasures!

But if the dawn, in misty gloom,

Still veils the floweret’s vivid bloom,

Now droops in shade the loftiest tree

That shelter’d me!

Nor truth nor feeling can insure

The friend that’s ever smiling;

Worth cannot worldly misery cure,

Its darkest hours beguiling.

This heart, which owns the purest flame,

Must patient bend, nor dare to blame,

Since fortune’s frown the fates decree

To follow me!

Thus all things light or dark appear,

As fortune cheers or saddens;

For time flies slow when grief is near,

But swift when transport gladdens.

Youth is a transient summer gleam,

Where visions gay and flitting seem;

But Time and Reason wake to see

Them fade like me!

O! come, capricious Fortune blind,

Subdue this bosom’s feeling;

Make dim the fire that warms my mind,

Thence all its fervour stealing.

Teach me the sordid servile art

To dress in low disguise the heart,

Then every face shall gentle be,

And smile on me!

Stanzas

Supposed to be written near a tree, over the Grave
of an Officer,
who was killed at Lincelles, in Flanders,
in 1793-08August 1793.

Ah! pensive traveller, if thy tear

E’er fell on valour’s early grave,

Arrest thy wandering steps, and here

Lament the lot that waits the brave!

Here let the moralist descry

The proudest tomb that man can claim,

The glorious bed where heroes lie

Who perish’d for their country’s fame.

S4v 144

Here bind the laurel, steep’d in tears,

Tears that in glowing youth he died,

Blest with each charm that most endears,

His kindred’s hope, his nation’s pride!

Oh! hallow’d turf! some silent spot,

Adorn’d with sorrow’s gem sublime,

E’en when the muse shall be forgot,

Thy fame shall brave the blasts of time!

And thou, rude bark, preserve his name,

Carved by some just recording hand;

And, proudly conscious of that fame,

Thy guardian branches wide expand.

Keep from this sod the pattering rain,

The wintry wind, the drifted snow;

And when blithe summer paints the plain,

Here let the sweetest flowerets blow.

No trophied column trimm’d with bays,

No gilded tablet bears his name;

A soldier boasts superior praise,

A grateful country guards his fame.

Lines to Maria,
My Beloved Daughter.

Written on her Birth-day, 1793-10October 18, 1793.

To paint the lust’rous streaks of morn,

Along the pale horizon borne,

When from Aurora’s opening eye

Effulgent glory gilds the sky;

Or yet a softer theme to sing

Of purple evening’s humid wing;

To trace the crystal car of night

Along the plains of starry light,

Where the chaste goddess bends her way,

Diffusing round a trembling ray;—

No more shall charm my pensive muse,

With transient forms, or varying hues:

This hour my tender task shall be,

Sweet darling maid, to sing of thee!

Attend my strain, and while I blend

The guardian, parent, poet, friend,

Believe, as each my verse shall prove,

A picture fraught with truth and love,

And every candid line impart

The feelings of a mother’s heart!

Oh! form’d to soothe the wounds of fate,

Dear solace of my mournful state!

Thou only blessing Heaven bestows

To shed meek patience on my woes


Know—that in life’s disastrous scene,

Whate’er my chequer’d lot has been,

No hour was yet so dear to me

As that blest hour which gave me thee!

From infant sweetness still I’ve traced

Thy mind with every virtue graced;

Still have I mark’d Time’s ceaseless wing

Some new endearing treasure bring;

While Hope, soft-whispering, bid me gaze

On brightening scenes of distant days,

When, more matured, these doating eyes

Should see the lovelier woman rise,

Adorn’d with all the modest grace

That beam’d about thy infant face;

Yet with a mind more passing fair

Than all that nature pictured there!

With such a mind, so richly stored,

Still may’st thou live, admired, adored!

Through life enjoy the bliss divine

That waits on innocence like thine!

Still greet the morn with conscious smile,

With tranquil scenes the hours beguile,

And, when the busy day shall close,

Still find a couch of sweet repose!

For me, so long ordain’d to trace

O’er life’s dark wild a thorny space—

Still every sorrow doom’d to share,

Still shall my heart those sorrows bear,

Nor will I mourn at Fate’s decree,

If Heaven, in pity spares me thee!

The Pilgrim’s Farewell.

From the Romance of Vancenza. Only in the third, fourth, and fifth editions.

O’er deserts untrodden, o’er moss-covered hills,

I have wander’d forlorn and alone;

My tears I have mingled with slow-winding
rills,

And the valleys have echo’d my groan!

I have seen the wan moon from her silver veil
peep,

As she rose from her cloud-dappled bed;

I have heart the dread hurricane yell ’midst the
deep,

As the lightnings play’d over my head!

T1r 145

When the tempest subsided I saw the faint dawn

O’er the eastern hill meekly appear;

While each kingcup that droop’d on the dew-
shining lawn

From its golden lids dropp’d a soft tear.

I have seen the bright day-star illumine the
earth,

I have hail’d the proud sovereign of fire;

I have smiled on the primrose just waken’d to
birth,

I have sigh’d—to behold it expire!

How oft have I pitied the plaint of the dove,

How I’ve mused near the nightingale’s nest!

For, alas! when the mourner sings sweetly of
love,

’Tis soft sympathy thrills through my breast.

I have seen the tall forest o’ershadow the glade,

And extend its broad branches on high;

But how soon have I mark’d its rich canopy
fade,

And its yellow leaves whirl’d to the sky!

I have sigh’d o’er the sod where some lover was
laid;

I have torn the rude weeds from his breast;

I have deck’d it with flowerets; and oft I have
said,

“How I envy thy pallet of rest!”

I have traced the long shades o’er the wave’s
silky green,

When the storm gather’d over the main;

I have gazed with delight on the landscape
serene

When the evening-bell toll’d on the plain.

Exulting and gay, I have smiled to behold

Proud Nature luxuriantly drest;

I have wept when I saw her uncover’d and cold,

And the winter-blast howl’d o’er her breast.

Since such are the scenes of this journey of care,

Since each pleasure is mingled with pain,

Still let me the raptures of sympathy share,

And my bosom shall scorn to complain.

Though destined to wander o’er mountains of
snow,

Vancenza! O mansion divine!

Thy pilgrim shall smile at his journey of wo,

And his heart, his warm heart shall be thine!

Stanzas

Written on the --02-1414th of February, to my once dear Valentine.

Come, Hope, and sweep the trembling string;

Drop from thy pinions balm divine;

While, drooping o’er my lyre, I sing

The graces of my Valentine.


Ah! Graces, fatal to my peace,

Why round my heart your mischiefs twine?

Say, barbarous Love, can aught increase

The triumphs of my Valentine?

No more about my auburn hair

The sparkling gems shall proudly vie;

The cypress, emblem of despair,

Shall there a faded chaplet die.

Young dimpled Pleasure quits my breast

To seek some gaudier bower than mine,

Where low Caprice, by Fancy drest,

Enthrals my truant Valentine.

The frozen brook, the mountain snow,

The pearls that on the thistle shine,

The northern winds, that chilly blow,

Are emblems of my Valentine.

Pale Sorrow sheds the quivering flame

That gleams on Truth’s neglected shrine,

Fann’d by those sighs which still proclaim

How much I love thee, Valentine!

Whene’er the icy hand of Death

Shall grasp this sensate frame of mine,

On my cold lip the fleeting breath

Shall murmur still—“dear Valentine!”

Then o’er my grave, ah! drop one tear,

And sighing write this pensive line—

A faithful heart lies mouldering here,

That well deserved its Valentine!

Stanzas

Inscribed to a once dear Friend, when confined by
severe indisposition, in 1793-03March 1793.

Ye glades that just open to greet the blue sky,

All encircled with woodlands bespangled with
dew,

From your borders, once cherish’d, disgusted I
fly;

For your beauties are faded, and sadden’d your
hue.

O! soft gliding river, whose banks I behold

Undelighted and mournful, no longer you
please;

Nor the deep azure bells, nor the cowslips of
gold,

Nor your smooth glassy bosom o’ershaded
with trees.

Yon mountain, whose breezes enliven the soul,

Never more will I climb at the dawning of
day;

Never more to the turf-cover’d meadows I’ll
stroll,

Or on beds of young primroses carol my lay.

T T1v 146

For, glades, to your sod with my love I’ve retired

When the red beams were rushing the foliage
among,

When the last glowing shadow of evening expired,

And rocks rung responsive to Philomel’s
song.

And thou, lucid river, I’ve sat by thy side,

To behold his dear form in thy clear glassy
breast,

When the moon spread her light o’er thy soft
rolling tide,

And the wise were content with the dulness
of rest.

And thou, craggy mountain, where oft I have
stray’d,

To behold from your summit the thatch of
his cot;

Like the slow-winding river, the dew-spangled
glade,

And the thick-woven woodlands—be ever forgot.

See! Nature is sadden’d by Sympathy’s tears,

Since my lover no longer enlivens the day;

And forlorn shall she be till her darling appears,

As the rose droops its head when the sun
fades away.

To the Same,

On his recovering from a long indisposition,
in 1793-05May, 1793. During which the Author nursed him seven
months incessantly.

Go, balmy gales, and tell Lisardo’s ear,

That Health comes smiling on the wings of
morn;

Tell him, that sweet Repose approaches near,

To banish feverish days, and nights forlorn.

Brightly the sun-beams on the mountains break,

And whispering zephyrs shake their wings
around;

The day-star steals away in lustre meek,

And spreading glories gild the dewy ground.

Exulting Flora opes her varying hues;

The valley smiles, the verdant hills look gay;

From her abundant store Profusion strews

The buds and tints of rosy-bosom’d May.

The lofty woodlands wave their leafy heads,

To wake the plumy travellers of the air;

The low-born lilies, on their humid beds,

Expand their spotless bosoms, fresh and fair.


Slow winds the brawling river through the
vales;

Down the rough rock the roaring torrents
flee,

The high-poised lark on floods of ether sails,

To greet the lord of light with songs of glee.

Soft is the perfume of morn’s beauteous breast,

And soft the murmurs of the insect train;

While Nature’s hand, with pearly lustre drest,

Leads tip-toe Pleasure o’er the glittering plain.

For thee, Lisardo, she unfolds her store,

For thee she weaves a garland, proudly gay;

Come then, my friend, the liberal nymph adore,

And own that Rapture is the child of May.

And while returning health pervades each nerve,

As April suns disperse the wintry gloom

The sad remembrance of past “wo shall serve

For sweet discourses in our time to come.”

The Adieu to Fancy.

Inscribed to the Same.

When first I knew thee, Fancy’s aid

A mine of peerless worth display’d,

A thousand graces hourly stole

In melting visions o’er my soul.

For Fancy guides the shaft of Love,

And bids fantastic visions move

In mystic mazes round the breast,

In Hope’s delusive colours dress’d.

’Tis Fancy wings the poet’s thought,

With classic Taste sublimely fraught;

And bids the fount of Reason flow,

With smooth delight, or ruffled wo.

Full oft the gentle sylph I’ve seen,

With soothing smile and sportive mien,

When, wandering to her fairy bowers,

She bound my grateful breast with flowers.

And oft with flattering Hope she came

To twine a wreath of promised fame;

Yet midst the laurel’d gift I found

Full many a thorn my breast to wound.

Oh! then she brought, my mind to calm,

Persuasive Friendship’s soothing balm;

And Sympathy, with throbbing breast,

In Pity’s specious semblance drest.

Yet Friendship’s beauteous form I found

Would start aghast at Sorrow’s wound;

And Sympathy’s slow trickling tear

Would cease to flow when Grief was near.

T2r 147

Then let me own the tranquil scene,

The constant thought, the smile serene,

And know myself supremely blest!

Deceitful Fancy—take the rest!

The Moralist.

Hark! the hollow moaning wind

Sweeps along the midnight air,

Sullen as the guilty mind;

Hidden source of dark despair.

See the death-wing’d lightning fly!

Desolation marks its way,

Fatal as the vengeful eye,

Fixing on its destined prey.

Dreadful thunders threat’ning roll,

Viewless, ’midst the turbid clouds!

So the fierce relentless soul

Hate’s empoison’d arrow shrouds.

See the billowy ocean’s breast,

Sway’d by every wavering wind,

Rises, foams, and sinks to rest,

Fickle as the human mind!

Sweetly blooms the rose of May,

Glittering with the tears of morn;

So insidious smiles betray,

While they hide the treacherous thorn.

Mark gay Summer’s glowing prime,

Shadowed by the twilight gloom;

So the ruthless wing of time

Bends the fairest to the tomb.

Moralist! where’er you move

O’er vast Nature’s varying plan,

Every changing scene shall prove

A sad epitome of man!

Stanzas to My Beloved Daughter.

On Seeing Her Gather Some Pensees. “Pensee” is the French word for thoughts.

Forbear, rash maid! thy hand restrain;

Nor with yon gentle victim stain

A breast so fair, so true!

Ah! think, the little harmless flower

Lives but a transient sunny hour,

Ere doom’d to fade like you


Though silken cords around it twined,

One sad, short day, its stems may bind;

Vain is the harsh decree!

Its magic form no spell can hold;

Still shall it triumph uncontrol’d,

For thoughts are ever free.

And if those buds, so sweet, so fair,

Can ’scape the bold intruder’s snare,

Their triumph should be thine;

For, like thy pure and tender heart,

They scorn the feeble aid of art,

And glow with charms divine.

Then let soft sympathy prevail:

No more the gentle leaves assail!

Ah! let them bloom their hour!

Take not what bounteous Nature gave,

But learn to cherish, and to save,

Then triumph in thy power.

Stanzas

Written after Successive Nights
of Melancholy Dreams.

Ye airy phantoms, by whose power

Night’s curtains spread a deeper shade;

Who, prowling in the murky hour,

The weary sense with spells invade;

Why round the fibres of my brain

Such desolating miseries fling,

And with new scenes of mental pain

Chase from my languid eye sleep’s balm-dispensing
wing?

Ah! why, when o’er the darken’d globe

All Nature’s children sink to rest—

Why, wrapp’d in horror’s ghastly robe,

With shadowy hand assail my breast?

Why conjure up a tribe forlorn,

To menace, where I bend my way?

Why round my pillow plant the thorn,

Or fix the Demons dire in terrible array?

Why, when the busy day is o’er—

A day perhaps of tender thought—

Why bid my eager gaze explore

New prospects, with new anguish fraught?

Why bid my madd’ning sense descry

The form in silence I adore?

His magic smile, his murderous eye!

Then bid me wake to prove the fond illusion
o’er!

When, feverish with the throbs of pain,

And bathed with many a trickling tear,

I close my cheated eyes again,

Despair’s wild bands are hovering near:

T2v 148

Now borne upon the yelling blast,

O’er craggy peaks I bend my flight;

Now on the yawning ocean cast,

I plunge unfathom’d depths, amid the shades of
night!

Or, borne upon the billows’ ire,

O’er the vast waste of waters drear,

Where shipwreck’d mariners expire,

No friend their dying plaints to hear,

I view far off the craggy cliff,

Whose white top mingles with the skies;

While at its base the shatter’d skiff,

Wash’d by the foaming wave, in many a fragment
lies.

Oft, when the morning’s gaudy beams

My lattice gild with sparkling light,

O’erwhelm’d with agonizing dreams,

And bound in spells of fancied night,

I start, convulsive, wild, distraught!

By some pale murderer’s poniard press’d,

Or by the grinning phantom caught,

Wake from the maddening grasp with horror-
freezing breast!

Then down my cold and pallid cheek

The mingling tears of joy and grief

The soul’s tumultuous feeling speak,

And yield the struggling heart relief;

I smile to know the danger past,

But soon the radiant moment flies—

Soon is the transient day o’ercast,

And hope steals trembling from my languid
eyes!

If thus, for moments of repose,

Whole hours of misery I must know;

If, when each sunny day shall close,

I must each gleam of peace forego!

If for one little morn of mirth,

This breast must feel long nights of pain,

Oh! life, thy joys are nothing worth!

Then let me sink to rest—and never wake again!

The Maniac.

Ah! what art thou, whose eye-balls roll

Like heralds of the wandering soul,

While down thy cheek the scalding torrents
flow?

Why does that agonizing shriek

The mind’s unpitied anguish speak?

O tell me, thing forlorn! and let me share thy
wo.

Why dost thou rend thy matted hair,

And beat that burning bosom bare?

Why is thy lip so parch’d, thy groan so deep?

Why dost thou fly from cheerful light,

And seek in caverns mid-day night,

And cherish thoughts untold, and banish gentle
sleep?


Why dost thou from thy scanty bed

Tear the rude straw to crown thy head,

And nod with ghastly smile, and wildly sing?

While down thy pale distorted face

The crystal drops each other chase,

As though thy brain were drown’d in one eternal
spring?

Why dost thou climb yon craggy steep,

That frowns upon the clamorous deep,

And howl, responsive to the waves below?

Or on the margin of the rock

Thy sovereign orb exulting mock,

And waste the freezing night in pacing to and
fro?

Why dost thou strip the fairest bowers,

To dress thy scowling brow with flowers,

And fling thy tatter’d garment to the wind?

Why madly dart from cave to cave,

Now laugh and sing, then weep and rave,

And round thy naked limbs fantastic fragments
bind?

Why dost thou drink the midnight dew,

Slow trickling from the baneful yew,

Stretch’d on a pallet of sepulchral stone;

While, in her solitary tower,

The minstrel of the witching hour

Sits half congeal’d with fear, to hear thy dismal
moan?

Thy form upon the cold earth cast,

Now grown familiar with the blast,

Defies the biting frost and scorching sun:

All seasons are alike to thee;

Thy sense, unchain’d by destiny,

Resists, with dauntless pride, all miseries but
one!

Fix not thy steadfast gaze on me,

Shrunk atom of mortality!

Nor freeze my blood with thy distracted groan?

Ah! quickly turn those eyes away,

They fill my soul with dire dismay,

For dead and dark they seem, and almost chill’d
to stone!

Yet, if thy scatter’d senses stray

Where Reason scorns to lend a ray,

Or if Despair supreme usurps her throne,

Oh! let me all thy sorrows know;

With thine my mingling tear shall flow,

And I will share thy pangs, and make thy griefs
my own.

Hath love unlock’d thy feeling breast,

And stolen from thence the balm of rest?

Then far away on purple pinions borne,

Left only keen regret behind,

To tear with poison’d fangs thy mind,

While barbarous Memory lives, and bids thee
hopeless mourn?

T3r 149

Does Fancy to thy straining arms

Give the false nymph in all her charms,

And with her airy voice beguile thee so,

That Sorrow seems to pass away,

Till the blithe harbinger of day

Awakes thee from thy dream, and yields thee
back to wo?

Say, have the bonds of friendship fail’d,

Or jealous pangs thy mind assail’d;

While black Ingratitude, with rancorous tooth,

Pierced the fine fibres of thy heart,

And festering every sensate part,

Dim’d with contagious beath the crimson glow
of youth?

Or has stern Fate, with ruthless hand,

Dash’d on some wild untrodden strand

Thy little bark, with all thy fortunes fraught;

While thou didst watch the stormy night

Upon some bleak rock’s fearful height,

Till thy hot brain consumed with desolating
thought?

Ah! wretch forlorn, perchance thy breast,

By the cold fangs of Avarice press’d,

Grew hard and torpid by her touch profane;

Till Famine pinch’d thee to the bone,

And mental torture made thee own

That thing the most accursed, who drags her
endless chain!

Or say, does flush’d Ambition’s wing

Around thy feverish temples fling

Dire incense, smoking from th’ ensanguined
plain,

That, drain’d from bleeding warriors’ hearts,

Swift to thy shatter’d sense imparts

The victor’s savage joy, that thrills through
every vein?

Does not the murky gloom of night

Give to thy view some murderous sprite,

Whose poniard gleams along thy cell forlorn;

And when the sun expands his ray,

Dost thou not shun the jocund day,

And mutter curses deep, and hate the ruddy
morn?

And yet the morn on rosy wing

Could once to thee its raptures bring,

And Mirth’s enlivening song delight thine
ear;

While Hope thine eye-lids could unclose

From the sweet slumbers of repose,

To tell thee Love’s gay throng of tender joys
were near.

Or hast thou stung with poignant smart

The orphan’s and the widow’s heart,

And plunged them in cold Poverty’s abyss;


While Conscience, like a vulture, stole

To feed upon thy tortured soul,

And tear each barbarous sense from transitory
bliss?

Or hast thou seen some gentle maid,

By thy deluding voice betray’d,

Fade like a flower, slow withering with remorse?

And didst thou then refuse to save

Thy victim from an early grave,

Till at thy feet she lay a pale and ghastly corse?

Oh! tell me, tell me all thy pain;

Pour to mine ear thy frenzied strain,

And I will share thy pangs, and soothe thy
woes!

Poor maniac! I will dry thy tears,

And bathe thy wounds, and calm thy fears,

And with soft Pity’s balm enchant thee to repose.

Marie Antoinette’s
Lamentation.

In Her Prison of the Temple.

Written in 1793-03March, 1793.

When on my bosom evening’s ruby light

Through my thrice-grated window warmly
glows,

Why does the cheerful ray offend my sight,

And with its lustre mock my weary woes?

Alas! because on my sad breast appears

A dreadful record—written with my tears!

When awful midnight, with her ebon wand,

Charms nature’s poorest, meanest child to
peace,

Why cannot I one little hour command,

When gentle sleep may bid my anguish cease?

Alas! because, where’er I lay my head,

A dreary couch I find, with many a thorn o’erspread.

When the sun, rising in the eastern skies,

Awakes the feather’d race to songs divine,

Why does rememberance picture to these eyes

The jocund morn of life, that once was mine?

Alas! because, in sorrow doom’d to mourn,

I ne’er shall see that blissful morn return

When I behold my darling infants sleep,

Fair spotless blossoms, deck’d in opening
charms,

Why do I start aghast, and wildly weep,

And madly snatch them to my eager arms?

T3v 150

Ah me! because my sense, o’erwhelm’d with
dread,

Views the sweet cherubs on their funeral bed!

Why, when they ope their eyes to gaze on me,

And fondly press me in their dear embrace,

Hang on my neck, or clasp my trembling knee,

Why do maternal sorrows drench my face?

Alas! because inhuman hands unite

To tear from my fond soul its last delight!

Oh, fell Barbarity! yet spare a while

The sacred treasures of my throbbing breast;

Oh, spare their infant hearts, untouch’d by
guile,

And let a widow’d mother’s darlings rest!

Though you have struck your falchions at the
root,

Oh, give the tender branches time to shoot!

The lightning, by the angry tempest cast,

Strikes at the lofty pine, and lays it low;

While the small floweret ’scapes the deadly
blast,

A while its odorous breath around to
throw!

Then let distracted Gallia’s lilies bloom,

Though but to deck with sweets a dungeon’s
gloom!

Oh my poor innocents! all bathed in tears,

Like withering flowerets wash’d with chilling
dew,

Sleep on, nor heed a frantic mother’s fears:

The savage tigers will not injure you!

Your harmless bosoms not a crime can know,

Scarce born to greatness—ere consign’d to
wo!

When left forlorn, dejected, and alone,

Imperfect sounds my pensive soul annoy;

I hear in every distant mingling tone

The merry bells—the boisterous songs of joy!

Ah! then I contemplate my loathsome cell,

Where meagre grief and scowling horror dwell!

The rabble’s din, the tocsin’s fatal sound,

The cannon thundering through the vaulted
sky,

The curling smoke in columns rising round,

Which from my iron lattice I descry,

Rouse my lethargic mind! I shriek in vain,

My tyrant jailor only mocks my pain!

Yet bear thy woes, my soul, with proud disdain,

Meet the keen lance of death with steadfast
eye;

Think on the glorious tide that fills each vein,

And throbbing bids me tremble not, to die!

Yet, shall I from my friendless children part?

Oh, all the mother rushes to my heart!


Where’er I turn, a thousand ills appear,

Arm’d at all points in terrible array:

Pale hood-wink’d Murder ever lurking near,

And coward Cruelty that ever shuns the day

See, see, they pierce with many a recreant
sword,

The mangled bosom of my bleeding lord!

Oh, dreadful thought! Oh, agony supreme!

When will the sanguinary scene be o’er?

When will my soul, in sweet Oblivion’s dream,

Fade from this orb to some more peaceful
shore?

When will the cherub Pity break the snare,

And snatch one victim from the last despair?

A Fragment.

Supposed to be written near the Temple, at Paris,
on the night before the Execution of Louis XVI.

Now midnight spreads her sable vest

With starry rays, light-tissued o’er;

Now from the desert’s thistled breast

The chilling dews begin to soar;

The owl shrieks from the tottering tower.

Dread watch-bird of the witching hour!

Spectres, from their charnel cells,

Cleave the air with hideous yells!

Not a glow-worm ventures forth

To gild his little speck of earth!

In wild despair creation seems to wait,

While Horror stalks abroad, to deal the shafts
of Fate!

To yonder damp and dreary cave,

From black Oblivion’s silent wave,

Borne on Desolation’s wings,

Death his poison’d chalice brings!

Wide beneath the turbid sky,

Fierce Rebellion’s banners fly,

Sweeping to her iron den

The agonizing hearts of men!

There, in many a ghastly throng,

Blood-stain’d myriads glide along,

While each above his crest a falchion rears,

Imbued with tepid gore, or drench’d with
scalding tears!

About yon tower, (whose grated cell

Entombs the fairest child of earth,

August in misery as in birth)

The hosts of Pandimonium dwell;

Night and day the fiends conspire

To glut their desolating ire:

T4r 151

Ire that feeds on human wo,

That smiling deals the murderous blow;

And as the hopeless victim dies,

Fills with shouts the threatening skies;

Nor trembles, lest the vengeful lighting’s glare

Should blast their recreant arms, and scatter
them to air!

Round the deep entrenchments stand

Bold Ambition’s giant band;

Beneath, insidious Malice creeps,

And keen Revenge that never sleeps;

While dark Suspicion hovers near,

Stung by the dastard scorpion, Fear;

Reason, shrinking from her gaze,

Flies the scene in wild amaze;

While trembling Pity dies to see

The barbarous sons of anarchy

Drench their unnatural hands in human blood,

While patriot Virtue sinks beneath the whelming
flood!

Hark! the petrifying shriek

Breaks from yonder turret bleak;

The lofty tower returns the sound,

Echoing through its base profound!

The rising moon, with paly light,

Faintly greets the aching sight

With many a gliding sentinel,

Whose shadow would his steps repel;

Whose soul, convulsed with conscious wo,

Pants for the morning’s purple glow,

The purple glow that cheers his breast,

And gives his startled mind a short-lived hour of
rest

But when shall morn’s effulgent light

The hapless sufferer’s glance invite?

When shall the breath of rosy day

Around the infant victims play?

When will the vivifying orb

The tears of widow’d love absorb?

See, see, the palpitating breast,

By the weeping graces drest,

Now dumb with grief, now raving wild,

Bending o’er each withering child,

The only treasures spared by savage ire,

The fading shadows of their murder’d sire!

The seraph Hope, with transient light,

Illumes the dreary shade of night;

Suspends a while the frenzied shriek,

The slow-paced tear of sufferance meck;

But soon the demon Wrath appears,

Who braves the touch of mortal fears;

His flaming sword, with hideous glare,

Proves the dire signal of Despair!

Retiring Hope beholds, subdued,

The fatal mandate sign’d with blood,

With kindred blood! Oh, horrible and base,

To stigmatize with shame a long illustrious
race?


Oh, Fancy! spread thy powerful wing,

From hell’s polluted confines spring;

Quit, quit the cell where madness lies,

With wounded breast, and starting eyes!

The ruthless fiends have done their worst,

They triumph in the deed accursed.

See, her veil Oblivion throws

O’er the last of human woes!

Life’s curtain falls with many a crimson stain,

Closing from every eye the scene of pain,

While from afar the war-song dins the ear,

And drowns the dying groan, which angels weep
to hear.

Invocation to Oberon.

Written on the recovery of my Daughter from Inoculation.

Lightly on the breath of morn

See the shades of twilight borne;

See the sun, in splendor drest,

Lifting high his flaming crest

Earth recieves him bathed in tears

Sprinkled from the starry spheres,

When the chilly pale-faced moon

Journey’d to her shadowy noon!

Hark! a plaintive voice I hear,

Whispering to my pensive ear:

“Oberon, it seems to say,

Gentle Fairy, haste away;

Haste on health’s ambrosial wing,

Freshest dews of morning bring,

Balmy breezes, such as spread

Hebe’s cheek with glowing red;

Such as in Helvetia’s bowers

Gently fan the Austral showers!

Swift as thought, dear spirit, fly,

Wake to joy my darling’s eye!

Now with perfumes bathe her breast,

Now compose her pangs to rest;

Haste, exert thy magic power,

Danger lurks in every hour!”

From the tulips ample dome,

Anxious mourner, see, I come!

Now behold my filmy vest,

Gay with gaudy cowslips drest!

See the kingcup’s burnish’d bell

Half my dainty brows conceal;

See my acorn goblet fill’d

With drops of ether, thrice distill’d;

Wings I’ve stolen, of rainbow die,

From the vagrant butterfly;

T4v 152

Myrtle leaves my sandals are,

Tied with strings of golden hair;

Glossy streamers fan the wind,

From the silk-worm’s web purloin’d

Which the toiling insect wove

For the killing eyes of Love!

For the god, as mortals know,

Blindly twangs his fatal bow;

While I tope the beacon’s head;

While I skim o’er ocean’s bed,

Ere the sun, with burning eye,

O’er the welkin’s brow shall fly,

Or with fiery pinions sweep

Proudly down the western steep;

Or his burnish’d mantle fling

O’er the dauntless eagle’s wing;

Ere upon the world below

Evening’s crimson blushes glow,

Fair Maria’s feverish lip

Shall Hygeia’s balsam sip!

Many a verdant leaf I bear,

Gifted with perfections rare!

Stripp’d from roots of wondrous power,

When at midnight’s silent hour

On the zephyr’s wings I sail,

Sweeping from the Primrose pale

Dew, that o’er its sickly face

Sheds a ray of sparkling grace.

Nor in these alone I find

Charms to heal the wounded mind:

From the poppy I have ta’en

Mortal’s balm, and mortal’s bane!

Juice that, creeping through the heart,

Deadens every sense of smart;

Doom’d to heal, or doom’d to kill,

Fraught with good, or fraught with ill.

This I stole, when witches fell,

Busy o’er a murderous spell,

On the dark and barren plain,

Echo’d back the night-owl’s stain!

While the winking stars withdrew,

Shock’d their horrid rites to view.

See, to crown the precious heap,

Drops, that modest violets weep,

When the rosy-blosom’d May

Rushes forth in colours gay

Scattering from her perfumed wing

All the rival flowers of spring!

Flowers that lift their haughty heads

High above their native beds,

Shading o’er the icy cheek

Of the fainting snow-drop meek!

These shall sprinkle soothing balm,

Every throbbing pulse to calm!

Round Maria’s aching head

Soon the healing drops I’ll shed;


When they reach her languid eye,

Soon the rending pang shall fly;

From her pale and alter’d face,

Health the sickly hue shall chase!

Health, that through the bosom flows,

And bathes the cheek—a living rose!

Nor e’en then will I depart

From the gentle maiden’s heart:

Fondly vigilant, I’ll fly

O’er the earth, or through the sky;

Still with restless pinions sweep

O’er the terrors of the deep;

Or with wings of lightning soar

High as Heaven’s star-spangled floor!

When the silent queen of night,

Deck’d silvery armour bright,

Seated in her shadowy chair,

Sails, despotic, through the air!

Till the monarch of the sky

Bids the pale usurper fly,

While the wanton sprites and fays

Vanish from his potent gaze

Till, to cheer the sportive train,

Witching night returns again.

Yes, where’er the damsel strays

Through dull life’s perplexing maze,

Watchful Oberon shall be

Gaurdian of her destiny!

To Julius. James Boaden, Esq. A. M. author of Fontainville
Forest,
a tragedy; The Secret Tribunal, &c.

“Julia, by every Muse beloved and blest, By every glowing grace that lifts that breast! By passion’s soul, that fires the piercing eye, By Rapture’s energy, by Pity’s sigh, I charge thee, stoop not, e’en in anger just, To paint the poisonous aspic of the dust.” Julius.
Oracle, 1791-10-07Oct. 7, 1791.

The dusky veil of night was thrown

O’er the flush’d forehead of the west,

When thy soft harp’s melodious tone

Roused the faint tenant of my breast;

A glow of joy my cheek o’erspread,

The classic page I scare could see,

For pride my raptured fancy led

To learn the lesson taught by thee.

Yes, Julius, when the pensive breast,

Sick of life’s gaudy feverish dream,

Courts the cool hour of mental rest,

And owns youth’s season but a dream!

U1r 153

Sweet is the gale that wafts the sound

That bids corroding anguish flee:

And kind the voice of truth profound,

And blest the muse that sings like thee.

But what avails the dulcet tone,

The lesson wisdom’s voice can preach?

Can reason calm affliction’s groan,

Or maxim’s patient sufferance teach?

Know, liberal Bard, the vulgar throng

Who point the rancorous shaft at me,

Feel not the thrills of sacred song,

Nor heed the precepts taught by thee!,

Yet in my bosom’s ruby cell,

The philosophic lore shall live!

For who can sooth the mind so well,

With all the graceful muse can give?

And when the dart pale envy wings,

With recreant mischief aims at me,

I’ll turn where polished Julius sings,

And mock the power of destiny!

And when weak Slander’s subtle art

Spits poison o’er the venal page,

With the proud lyre I’ll shield my heart,

And, smiling, mock the feeble rage!

So when the venom’d spider stings,

Whose wound no mortal can endure,

Let the rapt minstrel sweep the strings,

And heavenly music yields a cure! The sting of the Tarantula is said to be cured by
music.

Stanzas.

Written between Dover and Calais, in 1792-07July 1792.

Bounding billow, cease thy motion,

Bear me not so swiftly o’er!

Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean!

I will tempt thy rage no more.

Ah! within my bosom beating,

Varying passions wildly reign!

Love, with proud resentment meeting,

Throbs by turns of joy and pain!

Joy, that far from foes I wander,

Where their arts can reach no more;

Pain, that woman’s heart grows fonder,

When the dream of bliss is o’er.


Love, by fickle fancy banished,

Spurn’d by Hope, indignant flies:

Yet, when Love and Hope are vanish’d

Restless Memory never dies!

Far I go, where Fate shall lead me,

Far across the troubled deep!

Where no stranger’s ear shall heed me,

Where no eye for me shall weep.

Proud has been my fatal passion,

Proud my injured heart shall be!

While each thought and inclination

Proves that heart was form’d for thee!

Not one sigh shall tell my story,

Not one tear my cheek shall stain;

Silent grief shall be my glory,

Grief that stoops not to complain.

Let the bosom, prone to ranging,

Still, by ranging, seek a cure:

Mine disdains the thought of changing,

Proudly destined to endure!

Yet, ere far from all I treasured,

T*******! ere I bid adieu,

Ere my days of pain are measured,

Take the song that’s still thy due!

Yet believe, no servile passions

Seek to charm thy wandering mind;

Well I know thy inclinaitons,

Wavering as the passing wind!

I have loved thee, dearly loved thee,

Through an age of worldly wo!

How ungrateful I have proved thee,

Let my mournful exile show.

Ten long years of anxioius sorrow,

Hour by hour, I counted o’er;

Looking forward ’till to-morrow,

Every day I loved thee more.

Power and splendor could not charm me,

I no joy in wealth could see;

Nor could threats or fears alarm me—

Save the fear of losing thee.

When the stroms of fortune press’d thee,

I have sigh’d to hear thee sigh;

Or when sorrows dire distress’d thee,

I have bid those sorrows fly!

Often hast thou smiling told me,

Wealth and power were trifling things;

While Love, smiling to behold me,

Mock’d cold Time’s destructive wings.

U U1v 154

When with thee, what ills could harm me?

Thou couldst every pang assuage!

Now, alas! what Hope can charm me!

Every moment seems an age!

Fare thee well, ungrateful rover!

Welcome Gallia’s hostile shore:

Now the breezes waft me over;

Now we part—to meet no more!

Stanzas

To
Him Who Said, “What Is Love?”

“Say, what is Love?” I heard the sound

Steal softly on the western gale;

While fluttering zephyrs, whispering round,

Bore to mine ear thy gentle tale.

Dost thou not know?—Ah! minstrel sweet,

I’ll tell thee—Love is but a dream,

A glittering phantom, form’d to cheat,

The rainbow of youth’s sunny beam.

On air-built throne the mischief dwells,

Bright to the fascinated view;

Serene amidst tempestuous spells,

Disguised in tints of heavenly hue!

We gaze, we wonder at his charms,

So passing fair the boy appears;

His sighs the fiercest rage disarms,

While cold indifference melts in tears.

So humble seems the weeping child,

That Pity joys to see him blest;

While Passion hastes with transport wild,

And clasps him to her burning breast.

And if the cunning Urchin smiles,

The light-wing’d Pleasures fluttering nigh,

’Midst glowing blisses, sportive wiles,

Snatch rapture from his laughing eye.

For he can laugh, and sigh, and weep,

Now frown severe, then smile again;

And he can bid dull Sorrow sleep,

Or dash the cup of Joy with pain.

And he can cheer the throbbing breast,

While Hope’s bright flame illumes his eye;

Can point the distant heaven of rest,

Then bid the flattering vision fly.

He can bid Poverty’s sad child

Respose upon his downy wing;

Can lull to peace Distraction wild,

And heal pale Misery’s sharpest sting.


But when, capricious, false, and vain,

The tyrant shows his boasted power,

The sensate bosom throbs with pain,

And cares the vital throne devour.

Ah! then he triumphs—then he turns

From Hope’s fond gaze, indignant, cold;

From his proud heart the wretch he spurns,

And smiles his victim to behold.

Ah! then he drinks the bitter tear,

And mocks the soul-departing sigh;

While his dread minion, jealous Fear,

Proclaims that dark Despair is nigh!

Unmoved, he sees the languid look,

The cheek slow-fading to decay,

The breast by every hope forsook,

The mind to withering grief a prey!

He sees the wreath of Genius fade,

Blasted by pale Oblivion’s breath,

As slow she seeks the fatal shade,

Where Madness points the cave of Death.

If o’er some towering rock he bends,

And, shrunk with anuguish, weeps and raves;

If black Despair his bosom rends,

While from the steep the storm he braves;

Or on the margin wild, forlorn,

He meditates perpetual sleep;

Or, on the ruthless whirlwinds borne,

Hangs trembling o’er the howling deep.

If to the moon he tells his woes,

When midnight guides her sable rein;

Or shrieks with fierce convulsive throes,

Till frenzy grasps his burning brain:

Or if, in rosy graces drest,

He lures thee to his fatal bower

And tells thee he will make thee blest

With proud delight’s extatic power:

Ah, heed him not, thou Minstel sweet!

The tempter courts but to abuse;

From the fell traitor turn thy feet,

And live—a favourite of the Muse!

The Recantation.

To Love.

Tell not me of silvery sands,

Rocks of coral, caves of gold;

Love my votive song demands,

Love can brighter themes unfold.

U2r 155

Rove amidst Golconda’s mines,

Lave thy form ’midst pearly seas;

While Love’s spell around me twines,

I can scorn such joys as these.

Go, where citron groves entwine,

Where gigantic aloes bloom;

Love can form his myrtled shrine,

’Midst the rugged desert’s gloom.

Go, where austral skies invite

Perfumed gales from roseate bowers,

While amidst the sultry night,

Round thee balmy ether showers.

Go, where drops the tepid vine,

Where the honey’d Hybla glows;

Let their sweetest gifts combine,

Love has sweeter gifts than those.

Go, where clouds of orient gold

Gently sail o’er amber floods:

Go, where musky flowers unfold,

Shedding odours from their buds.

Go, where morn, with rosy crest,

Shakes her golden tresses bright;

Go, where evening’s glowing vest

Clothes the plain in purple light.

Still will sickening fancy die,

Sated with their gaudy hues:

So the traveller’s aching eye

Day’s effulgent lustre views.

Come then, Love, delicious boy!

Come, in all thy charms array’d:

Thine alone is real joy,

All the rest a glittering shade.

I with thee will climb the steep

Where the brawling torrents flow.

Rushing with impetuous sweep

To the quivering lake below.

I with thee will wander far,

Where rippling river strays,

While the twinkling evening star

Shoots around its feeble rays;

Till the pallid queen of night,

Rising, lifts her silver wreath,

Spreading soft and trembling light

O’er the silent world beneath.

Then, I’ll lead thee to my home,

Blest retreat of mental joys,

Far from Folly’s splendid dome,

Far from Fashion’s trivial toys.


Then, I’ll court thee to repose

On my mossy pillow rude,

Where false friends and envious foes

Dare not break our solitude.

Come then, Love, delicious boy!

Come, in all thy charms array’d;

Thine alone is real joy,

All the rest a glittering shade.

The Fugitive.

Oft have I seen yon solitary man

Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow

Sits melancholy, mark’d with decent pride,

As it would fly the busy taunting world,

And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near

The foot of an old tree, he takes his seat,

And with the page of legendary lore

Cheats the dull hour, while evening’s sober eye

Looks tearful as it closes. In the dell

By the swift brook he loiters, sad and mute,

Save when a struggling sigh half murmur’d
steals

From his wrung bosom. To the rising moon,

His eye raised wistfully, expression fraught,

He pours the cherish’d anguish of his soul,

Silent, yet eloquent: for not a sound

That might alarm the night’s lone sentinel,

The dull-eyed owl, escapes his trembling lip,

Unapt in supplication. He is young,

And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth

That all its fires are faded. What is he?

And why, when morning sails upon the breeze,

Fanning the blue hill’s summit, does he stay

Loitering and sullen, like a truant boy,

Beside the woodland glen; or stretch’d along

On the green slope, watch his slow wasting form

Reflected, trembling, on the river’s breast?

His garb is coarse and threadbare, and his
cheek

Is prematurely faded. The check’d tear,

Dimming his dark eye’s lustre, seems to say,

“This world is now, to me, a barren waste,

A desert full of weeds and wounding thorns,

And I am weary: for my journey here

Has been, though short, but cheerless.” Is it so?

Poor traveller! Oh tell me, tell me all—

For I like thee, am but a fugitive,

An alien from delight, in this dark scene!

And, now I mark thy features, I behold

The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here

A persecuted exile! one, whose soul,

U2v 156

Unbow’d by guilt, demains no patronage

From blunted feeling, or the frozen hand

Of gilded ostentation. Thou, poor priest!

Art here, a stranger, from thy kindred torn—

Thy kindred massacred! thy quiet home,

The rural palace of some village scant,

Shelter’d by vineyards, skirted by fair meads,

And by the music of a shallow rill

Made ever cheerful, now thou hast exchanged

For stranger woods and valleys,

What of that?

Here, or on torrid deserts; o’er the world

Of trackless waves, or on the frozen cliffs

Of black Siberia, thou art not alone!

For there, on each, on all, the Deity

Is thy companion still! Then, exiled man!

Be cheerful as the lark that o’er yon hill

In Nature’s language, wild, yet musical,

Hails the Creator! nor thus sullenly

Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam

Of lustrous fortune gilds the palace roof,

While thy short path, in this wild labyrinth,

Is lost in transient shadow.

Who, that lives,

Hath not his portion of calamity?

Who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom?

The fever, throbbing in the tyrant’s veins

In quick, strong language, tells the daring
wretch

That he is mortal, like the poorest slave

Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires.

The sweetest rose will wither, while the
storm

Passes the mountain thistle. The bold bird,

Whose strong eye braves the ever-burning orb,

Falls like the summer fly, and has at most

But his alloted sojourn. Exiled man,

Be cheerful! Thou art not a fugitive!

All are thy kindred—all thy brothers, here—

The hoping—trembling creatures—of one God!

The Birth-Day.

Here bounds the gaudy gilded chair,

Bedeck’d with fringe, and tassels gay;

The melancholy mourner there

Pursues her sad and painful way.

Here, guarded by a motley train,

The pamper’d countess glares along;

There, wrung by poverty and pain,

Pale Misery mingles with the throng.

Here, as the blazon’d chariot rolls,

And prancing horses scare the crowd,

Great names, adorning little souls,

Announce the empty, vain, and proud.


Here four tall lackeys slow precede

A painted dame, in rich array;

There the sad shivering child of need

Steals barefoot o’er the flinty way.

“Room, room! stand back!” they loudly cry,

The wretched poor are driven around

On every side, they scatter’d fly,

And shrink before the threatening sound.

Here, amidst jewels, feathers, flowers,

The senseless dutchess sits demure;

Heedless of all the anguish’d hours

The sons of modest worth endure.

All silver’d, and embroider’d o’er,

She neither knows nor pities pain;

The beggar freezing at her door

She overlooks with nice disdain.

The wretch whom poverty subdues

Scarce dares to raise his tearful eye;

Or if by chance the throng he views,

His loudest murmur is a sigh!

The poor wan mother, at whose breast

The pining infant craves relief,

In one thin tatter’d garment drest,

Creeps forth to pour the plaint of grief.

But ah! how little heeded here

The faultering tongue reveals its wo;

For high-born fools, with frown austere,

Contemn the pangs they never know.

“Take physic, Pomp! let Reason say,

What can avail thy trappings rare?

The tomb shall close thy glittering day,

The beggar prove thy equal there!”

The Fisherman.

Along the smooth and glassy stream

The little boat glides slow;

And while beneath the rosy beam

Of setting sun the waters glow,

The Fisherman is singing gay,

“Sweet is the hour of setting day.”

The net expanded wide, displays

The snare of direful fate;

And where the finny victim plays

The shafts of death unseen await.

And still the Fisherman is gay

Singing at close of summer’s day.

U3r 157

The zephyrs on each willow bed

In busy whispers fly,

And o’er the lowly, peaceful shed

The mournful screech-owls hovering cry;

Yet still the Fisherman can say,

“How cheerful is the close of day!”

The rising moon, with quivering light,

Along the river throws

A soft beam from the brow of night,

And still a mimic day bestows;

While on the smooth and liquid way

The silent Fisherman is gay.

The rosy dawn above the hills

Scatters the severing clouds,

And myriads flitting o’er the rills,

The violet scented margin shrouds:

And from his hut, to greet the day,

The Fisherman comes blythe and gay.

Happy is he who never knew

The idle pride of state!

Who, stranger to the sordid crew,

Lives unmolested by the great;

Who labours through his little day,

And, pleased with labour, still is gay.

Poor Fisherman! would man like thee

Contented pass his hour;

Would those of loftier destiny

Forbear to use the rod of power—

How man through life’s busy day

Would sing like thee—beloved and gay!

Stanzas.

Since Fortune’s smiles too often give

Respect to fools, to knaves renown,

Let Reason bid me calmly live,

And Fortune mark me with a frown!

For who would but the wretched state

Which conscious vice or dullness knows?

Or who be vainly, meanly great,

With power that from oppression grows?

While Nature, with a partial hand,

Her darling children beckons forth;

While fools and knaves usurp command,

And Fortune flies from modest worth!

Then give, oh! Fortune! all thy store

To insects of a sunny day;

While I the paths of truth explore,

And smile the darkest hour away.


The Worst of Ills.

What wounds more deep than arrows keen

Piercing the heart subdued;

What renders life a dreary scene?

Thy sting, Ingratitude!

For every pain that man can know

Has still an antidote for wo,

Save where Ingratitude is found

Giving its deep and deadly wound.

Does Love neglected, pining sad,

On every joy obtrude;

Does Pleasure fly the bosom glad,

Stung by Ingratitude?

Oh, yes! for what is life to those

Who find no hour of soft repose,

Who trace in every path that weed

Which bids the feeling bosom bleed?

Thou fiend Ingratitude! to thee

All lesser evils bend;

Thou potent shaft of destiny,

Where will thy poisons end?

The wretch who smarts beneath thy fang,

Day after day endures the pang,

And finds there is no balm to cure

Thy wound, for ever deep and sure!

Where’er in life’s precarious scene

My weary feet have stray’d,

Thous hast my taunting follower been,

In sunshine and in shade.

In povery I found thee ever

The bonds of social feelings sever;

And when I sunk by grief subdued,

I felt thy wound, Ingratitude!

I found thee in the smile of Love,

In Friendship’s sacred vest,

In rustic meekness saw thee move,

Pois’ning the untaught beast.

When Fortune, often dull and blind,

Heap’d splendour on the vulgar mind,

Scattering on pride and vice her favour,

Ingratitude, I found thee ever!

Thou imp destructive! bane of rest,

Turn from my aching heart;

Nor still in artful kindness drest,

Thy fatal stings impart.

This bosom, long assail’d by thee,

No more thy victim slave shall be;

No more shall be by thee subdued,

Thou worst of ills—Ingratitude!

U3v 158

The Gamester.

Say, what is he, whose haggard eye

Scarce dares to meet the morning ray?

Who, trembling, would, but cannot fly

From man, and from the busy day?

Mark how his lip is fevered o’er,

Behold his cheek, how deathly it appears!

See! how his bloodshot eye-balls pour

A burning torrent of unpitied tears!

Now watch the varying gesture wild,

See how his tortured bosom heaves!

Behold Misfortune’s wayward child,

For whom no kindred bosom grieves!

Despised, suspected, ruin’d, lost,

His fortune, health, and reputation flown—

On Misery’s stormy ocean tost,

Condemn’d to curse his fate—and curse alone!

Once were his prospects bright and gay,

And Independence blest his hours;

This was the smooth and sunny way

Where tip-toe Pleasure scatter’d flowers:

Love bound his brow with thornless sweets

And Friendship, smiling, filled his cup of joy:

Now, not a friend the wanderer meets,

For, like a wolf—he wanders to destroy!

All day upon a couch of thorn

His weary feverish limbs recline;

All night, distracted and forlorn,

He hovers round the fateful shrine;

Eager to seize, with grasping hands,

The slender pittance of each easy fool,

He links himself with caitiff bands,

And learns the lesson of the Gamester’s school!

One hour elate with ill-got gold,

And dazzled by the shining ore,

In plenitude of joys behold

The Prodigal display his store!

The next in poverty and fear;

He hides him, trembling at approaching fate,

While greedy creditors appear,

And with remorseless rage lurk round his gate.

Then comes the horror-breeding hour!

While recreant Suicide attends;

Or Madness, with impetuous power,

The scene of desolation ends!

Upon his grave no parent mourns,

No widow’d love laments with graceful wo;

No dawn of joy for him returns,

For Heaven denies that peace his frenzy lost
below!

My Native Home.

O’er breezy hill and woodland glade,

At morning’s dawn or closing day,


In summer’s flaunting pomp array’d,

Or pensive moonlight’s silver grey,

The wretch in sadness still shall roam

Who wanders from his native home.

While at the foot of some old tree,

As meditation soothes his mind,

Lull’d by the hum of wandering bee,

Or rippling stream, or whispering wind,

His vagrant fancy still shall roam,

And lead him to his native home.

Though Love a fragrant couch may weave,

And Fortune heap a festive board,

Still Memory oft would turn to grieve,

And Reason scorn the splendid hoard;

While he, beneath the proudest dome,

Would languish for his native home.

To him the rushy roof is dear,

And sweetly calm the darkest glen;

While noise, and pomp, and power, appear,

At best, the glittering plagues of men;

Unsought by those who never roam,

Forgetful of their native home.

Let me to summer shades retire,

With meditation and the muse;

Or round the social winter fire

The glow of temper’d mirth diffuse:

Though winds may howl and waters roam,

I still shall bless my native home.

The Summer Day.

Ah! who beneath the burning ray

Can bear the long, long summer’s day?

Who ’mid the dust and scorching sun,

Content, his daily race will run?

And yet, when winter’s icy breath

Flies o’er the white and frozen heath,

The wanderer shudders to behold

The dreary scene, and shrinks with cold.

When drifted snow across the plain

Spreads desolation’s chill domain,

The Traveller, sighing, seems to say,

“Ah! would it were a summer’s day!”

Yet when the sun flames far and wide,

He hastens to the wood’s dark side,

And, shelter’d by embowering trees,

Sighs for the fresh and cooling breeze!

When dusty roads impede his way,

And all around the fervid ray

Scorches the dry and yellow heath,

Unvisited by Zephyr’s breath:

Or, when the torrent wildly pours,

When the fierce blast impetuous roars,

U4r 159

Man, still on changes fondly bent,

Still murmurs, sad and discontent!

The Wintry Day.

Is it in mansions rich and gay,

On downy beds, or couches warm,

That Nature owns the wintry day,

And shrinks to hear the howling storm?

Ah! No!

’Tis on the bleak and barren heath,

Where Misery feels the ice of death,

As to the dark and freezing grave

Her children, not a friend to save,

Unheeded go!

Is it in chambers silken drest,

At tables which profusions heap,

Is it on pillows soft to rest,

In dreams of long and balmy sleep?

Ah! No!

’Tis in the rushy hut obscure,

Where Poverty’s low sons endure,

And, scarcely daring to repine,

On a straw pallet, mute, recline,

O’erwhelm’d with wo!

Is it to flaunt in warm attire,

To laugh, to feast, and dance, and sing;

To crowd around the blazing fire,

And make the roof with revels ring?

Ah! No!

’Tis on the prison’s flinty floor,

’Tis where the deafening whirlwinds roar;

’Tis when the sea-boy, on the mast,

Hears the wave bounding to the blast,

And looks below!

Tis in a cheerless naked room,

Where Misery’s victims wait their doom,

Where a fond mother famish’d dies,

While forth a frantic father flies,

Man’s desperate foe!

Is it where gamesters thronging round,

Their shining heaps of wealth display?

Where fashion’s giddy tribes are found,

Sporting their senseless hours away?

Ah! No!

’Tis in the silent spot obscure,

Where, forced all sorrows to endure,

Pale Genius learns—oh! lesson sad!

To court the vain, and on the bad

False praise bestow!


Where the neglected hero sighs.

Where Hope, exhausted, silent dies,

Where Virtue starves, by Pride oppress’d,

’Till every stream that warms the breast

Forbears to flow!

Lines

Written on a Sick-Bed, 17971797.

Another night of feverish pain

Has slowly pass’d away!

I see the morning light again;

What does it bring? another day

Of hope—delusive—vain!

Another night of busy thought

Has stolen uncheerly on!

And what has rosy morning brought?

Is anguish with the lone hour gone,

The hour with darkness fraught?

I see again the cheerful light,

But still my soul’s forlorn!

The sun-beam glitters, all is bright,

Soft dews the fragrant fields adorn,

But still to me ’tis night

A sullen gloom o erwhelms my mind,

While slow the hours creep on;

For wheresoe’er I gaze I find

Dark weeds to feast my soul upon,

With Memory’s thorns entwined.

I see Deceit in sainted guise

Of holy Friendship, smile;

I mark Oppression’s eager eyes,

And tremble as the breath of Guile

Assumes Affection’s sighs.

Then, bed of sickness! thou to me

No keener pangs canst bring;

I have familiar grown with thee;

And while the scorpion sorrows sting

My soul no joy can see.

Yet, bed of sickness! while my breast

In feverish throbs shall rise

My cheek shall smile—and endless rest

Anticipating Hope supplies

Hereafter—with the blest!

On Leaving the Country

For the Winter Season, 17991799.

Ye leafless woods, ye hedge-rows bare,

Farewell! awhile farewell!

U4v 160

Now busy scenes my thoughts must share,

Scenes of low guile,

Where shrewd Hypocrisy shall smile,

And empt Folly dwell!

Ye rising floods, ye mountains bleak,

Farewell! awhile farewell!

The din of mingling tones I seek;

The midnight gloom

I change, for the light taper’d room

Where sounds unmeaning swell.

Ye meadows wide, that skirt the stream,

Farewell! awhile farewell!

Ye green banks, where the summer beam,

So rich and gay,

Among the fragrant buds would play

Adown the silent dell.

Now dark and dreary hours I see,

I hear the deafening noise;

The troublous scene returns to me,

Who sickening sigh

For the soft breeze, and summer sky,

With all their glowing joys!

Yet, yet, where’er my course I bend,

May every hour be blest

With the sweet converse of a friend!

The smile that shows

A calm content for human woes:

Then, splendour take the rest!

Written
at Brighton.

The evening sun now sinks serene,

Flush’d ocean’s glowing waves between;

The purpling sky is fading fast,

With tints of varying hue o’ercast;

The sultry breezes fan the deep,

And bid the restless billows sleep;

The glooms of night will soon o’erspread

The blue hill’s solitary head;

And all of nature’s tribe shall rest,

All but the lover’s aching breast!

Now o’er yon dark and rocky bed

The sea weed waves its sable head!

The moon her silver crescent rears,

To deck with modest light the spheres;

The moaning of the distant deep

Marks where the twilight breezes sleep;

And hark! the sea-bird’s lonely cry

Awakes the lover’s hear to sigh!


Stanza to Rest.

When hidden fears the bosom tears,

And love no longer cheats the breast,

Hope comes to break the spells of care,

And give the tortured bosom rest.

The world looks gay, the shadows past,

All nature smiles, by Fancy drest:

But soon the day of bliss o’ercast

Will prove—how short a lover’s rest.

The gentle breeze that fans the main,

Scarce seems to move the halcyon’s nest,

Soon yields to winter’s potent reign,

And storms succeed the transient rest.

Then let the wretch, whom Pleasure flies,

Ne’er think that Rapture’s sons are blest,

For Apathy alone supplies

The sweet, the envied balm of rest!

A Wish.

Heaven knows I never would repine,

Though Fortune’s fiercest frowns were mine,

If Fate would grant, that o’er my tomb

One little laurel branch might bloom,

And Memory sometimes wander near

To bid it live—and drop a tear!

I never would, for all the show

That tinsel splendour can bestow,

Or waste a thought, or heave a sigh,

For well I know ’tis pageantry!

Soon fading to the grave, ’tis o’er—

A pleasing phantom, seen no more!

I ask not worldly power, to rule

The drooping child of misery’s school:

To tyrannize o’er him whom Fate

Has destined to a lowly state,

To me would prove a source of wo

More keen than such a wretch could know.

Oh! did the little great endure

The pangs they seldom stoop to cure!

Could pamper’d luxury then find

The charm to sooth the wounded mind!

The loftiest, proudest, would confess

The sweetest power—the power to bless.

Give me the sensate mind, that knows

The vast extent of human woes;

And then, for independence, grant

The means to cheer the child of want:

Though small the pittance, mine should be,

The boundless joys of Sympathy!

X1r 161

But though ungentle Fortune flies,

And envious Fate her smile denies,

My heart will never cease to feel

The wounds it vainly hopes to heal:

Then Fate, to prove thy rage is o’er,

Ah! let me die—and feel no more!

Farewell to Glenowen.

Farwell, dear Glenowen, adieu to thy mountains,

Where oft I have wander’d to welcome the
day;

Farewell to thy forests, thy crystalline fountains,

Which stray through the valley, and moan as
they stray.

O’er wide foamy waters I’m destined to travel,

A poor simple exile, forlorn and unknown;

Yet while the dark Fates shall my fortune unravel,

My thoughts, my affections shall still be thy
own,

Thy cities proud Gallia, thy wide-spreadingtreasures,

Thy valleys, where Nature luxuriantly roves,

May bid the heart, dancing to Fancy’s wild
measures,

Forget, for a moment, its own native groves.

But where is the bosom that sighs not in sorrow,

Estranged from dear objects to wander alone:

Still counting the moments from morrow to
morrow,

A poor weary traveller, lost and unknown.

Sweet vistas of myrtle, and paths of gay roses,

And hills deck’d with vineyards, and woodlands
with shade,

Fresh banks of young violets, where Fancy
reposes,

And courts gentle slumbers her visions to aid;

The dark silent grotto, the soft-flowing fountains,

Where Nature’s own music soft murmurs
along;

The sun-beams that dance on the pine-covered
mountains

May waken to rapture their own native throng.

But thou, dear Glenowen! can’st bring sweeter
pleasure,

All barrren and bleak as thy summits appear;

And though thou can’st boast of no rich gaudy
treasure,

Still memory traces thy charms with a tear!


The keen blast may howl o’er thy valleys and
mountains,

And strip the rich verdure that mantles each
tree;

And winter may bind in cold fetters thy foundtains,

But still thou art dear, O Glenowen! to me.

To Spring.

Written after a Winter of ill health in the Year
18001800.

Life glowing season! odour breathing Spring!

Deck’d in cerculean splendours, vivid, warm,

Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours,

And calling forth their beauties! balmy Spring!

To thee the vegetating world begins

To pay fresh homage. Every southern gale

Whispers thy coming; every tepid shower

Revivifies thy charms. The mountain breeze

Wafts th’ ethereal essence to the vale,

While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard

With ten-fold sweetness. When the dawn unfolds

Its purple splendours ’mid the dappled clouds,

Thy influence cheers the soul. When noon uplifts

Of Heaven’s own radiance with one vast of light,

Thou smil’st triumphant! Every little flower

Seems to exult in thee, delicious Spring,

Luxuriant nurse of Nature! By the stream

That winds its swift course down the mountain’s
side,

Thy progeny seen,—young primroses,

And all the varying buds of wildest birth,

Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn

Which arms the hedge-row, the young birds invite

With merry minstrelsy, shrill, and mazed

With winding cadences; now quick, now sunk

In the low twitter’d song. The evening sky

Reddens the distant main, catching the sail

Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue

Varying the sea-green wave; while the young
moon,

Scarce visible amid the warmer tints

Of western splendours, slowly lifts her brow,

Modest and icy-lustred! O’er the plain

The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle’s head,

And hanging in clear drops on the wild waste

Of broomy fragrance. Season of delight!

Thou soul-expanding power, whose wondrous
glow

Can bid all Nature smile—Ah! why to me

Come unregarded, undelighting still

This ever mourning bosom? So I’ve seen

The sweetest flowerets bind the icy urn,

The brightest sun-beams glitter on the grave,

X X1v 162

And the soft zephyr kiss the troublous main

With whispered murmurs. Yes, to me, O
Spring!

Thou com’st unwelcomed by a smile of joy;

To me! slow withering to that silent grave,

Where all is blank and dreary. Yet once more

The Spring eternal of the soul shall dawn,

Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change,

Radiant and unexhausted! Then, ye buds,

Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales,

Adorn your little hour, and give your joys

To bless the fond world-loving traveller,

Who smiling measures the long flowery path

That leads to Death! For to such wanderers

Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream,

And the last hour unwelcome. Not to me,

O! not to me, stern Death, art thou a foe:

Thou art the welcome messenger that brings

A passport to a blest and long repose!

The Exile.

Lost on a rock of dreadful height,

And shrouded by the gloom of night,

A weary exile stood!

No wintry star its feeble ray

Shot forth to point the craggy way,

Or guide his devious steps to shun the foamy
flood.

Above, the warring tempest howl’d

And near the ravenous she-wolf prowl’d,

A cataract plunged below!

He shrunk!—the bleak blast yell’d around

He totter’d o’er the gulf profound

While every startled sense was agonized by wo.

For robb’d of joy, of peace bereft,

Adversity no balsam left

To heal the stings of scorn;

No sigh of love his pain beguiled,

On him no friend, no kindred, smiled,

To draw from Memory’s wound affliction’s
rankling thorn!

Disdain’d by Fortune, stung by Art

And tortured with a feeling heart,

Which Hope had left to break!

His sigh was lost amid the blast,

And Fancy, maddening on the past,

Bade tears, corroding tears, steal down his wither’d
cheek.

Then why should he, with haggard eye,

Start from the she-wolf prowling nigh,

Or dread the gulph below?

Why totter o’er the dreadful steep,

And bear the pelting storm, and weep,

When one short step would end the tyranny of
wo?


Poor exile! why such fears endure,

When Nature’s hand presents a cure,

Which only death can give?

Methinks the wretched wanderer cries—

“Guilt seeks the grave—the coward dies,

While virtue nobly dares to suffer and to live!”

Stanzas.

When the bleak blast of winter howls o’er the
blue hill,

And the valley is stripp’d of its verdant array,

When the moon faintly gleams o’er the frostsilver’d
spray.

And the yellow leaves flit o’er the ice mantled
rill:

The poor simple offspring of labour and care,

By his turf-lighted hearth sits resign’d to his
lot,

While the flame of affection illumines his cot,

And the often-told tale cheers the gloom of despair.

For him the blest beam of the soul speaking eye,

The smile of pure love, have their raptures in
store;

And though the wild storm round his threshold
shall roar,

He sinks to soft slumber, and dreams but of joy.

No hopeless fond passion corrodes in his breast,

His rude rushy pillow invites to repose;

No couch of light down and rich fragrance he
knows,

But he knows what is sweeter—a pallet of rest!

For what are the pleasures the world can bestow

The gay mirthful scene, or the banquet profuse?

What the laurel of Fame, or the song of the
Muse,

When the heart bleeds in silence, the victim of
wo?

O’er each prospect of bliss that fond fancy illumes,

The fix’d brow of Prudence frowns sadly severe,

While my cheek, warm with blushes, is chill’d
by Love’s tear,

And the sigh of Regret fans the flame that consumes:

For, perish the heart that can meanly desire

The cold balm of pity to soothe its despair!

My passion shall scorn the dear object to share,

And, exulting in silence, shall proudly expire!

Yes, in silence, proud silence, I’ll muse o’er his
worth,

Though reflection shall steal the faint rose
from my cheek,

X2r 163

Thought my eye’s faded lustre its poison shall
speak,

And my heart-bursting sighs bend my frame to
the earth!

Then rest, my sad bosom—henceforth be at
peace!

Thy hopes and thy anguish will shortly be
o’er:

Stern Prudence shall frown on thy passion no
more,

For in Death’s cold embrace all thy sorrows will
cease!

Reflections.

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time.” Shakspeare’s Macbeth.

Ah! who has power to say,

To-morrow’s suns shall warmer glow,

And o’er this gloomy vale of wo

Diffuse a brighter ray?

Ah! who is ever sure,

Though all that can the soul delight

This hour enchants the wondering sight,

These raptures will endure?

Is there in life’s dull toil,

One certain moment of repose,

One ray to dissipate our woes,

And bid Reflection smile?

What is the mind of man?

A chaos where the passions blend,

Unconscious where the mass will end,

Or when it first began!

In childhood’s thoughtless hours

We frolic through the sportive day;

Each path enchanting, sunny, gay,

All deck’d with gaudy flowers!

In life’s maturer prime

We wander still in search of peace;

And, as our weary toils increase,

Fade in the glooms of time.


From scene to scene we stray,

Still courting Pleasure’s fickle smile,

While she, delighting to beguile,

Still farther flides away.

We seek Hope’s gentle aid,

We think the lovely phantom pours

Her balmy incense on those flowers,

Which blossom but to fade!

We court love’s thrilling dart,

And when we think our joys supreme,

We find its raptures but a dream—

Its boon, a wounded heart!

We pant for glittering Fame,

And when pale Envy blots the page

That might have charm’d a future age,

We find ’tis but a name.

We toil for paltry ore,

And when we gain the golden prize,

And Death appears!—with aching eyes

We view the useless store.

We bask in Friendship’s beam,

But when malignant cares assail,

And Fortune’s fickle favours fail,

We find ’tis but a dream!

We pine for idle joy;

Intemperance leads to sure decay;

The brightest prospects fade away,

The sweetest—soonest cloy!

How frail is beauty’s bloom!

The dimpled cheek—the sparkling eye,

Scarce seen, before their wonders fly

To decorate a tomb!

Then, since this fleeting breath

Is but the zephyr of a day,

Let conscience make each minute gay,

And brave the shafts of Death!

And let the generous mind

With pity view the erring throng,

Applaud the right, forgive the wrong,

And feel for all mankind.

For who, alas, shall say,

“To-morrow’s sun shall warmer glow,

And o’er this gloomy vale of wo

Diffuse a brighter ray.”

X2v 164

The
Progress of Liberty.

Book First.

Hail, Liberty sublime! hail godlike power,

Coeval with the skies, to earth new born;

Thou parent of delight, thou source refined

Of human energy! Thou fountain vast

From whose immortal stream the soul of man

Imbibes celestial fevour! But for thee

O! best and noblest attribute of God!

Who would the coil endure of mortal wo,

The frowns of fortune, or the taunts of pride;

Float with the gale, or buffet with the storm;

Who labour through the busy dream of time,

War with oppression, or resist the base!

Opposing ever, and by each opposed,

To count suceeding conflicts; and to die?

Hail, Liberty! legitimate of Heaven!

Who, on a mountain’s solitary brow

First started into life; thy sire, old Time;

Thy mother, blooming, innocent and gay,

The genius of the scene! Thy beauteous form

She gave to nature; on whose fragrant lap,

Nursed by the breath of morn, each glowing vein

Soon throbb’d with healthful streams. Thy
sparkling eyes

Snatch’d radiance from the sun! while every
limb,

By custom unrestrain’d, grew firm and strong.

Thy midnight cradle, rock’d by howling winds,

Lull’d thee to wholesome rest. Thy beverage
pure,

The wild brook gushing from the rocky steep,

And foaming, unimpeded, down the vale.

For thee no victim bled; no groan of death

Stole on the sighing gale to pitying Heaven!

Thy food the herbage sweet, or wandering vine

Bursting its lucious bounds, and scattering wide

The purple stream nectareous. O’er the hills,

Veil’d with an orient canopy sublime,

’Twas thine to rove unshackled; or to weave

Young mountain flowers to deck thy flowing
hair,

But not confine it. Where thy footsteps fell,

No vagrant bud was crush’d; for swift and
light

As summer breezes, flew thy active limbs,

Scarce brushing the soft dews. Thy song divine,


Warbled with all the witcherly of sound,

Welcomed the varied year; nor mark’d the
change

Of passing seasons: for to thee the morn

(Whether Favonius oped the sunny east,

Flaunting its lustrous harbinger of light,

Or slow the paly glimpse of winter’s eye

Peer’d on the frozen brow of sickly day),

Still wore an aspect lovely! Evening’s star,

Spangling the purple splendours of the west,

And glowing, midst infinity of space,

Temper’d by twilight’s tears, still smiled on thee,

And bade thee dream of rapture! Nor could
night,

With all its glooms opaque, its howling blasts—

Thunders, appaling to the guilty soul—

Or vivid fires, winging the shafts of death,

Shake the soft slumbers of thy halcyon home.

The wild was thy domain! at morn’s approach

Thy bounding form uprose to meet the sun,

Thyself its proud epitome! For thou,

Like the vast orb, wert destined to illume

The mist-encircle world; to warm the soul,

To call the powers of teeming reason forth,

And ratify the laws by nature made!

Long didst thou live, unruling and unruled,

The reveller of nature’s wide domain!

Till weary of thy solitude sublime,

And seeking bliss beyond the bliss of Heaven,

Thy truant steps the mazy haunts of men

Unheeled trod. Thy mighty voice was heard

Amidst the groans of anguish and despair,

The din of revelry, or silence deep

Of dungeon horrors; while high-bearing Pride,

First taught to feel, her ghastly visage wrapp’d

In Superstition’s cowl. Ambition next

Assumed the mask of Valour; till Revenge

Mock’d the shrewd spoiler. Terror then rush’d
forth;

Her eyes glared wildly through the specious tears

Of holy Sorrow; while her livid lip

Mutter’d relentless curses, each approved

By Folly, Cruelty, Oppression, Pride:

Confederate fiends, that trampled on the laws

X3r 165

Of bleeding Nature. While they stood aghast,

Thy bosom bare, and form of godlike mould,

Burst on their startled gaze! they shrunk appall’d

Trembling and pale! But soon the torpid spell

Of broad-eyed Horror vanish’d, and each arm

Was raised for slaughter. Legions bold uprose,

While fierce Despair a frantic phalanx form’d

To intercept thy path! The daring host

At thy command gave way. Still, urged by fate,

Onward thou cam’st, o’er cliffs stupendous;
where

Dark-brow’d Deceit hung brooding o’er the
wave

That lash’d the sands below. Down the dread
gulf,

Oblivion’s black domain, unnumber’d fiends

Hurl’d shrieking victims; spirits that rebell’d

And spurn’d Oppression’s chain. Upon a rock

(Which seem’d the top-most beacon of the
world),

A lofty fabric stood, whose ebon towers

Shadow’d their ponderous gates. At thy approach

The bolts flew wide, and with a thundering crash

The scene disclosed! There on his iron throne

Terrifically frown’d despotic Power,

A giant strong! his vassals, bound in chains

(Artfully twined with wreaths of opiate flowers,

Through which the clanking links sad music
made),

Stood trembling at his gaze. Beneath his feet

Pale captives groan’d; while shadowy spectres
dire

Of persecuted innocence and worth;

Of genius, bent to an untimely grave;—

Of Ethiops, burnt beneath their native sun,

Their countless wounds wide yawning for revenge,

Rose in a mighty host,—and yell’d despair!—

The flinty fabric shock! the thundering
spheres

Frown’d, dark as Erebus! upon its base

The Pandemonium rock’d! while withering
bolts

From Heaven’s red citadel fell fast around.

The vex’d sea, swoln above its towering walls,

Foam’d madly furious. The gigantic fiend

Waved high his adamantine wand in vain;

Thy potent grasp palsied the monster’s arm,

And hurl’d him fathoms down his native hell!

All earth convulsive yawn’d; while Nature’s
hand

Crush’d the infernal throne, and in its stead,

A thousand temples rose, each dedicate

To Valour, Reason, Liberty, and Fame!

Now from her dark and solitary cell

Suspicion started, vigilant and shrewd,

Fear in her eye, and malice in her breast:

She scowl’d around, trembling, perplex’d,
amazed

Scarce daring to believe, yet more afraid

To doubt her startled senses. Every breeze


That whisper’d peril to the ear of night,

Bathing its ebon cheek with humid fears,

Bade her be wary: every blushing dawn

Beheld a scene of blood. The public streets

Flow’d with ensanguined streams: the prisons
groan’d

With vengeful minions; while the subtle slaves

Aim’d at the breast of Freedom. For a time

Valour withheld the desolating sword,

And Pity offer’d to the lips of Pride

The cup capacious, fill’d with essence pure,

Drawn from the fount of Reason. Shrewd
Revenge,

With all the restless demons of her train,

Thirsting for blood, the sacred pledge received;

And while the eye of Pity turn’d to Heaven,

Infused a deadly poison! on themselves

The fatal vengeance fell; they drank—and died!

Now the broad eye of Freedom, like the sun,

Flamed on the northern world! an awlful beam

Descending mark’d the solitary path

To the dim cloister, where the vestal sad

Wither’d through life’s dull hour in lingering
death;

Her spring of youth chill’d by untimely frost,

And all the warm perceptions of her soul

Spell-bound by sorrow! What were her pursuits?

Fasting and prayer; long nights of meditation;

And days consumed in tears. The matin songs,

By repetition dull, familiar grown,

Pass’d o’er her lip mechanically cold,

And little mark’d devotion. The wing’d choir,

Blithe airy travellers of the sphery cold,

Hover’d around the grey and mouldering spires

Of her dim habitation. Could their songs,

Their dulcet warblings and wild mazy trills,

Soothe the wan mourner’s breast, or prompt her
thoughts

Anticipating freedom? The cold moon,

Scattering nocturnal incense on the world,

Stole o’er her lonely prison, sadly pale,

Robed in a starry vest; her crescent bright

Silver’d the ivy battlements; the haunts

Of that lone bird, whose melancholy note,

Breaking the solitude, from feverish dreams

Startled her aching breast. The fervid noon

No streamy light bestow’d to gild the cell

Where bigot Frenzy barr’d the icy grate,

And spread perpetual horrors! Day retired;

The gaudy monarch of unbounded space,

Furling his ample vest of blushing gold,

Hied to his dusky bed; the vesper bell,

Pale twilight’s sound funereal, roused her soul

From transient spells of contemplation sad,

By small, and silver sounds; vibrations sweet!

Yet no more sweet than solemn. Hapless
maid!

On the cold marble of her cell she kneel’d

To chant her midnight orisons, and mourn,

The slave confess’d passion and despair!

X3v 166

Twas hers to breathe upon her cross the sigh

Of unavailing grief, while love’s pure touch,

In the mild radiance of her humid eyes,

Gleams like an April sun through passing
showers,

To show another idol in her breast!

Her smooth check reddens through the snowy
veil

That half conceals its bloom: ah! transient
bloom!

The self-reproving flush of conscious love,

Which, like the wood-wild rose, unfolds its hues,

And drest with morning’s tears, expires unseen!

Counting her beads, she number’d not her
prayers;

Yet who can blame the vestal’s wandering
thoughts

Could the day past, to her reflecting mind

Show consolation? Could the relique cold

Chill the warm pulse that throbs within her
breast,

Or chasten its rebellion, while no gleam

Of peace was hers, save that which hope unfolds,

The quiet of the grave? O! beamless grave!

Thou sombre curtain, which o’er life’s dull scene

Throws blank oblivion; while the busy throng

Are bound in apathy, ’till labouring time

Dissolves them into nothing! Yet the spark

Of immortality, escaped the bounds

Of its dark prison-clay, roves, unconfined,

Through regions infinite, and worlds unknown!

Then joyful is the hour, when, to the wretch

(Whose feet ne’er wander’d from sequester’d
haunts,

Who shut from nature’s wondrous scenery

Breathes but a living spectre,) death shall come,

Robb’d of his terrors, like a herald gay,

To force the frozen gates of bigot zeal,

Closed by oppression’s hand, and barr’d by pride.

Ask the pale vestal’s meditating soul,

Was it for this rosy infancy

Fashion’d by all the graces and the loves,

Rear’d to the opening summer of delight,

A model of perfection? Was her mind,

Stored with the prodigality of nature,

Expanded, warm’d, enlighten’d, and inspired,

For this to perish? Can the sable vest,

The lawn transparent, or the pendant cross,

Deceive th’ Omniscient! while her beating heart

Proclaims her form’d for rational delight?

Preposterous sacrifice! Sweet fading flower!

Condemn’d to waste its bloom in one dull speck

Of freezing solitude; to lift its head,

Lovely as spring! Yet, ere the summer sun

Unfolds its odorous breast,—to droop, and die!

’Mid the grey horrors of his narrow cell,

The wasted monk is seen. His silvery beard

Falls like Helvetia’s snow, half down his breast,

Shading his frozen heart. A torpid spell

Benumbs life’s fountain, while the feeble pulse

Marks the slow progress of time’s weary course,

With languid circulation. Every clock


That sounds the passing hour, appears the knell

Which warns him to oblivion. A coarse garb

Hangs round his meagre frame; his hollow
cheek,

Shrivell’d with frequent fasting, as with age,

Scarce hides his bony jaws. Beneath his cowl,

His dimly-gleaming eyes, sunk in their cells,

And glazed with midnight watching, ask of
Heaven

A solitary grave. Poor, breathing ghost!

Tell that still questioner, thy weary mind,

’Twas not for cloister’d, visionary glooms,

For castigation and sequester’d hours,

For cold inanity, life’s conscious death,

That nature gave thee strength in busy scenes

To act a nobler part. Misguided monk!

Thou wretched slave of bigotry and fraud!

Was it to gabble o’er a canting tale,

To trim the wasting lamp, to wear away

The flinty pavement with thy wounded knees,

To scourge thy meagre flesh, embrace cold saints,

To starve thy appetites, till every bone

Shows what a wretched, ghastly thing thou art,

Robb’d of thy outward form? Was it for this

That reason dawn’d upon thy opening youth;

And science smiled, while love, with sportive
mien,

Dance gaily on, leading expectant joys

Which told thee thou wert man? O! did the
spark,

Th’ electric spark which kindles fancy’s fire,

Ne’er in perspective bright unfold such scenes

As bade thy bosom glow, ambition warm’d,

Or melt in rapturous visions? What art thou?

Deluded, sad, forgotten! Like a tree

Placed on a blasted desert, where no sun

Visits the sapless trunk, but all around

One gloom perpetual reigns. Where are thy
powers?

Where the perception strong, the active mind,

Th’ ethereal essence that expands the heart;

The depth of knowledge, and the will to act?

Where is the stamp which marks th’immortal
soul,

And places thee above the growling brute?

Shrouded by superstition, chain’d by fear,

Benumb’d by long seclusion from the world;

While naught remains, but a lean wither’d form,

Inert, enfeebled, useless, and debased!

The Indian wild, that roves the patheless steep,

Chasing the famished wolf, or savage bear,

Anticipates the hour when to his hut

He drags the bleeding spoil, and shouts and sings,

In social feasting with his untaught tribes;

The blazing fire encircled, sheds a glow

On the brown check, and gilds the gloomy hour

Of wintry desolation!—O’er his hut,

Scoop’d in the snowy ridge or flinty rock,

The blast howls horrible, while the gaunt beast,

That roves for prey, fills up the sullen pause

With yell’d defiance.—On the distant shore

The white surge dashes, with a fatal sound.

X4r 167

While the wreck’d mariner the slippery steep

Climbs desperately bold. Listening he hears

The deafening din of elements combined;

Where clouds embattled mingle; while beneath

Waves roll on waves, curling their tyrant heads

In wild fantastic fury. From the cliff

The sea-bird screams, while the half-shrouded
moon

Throws its dim light upon the world below,

Frozen and desolate. Yet e’en there

Man is the friend of man! While the rude grasp,

The deafening war-hoop, or the uncouth garb,

Shows, with fantastic gestures, the caprice

Of ever-varying nature. But, for thee,

O solitary monk! no cheerful hour

Shall mark the summer morn, or deck the wing

Of time with sunny lustre! all, yes all,

To thee shall seem blank; a dreadful blank,

Veiling the face of nature, while her voice

Whispers reproof; reproof that will be heard

E’en in the cloister’s melancholy shade;

Till death shall close the tablet of thy fate,

Nor leave one friend, to pity or to praise.

Explore the dungeon’s gloom, where, all alone,

The homicide expires; the guilty wretch,

Whose hands are steep’d in gore; whose timid
soul,

The mild and pitying angel, Hope, forsakes,

While all the demons of despair and hell

Howl in his startled ears! His weary hours

Have many a season pass’d, since to his check

The breeze of Heaven gave freshness; since his
lip

Or balmy sleep, the opiate of the mind,

Lull’d the sick sense of sorrow. If his brain

Snatches a transitory dream of peace;

If, wearied by perpetual, painful thought,

A short, but broken slumber fills the throne

Of tottering intellect: sudden and fierce

Some shriek appalling, or some spectre dire,

Taunts him to waking madness, and again

The mental fever rages! Down his cheek

The scalding tear rolls fast. His bloodshot eyes

Glare motionless and wide, as if their sense

Turn’d inward on his soul. His quivering lip,

Drain’d of the life-stream by the conscious fiend,

Mutters a brief appeal to angry Heaven,

Then freezes into death. No friendly hand

Closes the beamless eye: no kindred breast

Sustains the livid cheek, grief-worn and mark’d

With water-fretted channels. His bow’d head,

Silver’d by sorrow in the prime and pride

Of lusty youth, shows like a goodly tree,

Frost-nipp’d and drooping. Wretched homicide!

Whom did he kill? The minion of his foe;

The sorid steward, whose infuriate rage

Snatch’d from his helpless babes the well-earn’d
store

Of many a toilsome hour; the pamper’d slave,

Whose mind, grown callous by oppression’s task,


Repell’d compunctuous pity.—Ask thy heart,

Divine philanthropist! who raised his hand

Against the caitiff’s life? The caitiff’s self!

The petty tyrant, who with barbarous wrongs

Propell’d him on to sin. For Reason’s breast,

Arm’d ’gainst oppression, in resistance strong,

Can combat giant fierceness; and though oft

By subtle malice vanquish’d or betray’d,

Stills owns the plea of nature! In his low cell

The patient child of persecution sits,

Pensively sad. His uncomplaining tongue,

His steadfast eye, his lean and pallid cheek,

Graced with the stamp of dignified disdain,

Wait the approach of death. No haggard glance

Ruffles the placid orb, whose lustre, dimm’d

By dungeon vapours, like a dewy star,

Gleams ’midst surrounding darkness. On his
lip

Smiles innocence, enthroned in modest pride,

And eloquently silent! On his breast

His folded arms (shielding his guiltless heart

From the damp poisons of a living grave),

Are firmly interwoven; while his soul,

Calm as the martyr at the kindling pyre,

Holds strong with resignation. Who will now

Breathe the contagious mischiefs of his cell?

Who quit the gorgeous splendours of the sun,

To watch with him the slowly-wasting lamp,

Dim with obtrusive vapours? Who will share

The bread of misery, and with the breath

Of sympathy more palatable make

The cup of human sorrow? Who resign

The midnight revelery of happier scenes,

Turn from the banquet and illumined hall,

The throne of flaunting beauty, gaily deck’d,

The costly shows of life, to count with him

The silent hours of anguish? Tell, O Truth!

Thou heaven-descended judge! what has he
done?

Has he refused to bend the flexible knee

Before the blood-stain’d foot of ruthless power?

To fawn upon the bloated, lordly fool,

Who claim’d his vassalage? Has he refused

To load the groaning altars of the church;

Libell’d, by truth, some wanton, courtly dame;

Or, like an arrogant, rebellious knave,

Dared to talk of freedom? Say, O vengeful man!

Are these thy destined victims? Is it thus

Thou deal’st the meed of justice? Dost thou
think

Thy petty rage will sever them from Him,

Whose attribute is mercy, and whose grace

Mocks all distinctions? O! let Nature speak,

And with instinctive force inform thy soul,

That liberty, the choicest boon of heaven,

Is Reason’s birth-right, and the gift of God!

In the worst den of human misery,

Behold the hopeless and forsaken wretch,

Who on the humid pavement naked lies,

Tearing his burning flesh! Then ask thy heart,

O! little greatness! and let nature’s voice,

Piercing the adamantine shield of pride,

Tell thee, thy victim is thy fellow-man!

X4v 168

Once nature’s darling, now a maniac wild!

His intellectual treasures scatter’d wide,

By persecution’s strong and ruthless arm,

While he, an atom, shrinking from the storm,

Flies to an unbless’d grave! Was it for this

His youth was pass’d in toil—in mental toil—

The hardest labour? Did the classic fount,

Such as Athenian sages taught to flow,

For him diffuse his renovated streams,

The muses bind his brow, the virtues grace

His bland, instinctive mind, to bow the slave

Of barbarous Ignorance! Did Fancy smile,

And bid fingers smite th’ Horatian lyre,

His pulses throb with-the fine fervour, strong;

His depth of thought explore the wondrous
page,

Which bade Longinus live, himself to die,

Unblest, neglected, indigent, and mad?

Did he, for this, with Newton climb the spheres,

And traverse worlds unknown? Or did the thrill

Of heaven-born Poesy, through every vein

Dart the electric fire, whose vivid glow

Illumed the darken’d sense of Britain’s bard, Milton.

With full Promethean blaze, while at his touch

Immortal themes, embodied, burst to view

Angels, and all the might hosts of Heaven,

Ranged in tremendous glory? Power supreme!

Oh! theme of justice! victims such as these

Make Reason tremble; rouse the thinking soul,

And, in the frenzied agony of wrongs,

Present such sceptical and daring thoughts,

That man disowns his Maker! Guilty Pride,

The crime is thine, not his; thy lofty rage,

Insulting tyranny, and cold disdain,

Pour’d fell oppression’s torrent o’er his sense,

Madden’d his shrinking brain, and whelm’d his
soul!

Now anarchy roam’d wide a monster fierce,

Of sullen discontent, and rancour born,

And nursed with blood! Breaking the sacred
bonds

Of social order, trampling to the dust

Distinctions requisite of worth and laws,

And dealing desolation all around!

Veil’d by its growing wing, the dawning hour,

Which welcomed Liberty, and spread around

A pure effulgence, suddenly grew dark,

And storms impending, blacken’d the broad sun.

The highmost hills re-echoed with the shouts

Of yell’d destruction: while the concave vast

Of heaven shook horrible! The beaten ways

By the unwearied foot of commerce made,

Were wash’d with blood: the holy altar stain’d

With gore of innocents. The good, the wise,

The smiling infant, and the hoary sage,

The pride of genius, and the boast of fame,

Sunk in the mighty ruin. Rabble rage,

And low suspicion, lurk’d beneath the guise


Of patriotic ardour. Memory, roused

By the arch-fiend Rebellion, dyed the steel

With fury indiscriminate and wild

In the unwary hear. Rebellion then

Usurp’d the form of freedom, whose bland soul

Shrunk at the boundless and licentious rage

Of lawless innovation. ’Midst the scene,

Wild as the wintry storm, uprose the lord

Of towering desolation!—on his breast,

Expanded and omnipotently strong,

A gorgon shield shone dazzling, while his arm,

Wielding a flaming sword with giant strength,

Hew’d down the tree of Reason. Then the eye

Of shuddering Liberty was dimm’d with tears,

Haggard and grief-swoln. The ensulphur’d air

Thicken’d to blot the sun!—The shriek of death

Deepen’d the midnight horrors, and the dawn

Redden’d through tears, while o’er th’ ensanguined
scene

Pale Nature trembled: for infuriate man,

Wild with the fateful plenitude of power,

Warr’d ’gainst his desperate fellow. Not alone

O’er proud oppression flew the bolts of fate;

But all around, as the swift summer storm

Tears from the mountain’s brow the sturdy oak,

While the small floweret and the poisonous weed

Alike are levell’d, so the vengeful shaft

Bore down the breathing race: the clang of arms

Deafen’d the ear of reason: the loud shout

Of uproar, frantic, now was heard to ring

The vaulty arch of heaven, while mingling
groans

Drown’d the deep sighs of nature! Liberty,

Thou rational delight! thou good

Ordain’d to bless mankind, how was thy name

Profaned by cruelty! How dimly gleam’d

Thy heaven-illumined orbs, beneath a front

Blood-stain’d and ghastly! How was thy domain

By slaughter desolated, while around,

A dread depopulation swept the path

Which Anarchy had trodden. Where were then

Thy fields prolific, and thy hamlets gay,

Thy mountain revelries, and peaceful glens,

The boast of a brave peasantry? Each hour

Mark’d on the page of time some guilty deed,

The ravenous hordes wolf-like were gorged with
blood,

While two arch demons, the fierce phalanx led

Lawless and cruel! Marat and Robespierre.

Daring homicides,

Apostates to their God! How many fell

Beneath the arm, in usurpation strong,

Yet recreant in oppression!

On the plain

The mangled carcass blacken’d; rivers bore

Their murder’d victims down the blushing wave

Of blank oblivion. O’er the flinty way

The mutilated limb and streaming heart

Y1r 169

Met the full eye of Pity. Beauty’s breast,

Polluted by the touch of sensual rage,

Quiver’d beneath the fell assassin’s sword;—

While outraged nature stamp’d the hellish deed

On retribution’s tablet. Every street

Presented the wide scaffold, crimson-stain’d,

And menacing destruction. Palaces

Were now the haunts of ruthless revellers,

Of vices abject, dark conspiracies—

While uncurb’d rapine, and blaspheming rage,

Roved with licentious frenzy. Sacred shrines

And temples consecrate, were public marts

Of profligate debasement. Not the wise,

The virtuous, or the brave, then held the scale

Of even justice: freedom’s sons inspired,

In vain rear’d high their banners’mid the scene

Of maddening slaughter. For a time their zeal

Was mock’d with barbarous rage; their great
design

By frenzy violated, or constrain’d

By spells infernal. Then, O Liberty!

Thy frantic mien, and heaven-imploring eye,

Turn’d from the dreadful throng to trace new
paths,

And seek, in distant climes, new scenes of wo.

’Mid the dread altitudes of dazzling snow

O’er-topping the huge imagery of nature,

Where one eternal winter seem’d to reign,

An hermit’s threshold, carpetted with moss,

Diversified the scene. Above the flakes

Of silvery snow, full many a modest flower

Peep’d through its icy veil, and blushing oped

Its variegated hues—the orchis sweet,

The bloomy cistus, and the fragrant branch

Of glossy myrtle. In the rushy cell

The lonely anchoret consumed his days,

Unblessing and unbless’d. In early youth,

Cross’d in the fond affections of his soul

(For in his soul the purest passions lived)

By false ambition, from his parent home

He, solitary, wander’d: while the maid,

Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart,

Condemn’d by lordly, needy persecution,

Pined in monastic horrors!

Near his sill

A little cross he rear’d; where prostrate he,

At day’s pale glimpse, and when the setting sun

Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,

His orisons would pour, for her whose hours

Were wasted in oblivion. Winters past,

And summers faded slow, uncheerly all

To the lone hermit’s sorrows. For still, love

A mild and unpolluted altar rear’d

On the white waste of wonders! From the peak

Which mark’d his neighbouring hut, his tearful
eye

Oft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below;

Oft traced the glow of vegetating spring,

The full blown summer splendours, and the hue

Of tawny scenes autumnal. Still was he

By all forgotten; save by her whose breast


Sigh’d in responsive sadness to the gale

That swept her prison turrets. Five long years

Had the lone hermit turn’d the sandy glass

In silent resignation! Five long years

Had seen his graces wither, ere his youth

Of life was wasted. From the social scenes

Of human energy an alien driven,

He almost had forgot the face of man.

No voice had met his ear, save when perchance

The pilgrim wanderer, or the goat-herd swain,

Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hour,

Implored the hermit’s aid, the hermit’s prayers;

And nothing loth by pity or by prayer

Was he to soothe the wretched. On the top

Of his low rushy dome, a tinkling bell

Oft told the weary traveller to approach

Fearless of danger. The small silver sound

In quick vibrations echo’d down the glade

To the dim valley’s quiet, while the breeze

Slept on the glassy Leman. Thus he pass’d

His melancholy days, an alien man

From all the joys of social intercourse,

Alone, unpitied;—by the world forgot!

His scrip each morning bore the day’s repast

Gather’d on summits mingling with the clouds;

From whose bleak altitude the eye looks down,

While fast the giddy brain is rock’d by fear.

Oft would he start form visionary rest,

When roaming wolves their midnight chorus
howl’d;

Or blasts tremedous shatter’d the white cliffs,

While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,

Plunged to the dell below! Oft would he sit,

In silent sadness, on the jutting block

Of snow-encrusted ice, and shuddering mark,

’Mid the vast wonders of the frozen world,

Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,

Hang o’er his hovel, terribly sublime!

And oft, when summer breathed its fragrant
gales,

Light sweeping o’er the wastes of printless dew,

Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze

Traced the swift storm advancing, whose broad
wing

Blacken’d the rushy dome of his low hut;

While the pale lightning smote the pathless top

Of towering Cenis,—scattering, high and wide,

A mist of fleecy snow. Then would he hear,

While memory brought to view his happier days,

The trembling torrent, bursting wildly forth

From its thaw’d cavern, sweep the shaggy cliff

Vast and supendous! strengthing as it fell,

And delving, ’mid the snow, a chasm rude.

One dreary night, when winter’s icy breath

Half-petrify’d the world; when not a star

Gleam’d through the blank infinity of space;

Sudden the hermit started from his couch,

Fear-struck and trembling! every limb was
shook

With painful agitation. On his cheek

The blanch interpreter of horror wild

Y Y1v 170

Sat terribly impressive! In his breast

The purple fount of life convulsive throbb’d

And his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,

Gazed vacantly aghast! his feeble lamp

Was wasting rapidly! the biting gale

Pierced the thin texture of his narrow cell;

And silence seem’d to mark the dreary hour

With tenfold horrors! As he listening sat,

The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,

A groan, a second groan, assail’ed his ear,

And roused him into action. To the sill

Of his low entrance he rush’d forth, and soon

The wicker bolt unfasten’d. The keen blast

His quivering lamp extinguish’d, and again

His soul was thrill’d with terror. From below

A stream of light shot forth, diffusing round

A partial view of trackless solitudes;

While mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,

To break the spell of silence! Down the steep

The hermit hasten’d; when a shriek of death

Re-echo’d to the valley! As he flew,

Half-hoping, half despairing, to the scene

Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly

The torches were extinct,—and glooms opaque

Involved the face of nature. All below

Was wrapp’d in darkness; while the hollow
moan

Of cavern’d winds, with melancholy sound,

Deepen’d the midnight horrors. Four long
hours

The hermit watch’d and pray’d. And now the
dawn

Broke on the eastern summits; the blue light

Shed its cold lustre on the colder brows

Of Alpine mountains; while the dewy wing

Of weeping twilight sweep’d the naked plains

Of the Lombardian landscape. On the snow,

Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made

By steps precipitate; a rugged path

Down the steep frozen chasm mark’d the fate

Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form

Had toppled from the summit. Lower still

The anchoret descended—till arrived

At the first ridge of snowy battlements,

Where, lifeless—ghastly, paler than the bed

On which her cheek reposed—his darling maid

Slept in the arms of death. Frantic and wild

He clasps her well-known form, and bathes
with tears

The lilies of her bosom,—icy cold!

Yet beautiful and spotless!

Now afar

The wondering hermit heard the clang of arms

Re-echoing from the valley! the white cliffs

Trembled, as though an earthquake shook their
base

With terrible concussion! thundering peals

From warfare’s brazen throat proclaim’d th’
approach

Of conquering legions. Onward they extend

Their dauntless columns;—shouts of victory

With deafening clamours ratify the toils


Of ruthless depredators! In the ranks

A ruffian met the hermit’s startled gaze,

Like hell’s worst demon! for his murderous
hands

Were smear’d with gore, and on his daring breast

A golden cross, suspended, bore the name

Of his soul’s darling!—Hapless anchoret!

Thy vestal saint, by his unhallow’d rage

Torn from monastic solitude, had been

The victim of rude rioters, whose souls

Had mock’d the touch of pity! To his cell

The wretched alien turn’d his trembling feet;

And, after three sad weeks of pain and prayer,

Closed the dark tablet of his fate—and died!

Hail’d by the breathing race, O child of time,

Borne on thy parent’s wings, thy eagle eyes

Glanced o’er the pendent world! Full many a
spot

Seem’d dark with misery; and many a wretch

Pined in oppression’s chain. Italia’s sons,

Placed in the blooming garden of the world,

A second Athens, Europe’s proudest clime,

Pregnant with spicy gales, and balmy dews,

Whose seminaries, rich with treasured lore,

Mark’d that emporeum, where the classic mind

Gave and received the pure exchange of thought

E’en there the sun of intellect was dimm’d

By gloomy tyranny. There misery’s race,

Dark in the centre of expanding light,

Still groan’d beneath the worst of slavery,

The spells of superstition. Temples vast,

And shrines of massy gold, their prisons were;

Replete with galling chains; while daring hands

Dealt the decrees of heaven; and impious
tongues

Pronounced anathemas, to fright mankind.

Superstition! more destructive still

Than plague of famine, tyranny or war!

Thou palsying mischief, thou benumbing foe

To all the proudest energies of man!

Whence springs thy subtle desolating charm,

From pompous pageantry and bigot pride,

From mitred canopies, and shrines of gold,

And bones of mouldering monks? Can freezing
nights,

In cells where cold inanity presides,

Cloth’d in religion’s meek and sainted guise,

Or long-drawn pageantry of empty show,

Conceal the rembling soul, from that dread
power

Which marks th’ All-seeing! On Italia’s shores,

On every plain, on every mountain top,

The voice of nature speaks, in mighty sounds,

To bid thee tremble! Then, O! nature, say—

Shall rich Italia’s bowers, her citron shades,

Her vales prolific, mountains golden clad,

And rivers fringed with nectar-teeming groves,

Re-echo with the mighty song of praise

To empyrean space, while shackled still

The man of colour dies? Shall torrid suns

Shoot downward their hot beams on misery’s
race,

Y2r 171

And call forth luxuries to pamper pride,

Steep’d in the Ethiop’s tears, the Ethiop’s
blood!

Shall the caprice of nature, the deep tint

Of sultry climes, the feature varying,

Or the uncultured mind, endure the scourge

Of sordid tyranny, or heap the stores

Of his fair fellow man, whose ruddy cheek

Knows not the tear of pity; whose white breast

Conceals a heart, than adamant more hard,

More cruel than the tiger’s! Bend thy gaze,

O happy offspring of a temper’d clime,

On whom the partial hand of nature set

The stamp of bloomy tints, proportions fine,

Unmixing with the goodly outside show

The mind appropriate; bend thy pitying gaze

To Zembla’s frozen sphere, where in his hut,

Roof’d by the rocky steep, the savage smiles,

In conscious freedom smiles, and mocks the
storm

That howls along the sky. Th’ unshackled limb,

Cloth’d in the shaggy hide of uncouth bear,

Or the fleet mountain elk, bounds o’er the cliff

The free-born tenant of the desert wild.

The glow of liberty, through every vein

Bids sensate streams revolve; the dusky path

Of midnight solitudes no terror brings,

Because he fears no lord. The prowling wolf,

Whose eye-balls redden ’midst the world of
gloom,

Yells fierce defiance, form’d by nature’d laws

To share the desert’s freedom. O’er the sky

The despot darkness reigns, in sullen pride,

Half the devoted year. His ebon wing

O’ershadows the blank space: his chilling breath

Benumbs the breast of nature; on his brow,

Myriads of stars with lucid lustre gem

His boundless diadem! The savage cheek

Smiles at the potent spoiler; braves his frown;

And while the paritial gloom is most opaque,

Still vaunts the mind unfetter’d! If for these

Indulgent nature breaks the bonds of wo,

Gilding the deepest solitudes of night

With the pure flame of liberty sublime;

If for the untaught sons of gelid climes,

Health cheers the darkest hour with vigorous
age, Buffon, speaking of the inhabitants of Nova
Zembla
, says—“they are seldom or never sick, and
all arrive at extreme old age. Even the old men are
so vigorous, that it is difficult to distinguish them
from the young.”

Shall the poor African, the passive slave,

Born in the bland effulgence of broad day,

Cherish’d by torrid splendours, while around

The plains prolific teem with honey’d stores

Of Afric’s burning soil; shall such a wretch

Sink prematurely to a grave obscure

No tear to grace his ashes? Or suspire,


To wear submission’s long and goading chain,

To drink the tear, that down his swarthy cheek

Flows fast, to moisten his toil-fever’d lip,

Parch’d by the noontide blaze? Shall he endure

The frequent lash, the agonizing scourge,

The day of labour, and the night of pain;

Expose his naked limbs to burning gales;

Faint in the sun, and wither in the storm;

Traverse hot sands, imbibe the morbid breeze,

Wing’d with contagion, while his blister’d feet,

Scorch’d by the vertical and raging beam,

Pour the swift life-stream? Shall his frenzied
eyes,

Oh! worst of mortal miseries! behold

The darling of his soul, his sable love,

Selected from the trembling, timid throng

By the wan tyrant, whose licentious touch

Seals the dark fiat of the slave’s despair!

Humanity! from thee the suppliant claims

The need of retribution! Thy pure flame

Would light the sense opaque, and warm the
spring

Of boundless ecstacy; while nature’s laws

So violated, plead, immortal-tongued,

For her dark-fated children; lead them forth

From bondage infamous! Bid reason own

The dignities of man, whate’er his clime,

Estate, or colour. And, O sacred Truth!

Tell the proud lords of traffic, that the breast

Thrice ebon-tinted, bears a crimson tide,

As pure, as clear as Europe’s sons can boast.

Then, Liberty, extend thy thundering voice

To Afric’s scorching climes, o’er seas that bound

To bear the blissful tidings, while all earth

Shall hail Humanity! the child of Heaven!

Book Second.

Where summer smiles, clad in the golden garb

Of sunny splendours; where the tangled vine,

Bending with purple clusters, richly glows;

Where the brown olive clothes the Sabine hills

In tawny veil, repelling the hot breeze;

The labouring throngs advance. In every eye,

The living ray of waken’d intellect

Marks Reason’s lamp divine! on every cheek

A stranger smile is seen, deep’ning the tint

Which southern climes diffuse, with ruddy flush

Of conscious ecstacy! The voice, unchain’d,

Breathes the pure eloquence of nature’s tongue

Mocking the fine-wrought sophistry of schools,

The pomp of learning, and the vaunted lore

Of Metaphysic art. The untaught race,

Grown to maturity, yet newly born,

Above pedantic lessons, feel the glow

Of nature’s own philosophy. O! change

Transcendent and sublime! Blest as the day

That, after a long night of gloom opaque,

A night of months, which blotting the broad sun,

Y2v 172

From Scandinavia’s deserts smiling comes,

And peering o’er some frozen mountain’s top,

Illumes the ebon world. On every plain

Where Italy unfolds her treasured store

Of summer gifts luxurious, tepid dews,

And gales impregnated with spicy breath

Of buds ambrosial, greet the daring hosts

Of conquering France. The brazen cannon’s
roar,

Echoing to heaven’s high concave, steals away

In sullen, long vibration; while around,

O’er every hill, green copse, and woodland glade,

From troublous Tiber to th’ Etrurian meads,

That skirt the vale where Arno’s limpid tide

Flashes the silver wave, in dulcet sounds,

The music of the tinkling mandolin

Calls forth the rustic throng, to feast, and sing,

And mingle, wildly gay, in mazy dance.

And thou, fair city, rising from the wave,

Girt with a lucid zone, thy Parian towers,

Proud sea-marks, glittering while the sunny
beam

Glows o’er the Adriatic; thou, emerged

From gloomy superstition far more dread

Than ocean’s vast and liquid battlements

Rock’d by tempestuous winds, when all around

The equinoctial blast howls fierce and strong

Braving its tyrant orb; thou, ’mid the deep,

Stands like a lofty temple, whose firm base

The green main guards triumphant; thy proud
sons

Hymn the loud song of liberty, new born;

While the white sail of welcome treasuries

(From worshipped Ganges, This river is in great esteem in India, not only
on account of the long course it runs, the depth of its
several channels, and the pureness of its stream, but
from the sanctity which the natives believe to be in
the waters. It is visited annually by pilgrims, who
pay their devotions to this river, and carry their
dying friends to expire on its banks.
or Peruvian hills;

From odour-breathing Persia’s pearly sands,

Wash’d by the Caspian wave,) to greet thy
mart,

Thronging the pale horizon each new morn,

Now swell with gales propitious. Now no
more

Slaughter steals hoodwink’d through the gloomy
haunts

Of thy wide circled citadel. No lord,

From the dark gondola, beholds his slave,

Whose trade is murder, deal the deadly wound

On his unwary foe; while, by the ray

Of holy lamp, the keen stiletto glares,

And the pale victim, sinking, groans and dies.

Time was, and memory sickens to retrace

The tablet fraught with wrongs, when seasons
roll’d

O’er the small hut of lowly industry

In dim succession of eternal gloom;

Though rosy morn upon the eastern cliff


Burst wide her silver gates, and scatter’d round

A bright ethereal shower! When nature’s
breast

Unveiled its fragrance, and its bloomy tints,

Spangled by twilight’s tears to weary eyes,

Unbless’d with sweet repose! Poor, toil-worn
race!

The hardy blossoms of a fervid soil;—

What was their hapless lot? To sigh, to pant,

To scorch and faint, while from the cloudless sky

The noon-tide beam shot downward. By their
hands

The burning ploughshare through the Tuscan
glebe

Pursued its sultry way: the smoking plains,

Refresh’d by tepid showers, received the pledge

Of future luxury. The tangling vine,

Nursed by their toil, grew fibrous: the brown
rind,

Dried by the parching gale, wove close and firm,

Guarded the rich and nectarous distillation.

The tendrils twined, to every point minute

The odorous beverage stole, till the swoln fruit,

Empurpled by the sun, the labourers prest

To yield its luscious burden. Yet, for them

Did summer gild the plain? Did autumn glow?

Did austral breezes fan the tepid shower,

Scarce whispering as it fell? Did the day’s toil

Ensure the night’s repose?—sweet recompense,

That well befits the peasant’s guiltless soul!

Could they, when down the crimson plains
of light

The lord of day retired, when every bird,

The plumy traveller of unbounded space,

Claim’d the short hour of rest, could Labour’s
sons

Shake from their freckled brows the evening dew,

And homeward, blithesomely, return to quaff

The honey’d cup of joy? Could they suspire

Health’s breezy hour; on their own cultured
plains

Reap the full harvest, pen their fleecy store;

Or, as the night-mist gather’d o’er the heath,

Call home their wandering herds?—O! suffering
carle!

When the rich vintage heap’d the lordly board,

Moisten’d the feasted lip, or flashing foam’d

Within its crystal prison, amber-dyed;

When nectar, thrice distilled by burning gales,

Sated the palate of the pamper’d fool;

What were thy poor rewards?—A scanty boon!

Dealt out with freezing scorn, or brutal pride;

A rushy pillow, and a mountain hut

Whose sides of clay, and tempest shatter’d roof

Scarce screen’d thy bosom from the wintry
blast;

(The very dogs of princes warmer housed!)

While the long hour, ’till morning’s dawn, stole
on

In sullen sadness, or in fruitless prayer!

Turn to the marble palaces of pride,

The velvet hangings and the golden shows,

That made their tables groan. Behold their
feasts,

Y3r 173

Of luscious fruits, and blood-inflaming spice;

Their oily syrups of ambrosial flowers,

Conserves, thrice essenced in Phœnician dews,

Fit for the sickening palate of the wretch

By luxury unnerved! Beneath his feet,

The polish’d pavement must be sprinkled o’er

With perfumes of Arabia! From above,

The latticed roof, with summer flowers o’er-
hung,

’Midst aromatic sweets, shed cooling airs

On his feast-fever’d cheek! On every side,

In sumptuous colonnades of Parian stone,

Or glittering granite, or the fibrous earth

Of rich Sienna’s hills; slow-breathing flutes,

In dulcet strains, take captive the dull sense

Through the long hour of feasting; cheating time

With enervating bliss! O! contrast infinite!

Yet who, amidst the mortal myriads,

Most labour’d to embellish Nature’s plan

Of boundless wonders? Who, with ceaseless toil,

Dug from the beamless mazes of the earth

The boast of varying climes, from Lybia’s groves

To caves Armenian, guarded by the rocks

Of wild Euphrates? Who, but the sons of toil,

Enrich’d the sculptured dome, revived the arts,

Sinking, o’erwhelm’d, amidst the wrecks of
time?

Look round the lofty palaces of pride,

Behold the breathing canvas, wondrous proof

Of imitative power! where human forms,

Colours, and space, miraculously ranged,

Drew order out of chaos! where the vast

Of bold perception varied hues disclosed,

From the rich foliage of embowering woods,

To mountains, azure capp’d, scarce visible,

Amid the dusk of distance. Trace the lines

That form the graceful statue, Grecian born,

From rough-hewn quarries! See the rounding
limb,

The modest look serene! which marks the nymph

Of Medicean fame: proud monument

Of heaven-instructed Genius! thou shalt charm

When Pomp and Pride shall mingle in the mass

Of undistinguish’d clay, inanimate!

That, having borne its hour of busy toil,

Shrinks into shapeless nothing! Dreadful
thought!

To mingle with the cold and senseless earth;

In spells of dull inanity to rest;

The noblest passions, and the living powers

Of intellectual light, the soul’s pure lamp,

All, all extinguish’d! Tell me, nature’s God!

Then what is the warm magic that supplies

The strong life-loving flame, which fills the
breast,

Enlivening time’s slow journey? Liberty!

If thou art not the impulse exquisite,

Where does it dwell? What else can teach the
wretch

(Labouring with mortal ills, disease and pain,

Deep-wounding poverty, presumptuous scorn,


High-crested arrogance, affections spurn’d,)

To bear the weight of thought, and linger out

This weary task of being? Blest with thee,

The peasant were as happy as his lord—

For Nature knows no difference! Summer
smiles

For the poor cottager, and smiling shows

The vegetating scene, diffusing fair

And equal portions for the sons of earth!

But man, proud man, a bold usurper, takes

The law of nature from its destined course,

And fashions it at pleasure! Hence we trace

The gloomy annals of receding time

Spotted with gore, and blurr’d by pity’s tears,

Where Genius, Virtue, Nature’s progeny!

Mark’d by th’Eternal’s hand with every charm,

Have shrunk beneath oppression!—bow’d the
neck

Before the blood-stain’d shrines of impious
fraud,

Flouted by fools, the gilded dregs of earth,

And forced to hide the gushing tear of scorn,

Till driven to mountain caves, and desert glooms,

The godlike wonders fled. The first, sublime,

The darling of his race; majestic! grand!

With eyes, whose living lustre beam’d afar

The blaze of intellect, Promethean-touch’d,

And infinitely radiant!—

By his side,

Beauteous and mild as morn’s returning star,

The maiden, Virtue, moved! and who can tell

But in some hovel low, whose rushy roof

The barren cliff defends from wintry storms,

The godlike pair, scorning the din of fools,

(Ambition’s clamour, which the despot Death

Awhile observes, then, with his iron hand,

Locks in eternal silence!) who can tell,

But the proud pair, by Reason’s power sustain’d,

Cherish a glorious race? Statesmen and chiefs,

Poets, and sage philosophers, whose lore

Might rival ancient Greece, and nobly prove

The solitude of Virtue—Wisdom’s sons!

Thy day begins to dawn! Reason sublime!

Thy penetrating eye, no more obscured

By superstition, politic and shrewd,

Beholds, beneath the cowl of whining fraud,

Blood-thirsty tyrants, subtle hoodwink’d
knaves,

Who, ’mid the gloomy labyrinths of time,

Have murder’d millions; heap’d the bigot pile,

And bit the brand accursed, where martyr’d
saints

Fed the consuming flame; who, bound in
oaths,

Hostile to man, insulting to their God,

Wove the thick veil which closely shrouded
round

Th’infernal Inquisition! Hydra fiend!

Whose wide extended hand and ruthless power

Grasp’d the Peruvian desert, rooting thence

The tree of reason, and enforcing zeal

Which instinct shunn’d, while ages sanctified

Y3v 174

A grandly fervid worship! The Peruvians worshipped the sun, the source of
every good—The emblem of the incomprehensible Divinity:
but the Spaniards compelled them to change
their faith, and many thousands were destroyed (on
pretence of their refusing to submit to the Pope, or
the King of Spain); but, in reality, for the vile purpose
of usurpation.
In that cause

How many perish’d, while the ensanguined
hordes

Of sanctified despoilers, dyed the steel

In blood and innocence. Oh! sacred truth!

How are thy laws profaned, when cavils shrewd

Warp the instinctive mind, and bend the will

To tenets politic: when interest rules

The mind’s strong energies, and bigot fangs

Blur the fair aspect of religion pure

To feed ambition’s maw; destructive gulf,

Yawning, but never, never sated!—Now, no
more

Shall reason, palsied by licentious power,

Pay flexile homage to the lofty fool,

The carping minion, or the high-raised shrew,

While withering victims cram the ebon jaws

Of Gallia’s fell Bastile, O! dreadful hour!

Disastrous to the groaning tribes of earth,

And doubly horrible in sight of Heaven!

Trace but the source of every mortal crime,

Of rapine, murder, or the hopeless pang

Of that misguided and blaspheming wretch

Who disavows his God. Whence do they rise?

From what deep hell, than Acheron more dark,

More terrible to think of? Ask thy heart,

O thou, who blest with giddy fortune’s smiles,

Canst riot in voluptuous wanton joys,

Feed on the banquet prodigally rich,

Nursing the embryo mischiefs of disease,

Clothe thy gross frame, bloated with idleness,

In silk, and gems, and perfumes exquisite,

Recline on downy beds, where o’er thy breast,

Sated with feasting, hangs the gay festoon

Of costly velvet; while, till busy noon,

In Doric halls, crowded with motley slaves,

The vestibules of pride, the drooping child

Of humble virtue waits; till his faint form,

Struggling with poverty and conscious worth,

Is spurn’d indignant, or compell’d to hide,

In some lone corner of obscure distress,

Those mental treasures, which would make thee
poor

By fair comparison. Then why is he

Forced by the tyranny of custom’s law,

To yield thee homage? Fortune is his foe!

He wants that vile contaminating dross,

Which gives to falsehood all the grace of truth;

To fools respect; to villains empty praise;

Buys fawning smiles from sycophants and
knaves;

Deadens the hand of justice; seals the tongue


Of busy admonition, hateful guest

To that dull empty dupe, whose ear imbibes

The honey’d poison of deceitful tongues,

While interest holds a mirror to his breast,

Which flatters, while it damns him. At his gate

The famish’d beggar lies; the lame, the blind,

The poor artificer, or veteran bold,

Whose guiltless age and mutilated limbs

Are his proud passports! Dost thou feel for
him,

Thy brother man, but nobler than thyself,

By nature’s heraldry? Behold his scars,

His silver hairs, scatter’d by every blast

That wings the wintry storm. Does gratitude

To him present a portion of that wealth—

Which he, by many an hour of fierce exploit,

Rescued from foreign foes? Does fancy paint,

Amid thy dreams of labour’d respiration,

The stormy night, when on the tatter’d shrouds,

Drench’d by the pelting shower, while deaf’ning
peals

Rung in his startled ears, the seaman stood

Braving the dreadful gulf that yawn’d below!

Such was the mendicant that haunts thy gate!

So were his useful hours consumed for thee;

When o’er the rocking deck the sulphur’d flash

Of desolating war its terrors threw

Midst dying groans: while thundering peal on
peal

The brazen tongue of slaughter roar’d revenge,

Making heaven’s concave tremble! See that
cheek

Wither’d by torrid suns, or frozen climes,

Bathed with a silent tear. Beside him stands,

With half-retiring step and modest eye,

Fraught with the silent eloquence of wo,

His misery’s only hope, a beauteous girl,

Gentle as innocent! Her daily task

Is filial piety, attention sweet,

That marks th’ angelic mind! Her outstretch’d
arm

Guides the slow footsteps of her drooping sire,

Grown blind with age, and wearied out with
toil:

Yet, ’midst the sombre wilderness of wo,

Her voice breeds comfort; and her thrifty hand,

When on a bed of straw her parent sleeps,

Is turn’d to industry. O! fortune blind!

Thou, from whose lap uncounted treasures fall,

Strewing the paths of folly and of pride

With rich redundency of nature’s stores—

Till the pall’d fancy sicken, and the sense

Faint with satiety: O! fortune blind!

Hadst thou no little hoard for modest worth,

No silent nook in the vast space of earth,

Where the wrong’d child of poverty might rest,

Screen’d from the worst of mortal miseries,

The cold contempt of ignorance and pride.

How glows the patriot soul, while fancy’s dream

Anticipates the day when ruthless war

Shall cease to desolate! Prophetic hope

Y4r 175

Beholds the heavenly vision, bleeding France,

When o’er thy blooming vales and tawny hills,

Thy pine clad summits and thy yellow plains,

Thy peaceful tribes shall rove. The laughing
throng,

Link’d in the bonds of social amity,

Live for each other. Honesty and mirth,

Twin children of the mountain cottagers,

Labour and peace, come dancing o’er the heath,

Purpled with fragrant flowers. Before them fly,

Fluttering their sunny wings, unshackled loves;

And hope, with sparkling eyes, whose humid
lids

Are fill’d with tears of joy! The breezy hills,

Glowing with fruits redundant, seem to snatch

The sun-beam’s lustre; while exulting Health

Bounds o’er the topmost summit. The soft dews

Spangle her airy vest of gossamer,

And bathe her odorous bosom. On her cheek,

Deepen’d by exercise, the orient tint

Plays on the dimpled smile, while through her
veins

The temper’d blood its purple channel fills

By streams revolving; not with sluggish pace

Of glutted feasting, or benumbing sloth,

But pure and limpid as the vagrant brook

Wandering in liquid lapse along the vale,

And brightening as it wanders. All around

Reason and peace, exulting, dance o’er flowers

Whose austral fragrance through the whispering
air

Scatter a world of sweets.

Then, smiling spring!

Thy beauties shall unfold redundantly

To strew the paths of peace! Then, summer,
thou

Shalt wear thy golden stole, with cheek of fire

Flush’d by ecstatic bliss, thy broad clear eye

Flaming o’er fields luxuriant! Then shall

Fame, led on by smiling Commerce, drop her
tear

On Valour’s grave, while rustic revellers

Mark the long hour of autumn’s closing day

By many a simple tale, as simply told,

Of hardy valour; then the spacious hearth,

Encircled by the sons of toil, shall blaze,

Which through the long day fed its embers faint,

Lonely and unattended.

Then the sound

Of boistrous glee shall echo to the roof,

While the tired labourer joins, with half-closed
eyes,

The clamorous burthen of the uncouth song.

Who has not seen the cheerful harvest home!

Enlivening the scorch’d field, and greeting gay

The slow decline of autumn? All around

The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,

Glow golden-lustred; and the trembling stem

Of the slim oat, or azure corn-flower,

Waves on the hedge-rows shady. From the hill

The day-breeze softly steals with downward
wing,

And lightly passes, whispering the soft sounds

Which moan the death of summer. Glowing
scene,


Nature’s long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,

In her proud progeny, she smiling marks

Their graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!

Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sons

Of rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—ye

Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,

Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,

Or on the sidelong hill, or in the glen,

Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet, shows

The neighbourhood of peace, ye still are found,

A merry and an artless throng, whose souls

Beam through untutor’d glances. When the
dawn

Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew

Silvers the outstretch’d landscape, labour’s sons

Rise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,

From sweet and soothing rest;—for feverish
dreams

Visit not lowly pallets! All the day

They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—

But toil without repining! The blithe song,

Joining the woodland melodies afar,

Flings its rude cadence in fantastic sport

On echo’s airy wing! The ponderous load

Follows the weary team: the narrow lane

Bears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter’d corn,

Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn

Purloin’d from the broad waggon.

On the plain

The freckled gleaner gathers the scant sheaf,

And looks, with many a sigh, on the tythe heap

Of the proud, pamper’d pastor! To the brook

That ripples shallow down the valley’s slope,

The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—

The flocks along the heath are dimly seen

By the faint torch of evening, whose red eye

Closes in tearful silence. Now the air

Is rich in fragrance!—fragrance exquisite!

Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash’d,

And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,

Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All around

The thin mist rises, and the busy tones

Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,

Break the short pause of nature. From the
plain

The rustic throngs come cheerly; their loud din

Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,

Happy!—more happy than the lords ye serve!—

How lustily your sons endure the hour

Of wintry desolation! and how fair

Your blooming daughters greet the opening dawn

Of love-inspiring spring!

Hail! harvest home!

To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,

By instinct taught to warble! instinct pure,

Sacred, and grateful to that power adored,

Which warms the sensate being, and reveals

The soul self-evident!—beyond the dreams

Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!

Where earth presents her golden treasuries;

Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart

Delights unspeakable! Where seas, and skies,

And hills, and valleys,—colours, odours, dews,

Y4v 176

Diversify the work of nature’s God!

Now turn, my muse,

To Albion’s plain prolific; where serene,

Temper’d by reason, liberty delights

To warm th’ enlighten’d mind! Where, since the days

When her bold barons ratified their deed,

Freedom has smiled triumphant and secure.

Oh! favoured isle, long may discordant broils

Be severed from thy shores; may howling war

Blow its dread blast far, Albion, far from thee,

While thy white ramparts, towering o’er the
waves,

Shall bid thy foes defiance! Here the hind

Enjoys the well-earn’d produce of his toil,

And sleeps secure, protected by those laws

Form’d for the peasant and the prince alike.

Still may thy infants, Albion, instinct taught,

Prattle of liberty; the sun-burnt swain,

As slow the flaming torch of day retires,

Sing the loud strain of freedom and of joy.

Still may no wrongs invade his midnight dreams,

No guilty wish contaminate his will,

To violate the laws: for ’tis the sting

Of keen oppression that gives birth to crimes,

And brutalizes man. The ravenous wolf

Feeds not upon his kind,—his murderous will

Being but instinctive. Lions prowl abroad,

Famish’d and watchful of the desert path

Where the lone traveller passes; on his kind

He scorns to batten: none but thinking man

Preys on his species, sheds his brother’s blood,

And while opposing, still opposed, derides

The pleading tongue of nature. Let the brave

Turn to the clay-built hovel of content,

Where peace and reason consecrate the toils

Which virtue’s sons endure. See! at their door

No shivering pilgrims wait the murderous
glance

Of scowling superstition. No dark fiend

Dashes the frugal cup with terror’s gall,

Or from the fever’d lip, with churlish hand,

Snatches the cooling draught. No bigot wrath

Starves the poor sinner into faith; or steals

From fainting toil that wholesome nourishment

Which nature meant to all, nor mark’d the day

Nor hour of recreation. Albion! still

May thy brave peasantry indignant turn

From priestcraft, ignorance, and bigot fraud,

To view in nature’s wonders, nature’s God!

For where can man so proudly contemplate

Th’ Omniscient’s power, as in the tablet vast

Of infinite creation? Every breeze

Seems the soft whispering of nature’s voice,

Fraught with the lore of reason. Every leaf

That flaunts its vernal hue, or eddying falls,

Its fibres wither’d by autumnal skies,

A moral lesson shows. The rippling rill

Prattles with nature’s tongue. The evening
gale


Moans the decline of day: while twilight’s
tears

Fall on the dusky wings of chilling night,

Spreading to hide its triumphs. The vast dome

Gleams with unnumber’d stars, the prying eyes

Of those bright sentinels, ethereal borne,

That watch the sleep of nature. O’er the main,

In ebon car aerial, lightning wing’d,

The pealing thunder whirling his vast flight,

A short-lived fiend, gigantic born, the son

Of equinox, rides furious. The freed winds

Howl as he passes by. The foamy waste

Bounds with convulsive horrors; while the
waves

Lash the loud-sounding shore. O! nature’s
God!

These are the varied pages of that lore

Which reason searches; these the awful spells

That seize on all the faculties of man,

And bind them to allegiance. For that power

Which speaks in mighty thunder, wakes the soul,

Breathing in balmy gales; is seen alike

In the swift lightning and the lingering hue

Of evening’s purple veil; looks through the
stars,

And whispers ’mid the solitude sublime

Of thickening glooms nocturnal: from the east

Flames forth his burning eye: the grateful earth

Welcomes his glances with her boundless stores,

And robes herself in splendours: odours rich,

And colours varying, decorate her breast,

To greet the Lord of nature: forests wild

And oceans multitudinous unfold

Their wonders to his gaze! Then why should
man

Creep like a reptile, fearful to explore

The page of human knowledge? Why mistrust

The sensate soul, the faculty supreme

Which instinct wakens? Reason, power sublime!

Accept the strain spontaneous from the muse,

Which nursed on Albion’s cliffs, delights to sing

Of Liberty, and thee, her Albion’s boast.

And though no flight sublime shall grace her
toil,

No classic lore expand her thinking mind,

Prophetic inspiration, rapt, shall pour

This mystic oracle. The pendent globe

Shall greet, with paeans loud, the sacred claim

To Britain’s sons, by reason ratified;

And when the God of nature, “trumpet-
tongued,”

Shall check the fiery steeds that hurl the car

Of shouting victory, time shall trace her course

On the proud tablet of eternal fame;

And nature, towering ’mid the wrecks of war,

Shall bless her British shores, which grandly lift

Their rocky bulwarks o’er the howling main,

Firm and invincible, as Britain’s sons,

The sons of reason! unappall’d and free!

Z1r 177

Monody
to the
Memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

“Thus, when thy draughts, O Rafaelle! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades, And rival hand recalls from every part Some latent graces, equals art with art: Transported we survey the dubious strife, While each fair image starts again to life!” Broome.

When Resignation, bending from the sky,

Steals the fond lingering tear from Virtue’s eye;

When the keen agonies of Grief are flown,

And Reason triumphs on her tranquil throne;

The Muse to worth and Genius tunes her lyre,

While the chords glisten with celestial fire:

The Muse, in strains untutor’d, and unsought,

Soars on the pinions of enraptur’d thought;

While Memory to her eagle eye portrays

The lustrous tablet of a nation’s praise;

While Fame, exulting, spreads her fostering
wings.

And truth spontaneous sweeps the bounding
strings!

Hark! the full chords in mystic sounds aspire,

To swell the chorus of the heavenly choir!

Where, to seraphic harps, ethereal borne,

The song of Patience bids us cease to mourn;

Contemns the tear that gems each kindred eye,

Calms the quick throb, and checks the frequent
sigh!

While, ’midst the blaze of pure Promethean
light,

The meek-eyed cherub bends to mortal sight!

See from her dazzling wing soft essence pour

Heaven’s sacred balm for misery’s darkest hour!

When Fate inexorable deals her blow

O’er this rude wilderness of human wo,

’Till Virtue, pointing out the purer mind,

Secures the gem, and leaves the dross behind,

Claims the bright spirit from its native clod,

And bears it, spotless, to the sight of God!

Yet, Reynolds, while the winged minstrels join

In all the melodies of sounds divine,


Round thy cold image, on its icy bed,

Some light illumes the mansion of the dead;

An unextinguish’d light, that gilds the gloom

Where weeping Genius guards her favourite’s
tomb!

Brightly it shines where thy pure ashes sleep;

And while pale Melancholy hides to weep,

Fame, with glittering wing, shall fan the fire,

To shed new lustre on the Muse’s lyre.

Oh! if the graces of pathetic verse

Can add one trophy to thy sable hearse;

If thy soft sympathy of sorrow’s strain

Can, for a moment, soothe the throb of pain;

Can check the drop that steals from memory’s
eye,

Or calm affliction’s meek and melting sigh;

Where is the Muse? why sleep the tuneful
throng,

While Britain’s Rafaelle claims the grateful song?

Ye solemn mourners, who, with footstep slow,

Prolong’d the sable line of public wo;

Who, fondly crowding round his plumed bier,

Gave to his worth th’ involuntary tear;

Ye children of his school, who oft have hung

On the graced precepts of his tuneful tongue;

Who many an hour in mute attention caught

The vivid lustre of his polish’d thought! Vide Sir Joshua Reynolds’ Discourses delivered
at the Royal Academy.

Ye, who have felt, for ye have taste to feel,

The magic influence o’er your senses steal,

Z Z1v 178

When eloquently chaste, from wisdom’s page,

He drew each model for a rising age!

Say, is no kind, no grateful tribute due

To him, who twined immortal wreaths for you?

Who, from the dawn of youth, to manhood’s
prime,

Snatch’d hidden beauties from the wings of
time;

Who gave new lessons to your wondering sight,

Drawn from the chaos of oblivious night;

Where, chain’d by ignorance, in Envy’s cave,

The art he courted from a chilling grave;

Where native genius faded, unadmired,

While emulation’s glorious flame expired;

’Till Reynolds, braving Envy’s recreant spell,

Dragg’d the huge monster from her thorny cell;

Who, shrinking from his mild benignant eye,

Subdued, to Stygian darkness fled—to die!

Now round the brows of British genius play

The broad effulgent beams of mental day!

See, native taste the vivid scene imbues

With the rich lustre of the rainbow’s hues!

See, from each pencil varying beauties rise,

While the proud canvas glows with mingling
dyes:

See fancy gives to every mimic form,

New power to fascinate, new grace to charm,

While o’er each finish’d, each attractive part,

Nature stands wondering at the touch of art.

Oh! if philanthropy can boast the power,

To soothe affliction’s dark and dreary hour;

If he, who meekly shunn’d the flatterer’s gaze,

Whose splendid talents shrunk from venal
praise;

Who, in retirement’s consecrated bowers,

Strew’d the rough path of life with modest
flowers;

Or with a fostering hand, to genius just,

Twined his own laurel round each youthful
bust;

Can bid your grateful bosoms proudly glow

With innate praise,—beyond the pomp of wo

Now, true to native worth, assert his claim

To the best diadem! the wreath of fame!

And thou, Contention! fiend, of Envy born,

Hide in some haunt profane thy mien forlorn;

Howl in some flinty cave’s impervious gloom,

Nor break the sacred silence of the tomb!

Go, prey on hearts congenial with thy own,

Drink their big tears, and mingle in their groan!

Sate thy mean rage upon some idiot’s breast,

But let the sainted shade of Genius rest!

Beneath yon lofty dome that props the skies,

Low on “the lap of earth” your patron lies:

Cold is that hand, that gave the touch divine,

Which bade the mimic orbs of reason shine;

Closed is that eye, which beam’d with living
light,

That gave the mental soul to mortal sight;


For, by the matchless wonders of his art,

The outward mien bespoke the hidden heart!

Taste, feeling, character, his pencil knew,

And Truth acknowledged e’en what Fancy
drew!

So just to nature every part combined,

Each feature mark’d the tenor of the mind!

’Twas his, with varying excellence, to show

Stern manhood’s dignity, and beauty’s glow!

To paint the perfect form, the witching face,

With Guido’s softness, and with Titian’s grace!

The dimpled cherub at the mother’s breast,

The smile serene, that spoke the parent blest;

The poet’s vivid thought, that shone divine

Through the rich mazes of each finish’d line!

The tale The Story of Count Ugolino, painted by Sir
Joshua Reynolds.
that bids the tear of pity flow;

The frenzied gaze of petrifying wo;

The dying father, fix’d in horror wild

O’er the shrunk image of his famish’d child.—

Ah! stay, my Muse—nor trace the maddening
scene,

Nor paint the starting eye, the frantic mien:

Turn from the picture of distracting woes;

Turn from each charm, that beauty’s smile bestows;

Go, form a wreath, Time’s temples to adorn,

Bedeck’d with many a rose, and many a thorn;

Go, bind the hero’s brow with deathless bays;

Or to calm friendship chant the note of praise;

Or with a feather, stol’n from fancy’s wing,

Sweep, with light hand, the gay fantastic string;

But leave, oh, leave thy fond lamenting song,

The feeble echo of a wondering throng!—

Canst thou with brighter tints adorn the rose,

Where Nature’s vivid blush divinely glows?

Say, canst thou add one ray to Heaven’s own
light;

Or give to Alpine snows a purer white?

Canst thou increase the diamond’s burning hues,

Or to the flower a richer scent infuse?

Say, canst thou snatch, by sympathy sublime,

One kindred bosom from the grasp of time?

Ah, no!—then bind with cypress boughs thy
lyre,

Mute be its chords, and quench’d its sacred fire;

For dimly gleam the poet’s votive lays,

’Midst the vast splendours of a nation’s praise?

Yet, blest shall be the Muse, and blest the art,

That thrills in dulcet murmurs through the
heart;

That pictures Nature in her fairest form;

That bids the torpid soul to rapture warm;

That soothes the mind, by sorrow’s load oppress’d,

And bends, with force supreme, the tyrant’s
crest.

Z2r 179

Blest be the mingling tones, whose magic leads

Through splendid halls—o’er dew-bespangled
meads;

The clay-built hut, with rapture to explore,

Or round the diadem’s proud gems to soar;

That quell the force of superstitious rage,

And shed new lustre o’er the classic page.

Blest poetry! whose witching sounds impart

All that can harmonise, or grace the heart;

’Tis thine, with lenient balm, to cure despair,

To check the throbbings of unpitied care;

To bind with weeping flowers the lover’s urn;

To bid ambition’s brightest incense burn!

Such are thy attributes! then tune thy lays,

To chant thy sister art’s coeval praise;

To Painting lift the loud extatic song,

Wake with celestial notes the vapid throng;

And, as the rapturous strains exulting rise

On truth’s white pinions to th’ opening skies,

Haply, some Rafaelle’s spirit hovering near,

Shall greet the Pæan with a grateful tear,

And, proud to share the glories of the lay,

Shall bear its echoes to the realms of day.

There, Reynolds, shalt thou claim the votive
line;

There, smiling, own the artless picture thine:

And though thy form lies mouldering in the
tomb,

Immortal Genius braves the common doom;

Though lost, still honour’d by each feeling heart,

That shared thy converse, or admired thy art:

And though thy voice no more can charm the
breast,

Though thy pure spirit mingles with the blest,

Thy sainted ashes shall e’en death defy;

For Fame, which Virtue gives—shall never die.

O Britain’s darling—nature’s favourite child,

In judgment strong, in manners sweetly mild!

Could my fond lay one added wreath bestow,

Long as my heart laments, my strain should
flow;

But, ah! where’er my wandering fancy leads,

Whether to pine-clad hills, or flowery meads;

Whether at twilight’s calm and pensive hour,

I weep, unseen, in some lone ivy’d bower,

Or, with high-bounding bosom, haste along,

To greet the matin lark’s melodious song;

Whether in tones forlorn, or themes divine,

Still shall the strain, the tuneful strain be
thine:


For all that nature yields, ’twas thine to trace,

Love’s sportive smile, and wisdom’s sober grace,

Fear, rage, relentless vengeance, shrivell’d care,

And the worst misery of supreme despair:

Then where shall Fancy turn, or Truth aspire

To catch new subjects for her mournful lyre?

Where shall the Muse untrodden paths explore?

Where find a theme untry’d by thee before?

Vain is her search! thy penetrating skill

Fashion’d each scene, obedient to thy will;

And stealing every flower by nature drest,

Left but the thorn of wo, to pierce her breast.

High o’er the eastern hill, day’s burning eye

Darts streams of radiance through the severing
sky!

The upland mead reflects a vivid glow

On the calm bosom of the vale below:

Soon flames meridian lustre o’er the scene;

The out-stretch’d landscape glows with brighter
green;

Soft silky blossoms, bathed in lingering dews,

Ope their sweet breasts, and blush with deeper
hues:

But when chill twilight, stealing o’er the west,

Spreads her grey mantle on Eve’s humid breast;

All nature mourns! obtrusive shadows veil

The towering mountain and the lowly dale!

While each meek blossom, scarcely waked to
birth

Hides its shrunk head,—and, weeping, fades to
earth!

So Reynolds shone! the Phoebus of his day,

While art and science own’d his genial ray:

And since those orbs that shed celestial light,

Are closed and faded in impervious night;

By the mild precepts of his social hours;

By the strong magic of his mental powers;

By his meek diffidence, his modest mien;

His solid judgment, and his soul serene!

O ye! who owe to each the meed of praise,

Who shared the converse of his blameless days;

Who, living, own’d the virtues of his heart,

Who mark’d the rising glories of his art;

Still guard his fame! and when, to happier
skies,

Like him ye mourn, each fainted spirit flies!

May the fond Muse, to worth and genius true,

With equal justice form a wreath for you!

Z2v 180

Sappho and Phaon:
in a
Series of Legitimate Sonnets.

“Flendus amor meus est; elegeia flebile carmen; Non facit ad lacrymas barbitos ulla meas.” Ovid.
“Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow, And tuned my heart to elegies of wo.” Pope.

Sonnet Introductory.

Favour’d by Heaven are those, ordain’d to taste

The bliss supreme that kindles fancy’s fire;

Whose magic fingers sweep the Muse’s lyre,

In varying cadence, eloquently chaste!

Well may the mind, with tuneful numbers
graced,

To fame’s immortal attributes aspire,

Above the treacherous spells of low desire,

That wound the sense, by vulgar joys debased.

For thou, blest Poesy! with godlike powers

To calm the miseries of man, wert given;

When passion rends, and hopeless love devours,

By memory goaded, and by frenzy driven,

’Tis thine to guide him ’midst Elysian bowers,

And show his fainting soul—a glimpse of
Heaven.

Sonnet II.

High on a rock, coeval with the skies,

A temple stands, rear’d by immortal powers

To Chastity divine! ambrosial flowers,

Twining round icicles, in columns rise,

Mingling with pendent gems of orient dyes!

Piercing the air, a golden crescent towers,

Veil’d by transparent clouds; while smiling
hours

Shake from their varying wings—celestial joys!

The steps of spotless marble, scatter’d o’er

With deathless roses, arm’d with many a thorn,

Lead to the altar. On the frozen floor,

Studded with the tear-drops petrified by scorn,

Pale vestals kneel the goddess to adore,

While Love, his arrows broke, retires forlorn.


Sonnet III.

Turn to yon vale beneath, whose tangled shade

Excludes the blazing torch of noon-day light,

Where sportive fawns, and dimpled loves
invite,

The bower of Pleasure opens to the glade:

Lull’d by soft flutes, on leaves of violets laid,

There witching Beauty greets the ravish’d
sight

More gentle than the arbitress of night

In all her silvery panoply array’d!

The birds breathe bliss! light zephyrs kiss the
ground

Stealing the hyacinth’s divine perfume;

While from pellucid fountains glittering round,

Small tinkling rills bid rival flowerets bloom!

Here, laughing Cupids bathe the bosom’s
wound;

There, tyrant passion finds a glorious tomb!

Sonnet IV.

Why, when I gaze on Phaon’s beauteous eyes,

Why does each thought in wild disorder stray?

Why does each fainting faculty decay,

And my chill’d breast in throbbing tumults rise?

Mute on the ground my lyre neglected lies,

The Muse forgot, and lost the melting lay;

My down-cast looks, my faltering lips betray,

That stung by hopeless passion—Sappho dies!

Now on a bank of cypress let me rest;

Come, tuneful maids, ye pupils of my care,

Come, with your dulcet numbers soothe my
breast;

And, as the soft vibrations float on air,

Let pity waft my spirit to the blest,

To mock the barbarous triumphs of despair!

Z3r 181

Sonnet V.

Oh! how can Love exulting Reason quell!

How fades each nobler passion from his gaze!

E’en fame, that cherishes the poet’s lays,

That fame ill-fated Sappho loved so well.

Lost is the wretch, who in his fatal spell

Wastes the short summer of delicious days,

And from the tranquil path of wisdom strays,

In passion’s thorny wild forlorn to dwell.

O ye! who in that sacred temple smile

Where holy innocence resides enshrined;

Who fear not sorrow, and who know not guile,

Each thought composed, and every wish resign’d

Tempt not the path where pleasure’s flowery
wile

In sweet, but poisonous fetters, holds the mind.

Sonnet VI.

Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,

To hide the timid blush, and steal away;

To shun the busy world, and waste the day

In some rude mountain’s solitary maze?

Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,

To hear no words that other tongues can say,

To watch the pale moon’s melancholy ray,

To chide in fondness and in folly praise?

Is it to pour th’ involuntary sigh,

To dream of bliss, and wake new pangs to prove;

To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye,

Then start with jealousy and wildly rove;

Is it to loathe the light, and wish to die?

For these I feel,—and feel that they are love.

Sonnet VII.

Come, Reason, come! each nerve rebellious bind,

Lull the fierce tempest of my feverish soul;

Come, with the magic of thy meek control,

And check the wayward wanderings of my
mind:

Estranged from thee, no solace can I find;

O’er my rapt brain, where pensive visions
stole

Now passion reigns and stormy tumults roll:

So the smooth sea obeys the furious wind!

In vain philosophy unfolds her store,

O’erwhelm’d is every source of pure delight;

Dim is the golden page of wisdom’s lore;

All nature fades before my sick’ning sight:

For what bright scene can fancy’s eye explore

Midst dreary labyrinths of mental night?


Sonnet VIII.

Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace,

Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart,

While, from its source, each wild convulsive
start

Tears the scorch’d roses from my burning face?

In vain, O Lesbian vales! your charms I trace!

Vain is the poet’s theme, the sculptor’s art;

No more the lyre its magic can impart,

Though waked to sound with more than mortal
grace!

Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove

That passion mocks the empty boast of fame;

Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,

Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame!

Oh! may th’ extatic thought his bosom move,

And sighs of rapture fan the blush of shame!

Sonnet IX.

Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bowers,

Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;

Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of
mirth,

In clamorous revels waste the midnight hours;

Who, link’d in flaunting bands of mountain
flowers,

Weave your wild mazes o’er the dewy earth,

Ere the fierce lord of lustre rushes forth,

And o’er the world his beamy radiance pours!

Oft has your clanking cymbal’s maddening
strain,

Loud ringing through the torch-illumined grove,

Lured my loved Phaon from the youthful
train,

Through rugged dells, o’er craggy rocks to rove;

Then how can she his vagrant heart detain,

Whose lyre throbs only to the touch of love?

Sonnet X.

Dangerous to hear is that melodious tongue,

And fatal to the sense those murderous eyes,

Where in a sapphire sheath love’s arrow lies,

Himself conceal’d the crystal haunts among!

Oft o’er that form enamour’d have I hung,

On that smooth cheek to mark the deep’ning
dyes,

While from that lip the fragrant breath would
rise,

That lip, like Cupid’s bow, with rubies strung!

Still let me gaze upon that polish’d brow,

O’er which the golden hair luxuriant plays;

So, on the modest lily’s leaves of snow

The proud sun revels in resplendent rays!

Warm as his beams this sensate heart shall
glow,

Till life’s last hour with Phaon’s self decays!

Z3v 182

Sonnet XI.

O Reason! vaunted sovereign of the mind!

Thou pompous vision with a sounding name!

Canst thou the soul’s rebellious passions tame?

Can’st thou in spells the vagrant fancy bind?

Ah, no! capricious as the wavering wind

Are sighs of love that dim thy boasted flame;

While Folly’s torch consumes the wreath of
fame,

And Pleasure’s hands the sheaves of truth unbind.

Press’d by the storms of fate, Hope shrinks
and dies!

Frenzy darts forth in mightiest ills array’d;

Around thy throne destructive tumults rise,

And hell-fraught jealousies thy rights invade!

Then, what art thou, O idol of the wise?

A visionary theme!—a gorgeous shade!

Sonnet XII.

Now, o’er the tesselated pavement strew

Fresh saffron, steep’d in essence of the rose,

While down yon agate column gently flows

A glittering streamlet of ambrosial dew!

My Phaon smiles! the rich carnation’s hue,

On his flush’d cheek in conscious lustre glows,

While o’er his breast enamour’d Venus throws

Her starry mantle of celestial blue!

Breathe soft, ye dulcet flutes, among the trees

Where clustering boughs with golden citron
twine;

While slow vibrations, dying on the breeze

Shall soothe his soul with harmony divine!

Then let my form his yielding fancy seize,

And all his fondest wishes blend with mine.

Sonnet XIII.

Bring, bring, to deck my brow, ye sylvan girls,

A roseate wreath; nor for my waving hair

The costly band of studded gems prepare,

Of sparkling chrysolite or orient pearls:

Love o’er my head his canopy unfurls,

His purple pinions fan the whispering air;

Mocking the golden sandal, rich and rare,

Beneath my feet the fragrant woodbine curls.

Bring the thin robe, to fold about my breast,

White as the downy swan; while round my
waist

Let leaves of glossy myrtle bind the vest,

Not idly gay, but elegantly chaste!

Love scorns the nymph in wanton trappings
drest;

And charms the most conceal’d, are doubly
graced.


Sonnet XIV.

Come, soft Æolian harp, while zephyr plays

Along the meek vibration of thy strings,

As twilight’s hand her modest mantle brings,

Blending with sober grey the western blaze!

O! prompt my Phaon’s dreams with tenderest
lays,

Ere night o’er shade thee with its humid wings,

While the lorn philomel his sorrow sings

In leafy cradle, red with parting rays!

Slow let thy dulcet tones on ether glide;

So steals the murmur of the amorous dove;

The mazy legions swarm on every side,

To lulling sounds the sunny people move!

Let not the wise their little world deride,

The smallest sting can wound the breast of love.

Sonnet XV.

Now round my favour’d grot let roses rise,

To strew the bank where Phaon wakes from
rest;

O! happy buds! to kiss his burning breast,

And die beneath the lustre of his eyes!

Now let the timbrils echo to the skies,

Now damsels sprinkle cassia on his vest,

With odorous wreaths of constant myrtle
drest,

And flowers, deep tinted with the rainbow’s
dyes!

From cups of porphyry let nectar flow,

Rich as the perfume of Phœnicia’s vine!

Now let his dimpling cheek with rapture glow,

While round his heart love’s mystic fetters
twine;

And let the Grecian lyre its aid bestow,

In songs of triumph to proclaim him mine!

Sonnet XVI.

Delusive hope! more transient than the ray

That leads pale twilight to her dusky bed,

O’er woodland glen, or breezy mountain’s
head,

Lingering to catch the parting sigh of day.

Hence, with thy visionary charms, away!

Nor o’er my path the flowers of fancy spread;

Thy airy dreams on peaceful pillows shed,

And weave for thoughtless brows a garland gay.

Farewell, low valleys; dizzy cliffs, farewell!

Small vagrant rills, that murmur as ye flow;

Dark bosom’d labyrinth, and thorny dell;

The task be mine all pleasures to forego;

To hide where meditation loves to dwell,

And feed my soul with luxury of wo!

Z4r 183

Sonnet XVII.

Love steals unheeded o’er the tranquil mind,

As summer breezes fan the sleeping main,

Slow through each fibre creeps the subtle pain,

Till closely round the yielding bosom twined.

Vain is the hope the magic to unbind,

The potent mischief riots in the brain,

Grasps every thought, and burns in every vein,

’Till in the heart the tyrant lives enshrined.

Oh! victor strong! bending the vanquish’d
frame;

Sweet is the thraldom that thou bidst us prove!

And sacred is the tear thy victims claim,

For blest are those whom sighs of sorrow move!

Then, nymphs, beware how ye profane my
name,

Nor blame my weakness, till like me ye love!

Sonnet XVIII.

Why art thou changed? O Phaon! tell me
why?

Love flies reproach, when passion feels decay;

Or, I would paint the raptures of that day,

When, in sweet converse, mingling sigh with sigh,

I mark’d the graceful languour of thine eye

As on a shady bank entranced we lay:

O! eyes! whose beamy radiance stole away,

As stars fade trembling from the burning sky!

Why art thou changed, dear source of all my
woes?

Though dark my bosom’s tint, through every
vein

A ruby tide of purest lustre flows,

Warm’d by thy love, or chill’d by thy disdain;

And yet no bliss this sensate being knows;

Ah! why is rapture so allied to pain?

Sonnet XIX.

Farewell, ye coral caves, ye pearly sands,

Ye waving woods that crown yon lofty steep;

Farewell, ye nereids of the glittering deep,

Ye mountain tribes, ye fawns, ye sylvan bands;

On the bleak rock your frantic minstrel stands,

Each task forgot, save that, to sigh and weep:

In vain the strings her burning fingers sweep,

No more her touch the Grecian lyre commands!

In Circe’s cave my faithless Phaon’s laid,

Her demons dress his brow with opiate flowers;

Or, loitering in the brown pomegranate shade,

Beguile with amorous strains the fateful hours;

While Sappho’s lips, to paly ashes fade,

And sorrow’s cankering worm her heart devours!


Sonnet XX.

Oh! I could toil for thee o’er burning plains;

Could smile at poverty’s disastrous blow;

With thee could wander ’midst a world of
snow,

Where one long night o’er frozen Scythia reigns.

Severed from thee, my sickening soul disdains

The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to
know;

And canst thou give my days to endless wo,

Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains?

Away, false fear! nor think capricious fate

Would lodge a demon in a form divine!

Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate,

Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine;

Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare to hate,

Too proud to sue! too tender to resign!

Sonnet XXI.

Why do I live to loath the cheerful day,

To shun the smiles of fame, and mark the
hours

On tardy pinions move, while ceaseless
showers

Down my wan cheek in lucid currents stray?

My tresses all unbound, nor gems display,

Nor scents Arabian! on my path no flowers

Imbibe the morn’s resuscitating powers,

For one blank sorrow saddens all my way!

As slow the radiant son of reason rose, “Sex mihi natales ierant, cum lecta parentis Ante diem lacrymas ossa bibere meas. Arsit inops frater, victus meretricis amore; Mistaque cum turpi damna pudore tulit.”Ovid.

Through tears my dying parents saw it shine;

A brother’s frailties swell’d the tide of
woes,—

And, keener far, maternal griefs were mine!

Phaon! if soon these weary eyes shall close,

Oh! must that task, that mournful task, be
thine?

Sonnet XXII.

Wild is the foaming sea! the surges roar!

And nimbly dart the livid lightnings round!

On the rent rock the angry waves rebound;

Ah me! the lessening bark is seen no more!

Along the margin of the trembling shore,

Loud as the blast my frantic cries shall sound,

My storm-drench’d limbs the flinty fragments
wound,

And o’er my bleeding breast the billows pour!

Z4v 184

Phaon! return! ye winds, O! waft the strain

To his swift bark; ye barbarous waves, forbear!

Taunt not the anguish of a lover’s brain,

Nor feebly emulate the soul’s despair!

For howling winds, and foaming seas in vain

Assail the breast when passion rages there!

Sonnet XXIII.

To Ætna’s scorching sands my Phaon flies! “Arva Phaon celebrat diversa Typhoides Ætnæ.”

False youth! can other charms attractive
prove?

Say, can Sicilian loves thy passions move,

Play round thy heart, and fix thy fickle eyes,

While in despair the Lesbian Sappho dies?

Has spring for thee a crown of poppies wove,

Or dost thou languish in th’ Idalian grove,

Whose altar kindles, fann’d by lovers’ sighs?

Ah! think, that while on Ætna’s shores you
stray,

A fire, more fierce than Ætna’s, fills my
breast; “Me calor Ætnæ o non minor igne coquit.”Ovid.

Nor deck Sicilian nymphs with garlands gay,

While Sappho’s brows with cypress wreaths are
drest;

Let one kind word my weary woes repay,

Or, in eternal slumbers bid them rest.

Sonnet XXIV.

O thou meek orb! that stealing o’er the dale,

Cheer’st with thy modest beams the noon
of night!

On the smooth lake diffusing silvery light,

Sublimely still, and beautifully pale!

What can thy cool and placid eye avail,

Where fierce despair absorbs the mental sight,

While inbred glooms the vagrant thoughts
invite,

To tempt the gulph where howling fiends assail?

O night! all nature owns thy temper’d
power;

Thy solemn pause, thy dews, thy pensive beam;

Thy sweet breath whispering in the moonlight
bower,

While fainting flowerets kiss the wandering
stream!

Yet, vain is every charm! and vain the hour,

That brings to maddening love, no soothing
dream!


Sonnet XXV.

Canst thou forget, O idol of my soul!

Thy Sappho’s voice, her form, her dulcet lyre!

That melting every thought to fond desire,

Bade sweet delirium o’er thy senses roll?

Can’st thou, so soon, renounce the blest control

That calm’d with Pity’s tears Love’s raging
fire,

While Hope, slow breathing on the trembling
wire,

In every note with soft persuasion stole?

Oh! sovereign of my heart! return! return!

For me no spring appears, no summers bloom,

No sun-beams glitter, and no altars burn!

The mind’s dark winter of eternal gloom

Shows ’midst the waste a solitary urn,

A blighted laurel, and a mouldering tomb!

Sonnet XXVI.

Where antique woods o’er-hang the mountain’s
crest,

And mid-day glooms in solemn silence lour,

Philosophy, go seek a lonely bower,

And waste life’s fervid noon in fancied rest.

Go, where the bird of sorrow weaves her nest,

Cooing, in sadness sweet, through night’s dim
hour;

Go, cull the dew-drops from each potent
flower

That medicines to the cold and reasoning breast!

Go, where the brook in liquid lapse steals by,

Scarce heard amidst the mingling echoes round,

What time the moon fades slowly down the
sky,

And slumbering zephyrs moan, in caverns
bound:

Be these thy pleasures, dull Philosophy!

Nor vaunt the balm to heal a lover’s wound.

Sonnet XXVII.

O ye bright stars! that on the ebon fields

Of heaven’s vast empire, trembling seem to
stand;

’Till rosy morn unlocks her portal bland,

Where the proud sun his fiery banner wields!

To flames, less fierce than mine, your lustre
yields,

And powers more strong my countless tears
command;

Love strikes the feeling heart with ruthless
hand,

And only spares the breast which dulness shields!

Since, then, capricious nature but bestows

The fine affections of the soul, to prove

A keener sense of desolating woes,

Far, far from me the empty boast remove;

If bliss from coldness, pain from passion flows,

Ah! who would wish to feel, or learn to love?

Aa1r 185

Sonnet XXVIII.

Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art,

That whispers patience to the mind’s despair!

That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care,

While hope with pleasing phantoms soothes their
smart;

For memory still reluctant to depart

From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,

Bids the fond soul enamour’d linger there,

And its least charm is grateful to the heart!

He never loved, who could not muse and sigh,

Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,

Where the small rivulet, that ripples by

Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,

When, on its banks, he watch’d the speaking
eye,

And one sweet smile o’erpaid an age of fears!

Sonnet XXIX.

Farewell, ye towering cedars, in whose shade,

Lull’d by the nightingale, I sunk to rest,

While spicy breezes hover’d o’er my breast

To fan my cheek, in deep’ning tints array’d,

While amorous insects, humming round me
play’d,

Each flower forsook, of prouder sweets in
quest;

Of glowing lips, in humid fragrance drest,

That mock’d the sunny Hybla’s vaunted aid!

Farewell, ye limpid rivers! oh! farewell!

No more shall Sappho to your grots repair:

No more your white waves to her bosom
swell,

Or your dank weeds entwine her floating hair;

As erst, when Venus in her sparry cell

Wept, to behold a brighter goddess there!

Sonnet XXX.

O’er the tall cliff that bounds the billowy main,

Shadowing the surge that sweeps the lonely
strand,

While the thin vapours break along the sand,

Day’s harbinger unfolds the liquid plain.

The rude sea murmurs, mournful as the strain

That love-lorn minstrels strike with trembling
hand,

While from their green beds rise the Syren
band

With tongues aerial to repeat my pain!

The vessel rocks beside the pebbly shore,

The foamy curls its gaudy trappings lave:

Oh! bark propitious! bear me gently o’er;

Breathe soft, ye winds! rise slow, O swelling
wave!

Lesbos, these eyes shall meet thy sands no
more:

I fly to seek my lover, or my grave!


Sonnet XXXI.

Far o’er the waves my lofty bark shall glide,

Love’s frequent sighs the fluttering sails shall
swell,

While to my native home I bid farewell,

Hope’s snowy hand the burnish’d helm shall
guide!

Tritons shall sport amidst the yielding tide,

Myriads of Cupids round the prow shall dwell,

And Venus, throned within her opal shell,

Shall proudly o’er the glittering billows ride!

Young dolphins, dashing in the golden spray,

Shall with their scaly forms illume the deep,

Tinged with the purple flush of sinking day,

Whose flaming wreath shall crown the distant
steep;

While on the breezy deck soft minstrels play,

And songs of love, the lover soothe to sleep!

Sonnet XXXII.

Blest as the gods! Sicilian maid, is he, Vide Sappho’s Ode.

The youth whose sould thy yielding graces
charm;

Who bound, O thraldom sweet! by beauty’s
arm,

In idle dalliance fondly sports with thee!

Blest as the gods! that ivy throne to see,

Throbbing with transports, tender, timid,
warm!

While round thy fragrant lips light zephyrs
swarm,

As opening buds attract the wandering bee!

Yet short is youthful passion’s fervid hour;

Soon shall another clasp the beauteous boy;

Soon shall a rival prove, in that gay bower,

The pleasing torture of transcendent joy!

The bee flies sicken’d from the sweetest
flower;

The lightning’s shaft but dazzles to destroy!

Sonnet XXXIII.

I Wake! delusive phantoms, hence, away!

Tempt not the weakness of a lover’s breast!

The softest breeze can shake the halcyon’s
nest,

And lightest clouds o’ercast the dawning ray!

’Twas but a vision! Now, the star of day

Peers, like a gem o’er Ætna’s burning crest!

Welcome, ye hills, with golden vintage drest:

Sicilian forests brown, and valleys gay!

Aa Aa1v 186

A mournful stranger, from the Lesbian isle,

Not strange in loftiest eulogy of song!

She who could teach the stoic’s cheek to smile,

Thaw the cold heart, and chain the wondering
throng,

Can find no balm, love’s sorrows to beguile;

Ah! sorrows known too soon! and felt too
long!

Sonnet XXXIV.

Venus! to thee, the Lesbian Muse shall sing,

The song, which Mitylenian youths admired,

When echo, amorous of the strain inspired,

Bade the wild rocks with maddening paudits
ring!

Attend my prayer! O queen of rapture! bring

To these fond arms, him who my soul has
fired;

From these fond arms removed, yet still desired,

Though love, exulting, spreads his varying wing!

Oh! source of every joy! of every care!

Blest Venus! goddess of the zone divine!

To Phaon’s bosom, Phaon’s victim bear;

So shall her warmest, tenderest vows be thine!

For Venus, Sappho shall a wreath prepare,

And love be crown’d, immortal as the Nine!

Sonnet XXXV.

What means the mist opaque that veils these
eyes;

Why does yon threatening tempest shroud the
day?

Why does thy altar, Venus, fade away,

And on my breast the dews of horror rise?

Phaon is false! be dim, ye orient skies,

And let black Erebus succeed your ray;

Let clashing thunders roll, and lightnings
play;

Phaon is false! and hopeless Sappho dies!

“‘Farewell! my Lesbian love,’” Pope. “Si tam certus eras hinc ire, modestius isses, Et modo dixisses ‘Lesbi puella, vale’.”Ovid you might
have said,

Such sweet remembrance had some pity proved;

Or coldly thus, “farewell, Oh! Lesbian
maid!”

No task severe for one so fondly loved!

The gentle thought had soothed my wandering
shade,

From life’s dark valley, and its thorns, removed!


Sonnet XXXVI.

Lead me, Sicilian maids, to haunted bowers,

While you pale moon displays her faintest
beams,

O’er fading woodlands, and enchanted streams

Whose banks infect the breeze with poisonous
flowers.

Ah! lead me, where the barren mountain
towers,

Where no sounds echo, but the night-owl’s
screams;

Where some lone spirit of the desert gleams,

And lurid horrors wing the fateful hours

Now goaded frenzy grasps my shrinking brain,

Her touch absorbs the crystal fount of wo!

My blood rolls burning through each bursting
vein:

Away, lost lyre! unless thou can’st bestow

A charm, to lull that agonizing pain,

Which those who never love can never know!

Sonnet XXXVII.

When, in the gloomy mansion of the dead,

This withering heart, this faded form shall
sleep:

When these fond eyes at length shall cease to
weep,

And earth’s cold lap receive this feverish head;

Envy shall turn away, a tear to shed,

And time’s obliterating pinions sweep

The spot, where poets shall their vigils keep,

To mourn and wander near my freezing bed!

Then, my pale ghost, upon th’ Elysian shore,

Shall smile, released from every mortal care;

While doom’d love’s victim to repine no
more,

My breast shall bathe in endless rapture there!

Ah! no! my restless shade would still deplore,

Nor taste that bliss, which Phaon did not share.

Sonnet XXXVIII.

Oh sigh! thou steal’st the herald of the breast,

The lover’s fears, the lover’s pangs, to tell;

Thou bid’st with timid grace the bosom swell

Cheating the day of joy, the night of rest!

Oh! lucid tears! with eloquence confest,

Why on my fading cheek unheeded dwell,

Meek, as the dew-drops on the floweret’s bell

By ruthless tempests to the green-sod prest.

Fond sigh, be hush’d! congeal, O slighted
tear!

Thy feeble powers the busy fates control!

Or if thy crystal streams again appear,

Let them, like Lethe’s, to oblivion roll:

For love the tyrant plays, when hope is near,

And she who flies the lover, chains the soul!

Aa2r 187

Sonnet XXXIX.

On the low margin of a murmuring stream,

As rapt in meditation’s arms I lay,

Each aching sense in slumbers stole away,

While potent fancy form’d a soothing dream;

O’er the Leucadian deep, a dazzling beam

Shed the bland light of empyrean day!

But soon transparent shadows veil’d each ray,

While mystic visions sprang athwart the
gleam!

Now to the heaving gulf they seem’d to bend,

And now across the sphery regions glide;

Now in mid-air their dulcet voices blend:—

“Awake! awake!” the restless phalanx cried,

“See ocean yawns the lover’s woes to end;

Plunge the green wave, and bid thy griefs subside!”

Sonnet XL.

Yes, I will go, where circling whirlwinds rise,

Where threatening clouds in sable grandeur
lour;

Where the blast yells, the liquid columns pour,

And maddening billows combat with the skies!

There, while the demon of the tempest flies

On growing pinions through the troublous
hour,

The wild waves gasp impatient to devour,

And on the rock the waken’d vulture cries!

Oh! dreadful solace to the stormy mind!

To me more pleasing than the valley’s rest,

The woodland songsters, or the sportive kind,

That nip the turf, or prune the painted crest;

For in despair alone the wretched find

That unction sweet which lulls the bleeding
breast!

Sonnet XLI.

Oh! canst thou bear to see this faded frame,

Deform’d and mangled by the rocky deep?

Wilt thou remember, and forbear to weep,

My fatal fondness, and my peerless fame?

Soon o’er this heart, now warm with passion’s
flame,

The howling winds and foamy waves shall
sweep;

Those eyes be ever closed in death’s cold sleep,

And all of Sappho perish but her name!

Yet, if the Fates suspend their barbarous ire,

If days less mournful Heaven designs for me;

If rocks grow kind, and winds and waves conspire,

To bear me softly on the swelling sea;


To Phœbus only will I tune my lyre,

“What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee!” Pope. “Grata lyram posui tibi Phœbe, poëtria Sappho: Convenit illa mihi, convenit illa tibi.”Ovid.

Sonnet XLII.

While from the dizzy precipice I gaze,

The world receding from my pensive eyes,

High o’er my head the tyrant eagle flies,

Clothed in the sinking sun’s transcendent blaze.

The meek-eyed moon, ’midst clouds of amber
plays,

As o’er the purpling plains of light she hies,

Till the last stream of living lustre dies,

And the cool concave owns her temper’d rays:

So shall this glowing, palpitating soul,

Welcome returning reason’s placid beams,

While o’er my breast the waves Lethean roll,

To calm rebellious fancy’s feverish dream;

Then shall my lyre disdain love’s dread control,

And loftier passions prompt the loftier theme!

Sonnet XLIII.

Conclusive.

Here droops the Muse! while from her glowing
mind

Celestial sympathy, with humid eye,

Bids the light sylph, capricious Fancy, fly,

Time’s restless wings with transient flowers to
bind!

For now, with folded arms and head inclined,

Reflection pours the deep and frequent sigh,

O’er the dark scroll of human destiny,

Where gaudy buds and wounding thorns are
twined.

Oh, sky-born Virtue! sacred is thy name!

And though mysterious Fate, with frown severe,

Oft decorates thy brows with wreaths of
fame,

Bespangled o’er with sorrow’s chilling tear;

Yet shalt thou more than mortal raptures
claim,

The brightest planet of th’ eternal sphere!

Aa2v 188

Sonnet
to Amicus.

When the poor Exile, who, the live-long night,

Mark’d the pale moon-beam trembling on the
wave,

Doom’d, cold, forlorn, the howling winds to
brave,

From the bleak mountain spies morn’s silvery
light;

Soon he forgets his toilsome journey past,

With patient smile descends the rugged steep,

And in the valley, shelter’d from the blast,

Looks gayly forward, and forgets to weep!

So the sad traveller, in this world of care,

Led through the mazy labrynths of pain;

Sooth’d by false vows, and chill’d by cold
disdain,

By turns, the slave of hope and dark despair;

Still finds the balm, his anguish to beguile,

In Truth’s unerring voice, and Friendship’s
temper’d smile.

Sonnet
to Independence.

Supreme, enchanting power! from whose blest
source

The human mind receives its purest joys,

’Tis thine to check Oppression’s baneful course,

And smile indignant on Ambition’s toys!

Thy calm and open eye alike disdains

The tyrant’s threat, and the smooth flatterer’s
art;

The wealthy sycophant, in gilded chains,

Or the fair mask, that hides the recreant
heart

O nymph adored! still let my bosom share

Thy conscious joys, thy ecstacies divine!

Let tinsel glories deck the brow of Care;

Content and independence shall be mine!

So will I shun the base and little crowd,

Pitying the servile slaves, unpitied by the proud!

Sonnet.

Where, through the starry curtains of the night,

Soft whispering breezes wake the ruddy morn,

Whose sparkling eye darts forth retruning light,

Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn:


Where gaudy blossoms o’er the tufted vale,

Fling their soft breathings o’er the spicy gale,

From the lorn nightingale on yonder spray,

In melting murmures steals the love-fraught
lay;

Stranger to joy, and hopeless of relief,

At morn’s proud glow, and twilight’s pensive
hour,

Her widow’d breast its plaintive song shall
pour,

In all the luxury of tender grief:

For ah! nor morn, nor fragrant gales can move

The faithful heart, that mourns a truant love.

Sonnet
to
My Beloved Daughter.

When Fate in ruthless rage assail’d my breast,

And Heaven, relentless, seal’d the harsh de—
cree;

Hope, placid soother of the mind distress’d,

To calm my rending sorrows—gave me thee.

In all the charms of innocence array’d,

’Tis thine to sprinke patience on my woes,

As from thy voice celestial comforts flows,

Glancing bright lustre o’er each dreary shade.

Still may thy growing reasons’s light divine,

Illume with joy my melancholy bowers;

Still may the beams of sacred virtue shine,

To deck thy spring of youth with thornless
flowers:

So shall their splendid attributes combine,

To shed soft sunshine on my wintry hours.

Sonnet.

Night’s dewy orb, that o’er yon limpid stream

Its silent light in soft refulgence throws;

Yon limpid stream, whose quivering bosom
shows

The tender radience of the silvery beam:

Yon tangled wood, whose high and waving head

Hangs o’er the dashing torrent’s frothy
source;

Which wildly bounding from its pebbly bed,

Through the lone valley winds its dimpling
course;

Aa3r 189

Have oft, full oft, been witness to my wo,

When cold neglect, false hopes, and jealous
fears,

The ruby drops that in my bosom glow,

With icy touch transform’d to crystal tears;

Dear precious gems, still shall your rays impart

The brightest lustre of the feeling heart.

Sonnet.
The Peasant.

Wide o’er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,

Sweeps the high mountain’s top, and with its
breath

Swells the curl’d river o’er the plain beneath,

Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies.

The hardy peasant in his little cot

Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares:

No pamper’d luxury, no splendid cares,

Invade the comforts of his humble lot.

Born to endure, he labours through the day,

And when the midnight storm o’erspreads the
skies,

On a clean pallet peacefully he lies,

And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away;

Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find,

Health in his veins, and rapture in his mind.

Sonnet.
To Ingratitude.

“He that’s ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes pass for virtues in him.” Young.

I could have borne affliction’s sharpest thorn;

The sting of malice-poverty’s deep wound:

The sneers of vulgar pride, the idiot’s scorn;

Neglected love, false friendship’s treacherous
sound;

I could, with patient smile, extract the dart

Base calumny had planted in my heart;

The fangs of envy, agonizing pain;

All, all, nor should my steady soul complain:

E’en had relentless Fate, with cruel power,

Darken’d the sunshine of each youthful day:

While from my path she snatch’d each transient
flower,

Not one soft sigh my sorrow should betray;


But where ingratitude’s fell poisons pour,

Hope shrinks subdued—and life’s best joys
decay.

Sonnet.
To Evening.

Written under a tree, in the Woods of St. Amand, in
Flanders.

Sweet balmy hour!—dear to the pensive mind,

Oft have I watch’d thy dark and weeping
shade,

Oft have I hail’d thee in the dewy glade,

And dropp’d a tear of sympathy refined.

When humming bees, hid in their golden bowers,

Sip the pure nectar of May’s blushing rose,

Or faint with noon-day toils, their limbs repose,

In baths of essence stol’n from sunny flowers.

Oft do I seek thy shade, dear withering tree,

Sad emblem of my own disastrous state!

Doom’d in the spring of life, alas! like thee,

To fade, and droop beneath the frowns of Fate;

Like thee, may Heaven to me the meed bestow,

To shelter sorrow’s child, and soothe the tear of wo.

Sonnet.
The Mariner.

The sea-beat mariner, whose watchful eye

Full many a boisterous night hath waked to
weep;

When the keen blast descending from the sky,

Snatch’d his warm tear-drop from the ravenous
deep.

Drench’d by the chilling rain, his dreary hour

Creeps slowly onward to the dawn of day;

Till burning Phœbus, darting through the shower,

Warms with his gloden beam the frothy spray:

With lightning’s swiftness he ascends the mast,

And cries, “Another tedious noght is o’er;”

He spreads the swelling sail, he sees at last

His darling mistress, and his native shore;

The restless wanderer then forgets past pain,

Steals a fond kiss, and braves his fate again.

Aa3v 190

Sonnet.
To Philanthropy.

First blessing frail mortality can know!

Philanthropy divine! all-healing power,

Wandering untired to seek the haunts of wo,

Where ruthless sorrow lingers to devour;

Thou scorn’st the mummery of empty show;

Mankind thy kindred! while from pole to pole,

They seek the same inevitable goal,

Stung by distinctions, that from custom grow.

Thou know’st all light is less than mental day,

The Ethiop’s dusky brow, Circassia’s rose,

Are but the varying tints of breathing clay!

Life’s gilded pagaent, dazzling as it goes,

Stops at the sepulchre, and fades away,

To let the beggar and the prince repose.

Sonnet.

Written among the Ruins of an ancient Castle in
Germany, in the year 17861786.

Ye mouldering walls, where Titian colours
glow’d

And the soft minstrel’s echo charm’d the ear;

Alas! how changed your dreary haunts appear,

The solitary screech-owl’s dark abode.

Where in yon gothic wall fair forms divine,

Tripp’d with light heel, or swam with graceful
ease;

Now clasping ivy round the columns twine,

And loathsome weeds infect the midnight
breeze.

Those turrets wasting in the northern blast,

No more with burnish’d radiance proudly
glow,

But in small fragments on the pavement cast,

Heap the wild ruin on the plain below;

Mingling with dust thy mighty roofs are laid:

So man, the grandest work of Heaven, shall
fade.

Sonnet.

Laura to Petrarch.

O solitary wanderer! wither stray

From the smooth path the dimpled pleasures
love,

From flowery meadow, and embowering
grove,

Where Hope and Fancy smiling, lead the way!


To thee, I ween, full tedious seems the day;

While lorn and slow the devious path you
rove,

Sighing soft sorrows on the garland wove

By young desire, of blossoms sweetly gay!

Oh! blossoms! frail and fading! like the morn

Of love’s first rapture! beauteous all and pure,

Deep hid beneath your charms lies misery’s
thorn,

To bid the feeling breast a pang endure!

Then check thy wanderings, weary and forlorn,

And find friendship’s balm sick passion’s cure.

Sonnet.

The Tear.

Ah! lustrous gem, bright emblem of the heart,

That proudly scorns a borrow’d ray to share:

Whose gentle power can break the spells of
care,

And soothe with lenient balm the keenest smart.

Whether from holy friendship’s vow profaned,

Or the dire frenzy of unpitied love;

Whether from cherish’d passion unrestrain’d,

Or the worst pang the jealous mind can prove:

Yet, if sad Memory, lingering o’er past love,

Calls thee, soft trembler, from thy crystal
throne,

And sternly bids thy pearly incense flow,

E’en when the treacherous phantom, hope, is
flown:

How fickle are the gifts thy rays impart,

At once the balm and poison of the heart!

Sonnet.

Pale twilight! wrapp’d in melancholy grey,

Thee I adore! and all thy shadowy train:

Thy tears, that tremble on each blossom’d spray,

Thy breezy breath, that skims along the plain,

Fanning the bosom of the weary swain,

As home he saunters at the close of day,

While the hills echo at his thoughtless strain,

Of ditty old, or merry roundelay!

Where splendour gilds deceit, let pride control:

Mine be the low-rooof’d cot, and tranquil
mind,

Where truth, unvarnish’d, calm, and unconfined!

Shrinks not to scrutinize the conscious soul!

Let insects in meridian lustre shine;

The cool, the pensive hour of mental bliss be
mine!

Aa4r 191

Sonnet.

O busy world! since every passing day

Unfolds new scenes of agonizing wo;

Say, whither shall the child of misery go?

Where seek, ’mid thorns, one flower to deck his way?

My stormy hour presents no cheering ray;

For me, no summer morn shall proudly glow;

Round my chill’d heart the winds of winter
blow,

While fainting Hope but lingers to decay.

Oh, barbarous world! Why from my bleeding
breast

Bid peace, with all the pure affections, fly?

While round my couch Despair, in horrors
dress’d,

From my torn heart extorts th eternal sigh.

Bid me, oh! bid thy trembling victim rest,

For if he thus must live—’tis heaven to die!

Sonnet

To Liberty.

Ah, Liberty! transcendent and sublime!

Born in the mountain’s solitary crest;

Nature thy nurse; thy sire, exulting Time;

Truth the pure inmate of the glowing breast!

Oft dost thou wander by the billowy deep,

Scattering the sands that bind the level shore:

Or, towering, brave the desolating roar,

That bids the tyrant tempest lash the steep!

’Tis thine, where sanguinary demons lower,

Amidst the thickening host to force thy way;

To quell the minions of oppressive power,

And crush the vaunting nothings of the day!

Still shall the human mind thy name adore,

Till chaos reigns—and worlds shall be no more!

Sonnet.

O gold! thou poisonous dross, whose subtle
power

Can change men’s souls, or captive take the
will;

Thou, whose fell potency can save or kill,

Illume or darken life’s precarious hour.

Thou tipp’st the leaves of fancy’s fairest flower

With glittering drops: it feels the numbing
spell

Creep through each fibre slow; while every
ill

Of sordid misery blossoms to devour.


The bland and lustrous morn of mental grace

Thy touch contaminates: thy severing force

Breaks Friendship’s charm; bids Honour’s
wreath decay;

Tears the pure blush of love from Beauty’s face;

Arms bold Oppression in her ruthless course:

While the wide groaning world feels thy destructive
sway.

Sonnet,
Written at Sea, 1792-09-01Sept. 1, 1792.

While o’er the waste of waters, loud and deep,

I dimly trace the cliffs of Albion’s shore;

While evening’s shadows o’er the ocean sweep,

And wild winds whistle, as the billows roar;

For the poor hopeless mariner I weep;

For friends far off, and destined to deplore;

Who on their downy pillows calmly sleep,

While he alas! is doom’d to wake no more!

Yet why should fancy others’ woes reveal?

Have I not felt the rudest storms of fate,

And proved each pang the human heart can
feel?

Then Fortune, I defy thy fiercest hate

Henceforth, each sensate heart be hard as steel;

For where Despair resides, Reflection comes
too late!

Sonnet.

To Amicus.

When o’er the darken’d globe, the wings of
night

Sprinkle soft dews, or fan the chilling wind;

The solitary lover, hid from sight,

On the bleak rock, sits mournfully reclined:

Fix’d in the spells of melancholy thought,

Unmoved he hears the waves that dash below;

While his fond heart, with dire destruction
fraught,

Feeds on the misery of lingering wo:

But when the jocund day, above the hills

Lifts its bright crest, the murky shadows fly:

Hope’s soothing voice his soul with rapture fills,

And checks the tear just trembling in his eye.

So the loved Muse flies from the vapid throng,

Till charm’d and waken’d by thy dulcet song!

Aa4v 192

Stanzas.

“Absence lessens small passions, and increases
great ones; as the wind extinguishes tapers,
and kindles fires.”
Rochefoucault’s Moral Maxims.

Tell me, that nature welcomes rosy spring;

That plenty weaves a garland for her breast;

That summer spreads her renovated wing,

And smiles, in gay and glowing colours drest;

Tell me, that rapture is her handmaid fair;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair!

Tell me, autumnal suns, with fiercer power,

Come darting forth, earth’s bosom to adorn;

That many a whispering gale and silky flower,

Welcomes the lustrous glances of the morn;

Tell me, that round her flutters fragrant air;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair.

Tell me, that winter’s howling winds, and rain,

Strip the thatch’d cot, and scatter ruin wide;

That snows thick falling on the cheerless plain,

The scenes of pastime and of labour hide;

Tell me, that man is but the prey of care;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair!

Tell me, that melodies in every grove

Steal to the breast, and charm each throbbing
vein,

That hope gives swiftness to the wings of love,

Averts his dart, and heals his direst pain,

And bids blithe youth his softest transports
share;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair!

Tell me, that beauty fascinates the heart,

And binds each captive sense in thraldom
sweet;

That genius mocks the sting of envious art;

That baseness only cherishes deceit;

Tell me, that falsehood candour’s mark can
wear;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair!

Tell me, that wealth can purchase short-lived
fame;

That pride can trample on meek modest worth;

That idiot souls are flatter’d by a name;

That guilt is sanction’d by superior birth;

Tell me, that vice assumes a semblance fair;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair!

Tell me, that reason comes with sober eye,

To wean the soul from life’s delusive toys;

That dauntless truth, and mild philosophy,

Lead in their train unperishable joys;

Tell me, that wisdom laughs at taunting care;

But tell me not, that absence cures despair!


Each scene I’ve marked, and mark’d them all
decay;

Youth, hope, meek-bosom’d friendship, pleasure,
pain;

Cold winter’s storms, and summer’s radiant day;

Truth’s mental bliss, and folly’s low disdain:

And though condemn’d each mortal change to
share,

Still found, that absence could not cure despair!

Cupid Sleeping.

Inscribed to Georgina, Dutchess of Devonshire

Close in a woodbine’s tangled shade,

The blooming god asleep was laid;

His brows with mossy roses crown’d,

His golden darts lay scatter’d round;

To shade his auburn curled head

A purple canopy was spread,

Which gently with the breezes play’d,

And shed around a soften’d shade.

Upon his downy smiling cheek,

Adorn’d with many a dimple sleek,

Beam’d glowing health, and tender blisses;

His coral lips, which teem’d with kisses

Moist, glisten’d with ambrosial dew

That reach’d the rose’d deepest hue;

His quiver on a bough was hung,

His bow lay carelessly unstrung;

His breath mild odour scatter’d round,

His eyes an azure fillet bound:

On every side did zephyrs play

To fan the sultry beams of day;

While the soft tenants of the grove,

Attuned their notes to plaintive love.

Thus lay the boy—when Devon’s fee

Unknowning reach’d the lone retreat

Surprised to see the beauteous child

Of every dangerous power beguiled!

Approaching near his mossy bed,

Soft whispering to herself she said:—

“Thou little imp, whose potent art

Bows low with grief the feeling heart;

Whose thirst insatiate loves to sip

The nectar from the ruby lip;

Whose barbarous joy is prone to seek

The soft carnation of the cheek;

Now, bid thy tyrant sway farewell,

As thus I break each magic spell.”

Snatch’d from the bough, where high it hung,

O’er her white shoulder straight she flung

The burnish’d quiver, golden dart,

And each vain emblem of his art;

Borne from his power they now are seen

The attributes of Beauty’s queen!

Bb1r 193

While Love in secret hides his tears;

Dian the form of Venus wears! The author takes this method of acknowledging
the very flattering distinction this Poem has received,
in the exquisite Drawing taken from the
subject, by Mr. Westall.

Lines from Angelica. A novel, in three volumes, by the same author.

I wake from dreams of proud delight,

Where gorgeous visions blest my sight!

Where fancy rear’d Elysian bowers,

Adorn’d with never-fading flowers;

While radiant streams of beaming gold

Around the distant mountains roll’d!

And gossamer on light winds flew,

Sweeping the spangled fields of dew;

And weaving with a zephyr’s hand

A net-work o’er the glowing land.

The fervent orb, now spreading wide,

Shed all around a silvery tide;

From every stem, from every flower,

Fast fell the soft and brilliant shower;

Till with his flame-expanding eye

He traced the confines of the sky,

While his gold banner, wide unfurl’d,

Stream’d glorious o’er the rolling world!

O visions of supreme delight!

Why did ye quit my cheated sight?

Why did I wake to mark the hour

When winter’s angry tempests lour?

While on the warring whirlwinds fly

The fleecy fragments of the sky,

The pelting hail, the bleak blast wild,

That chills misfortune’s shivering child;

Where hopeless and forlorn she weeps,

Or to the dropping pent-house creeps,

To view with many a rending sigh

The lordly mansion towering nigh!

Where, while the keen blast cuts her breast,

The pamper’d cur sleeps warm at rest;

While for a famish’d parent’s woes

The tear of filial virtue flows,

There luxury spreads profusion wide,

To glut the iron breast of pride!

Hark! the shrill winds are whistling round!

Thy mantle, winter, wraps the ground;

In torrents fall thy hoarded tears,

Thy thickening breath absorbs the spheres;

Thy ebon pinions spread dismay—

And mock the sun’s enfeebled ray!


O winter, fly, thou sternest child,

That from the mass of chaos wild,

’Mid storms and howling tempests grew,

Thy kindred seasons to subdue!

Rock’d by the hurricane, or cast

Upon the swift wings of the blast;

Thy nurse, the boisterous north, whose hand

Bestowed the petrifying wand,

Taught thee, with desolating breath

To form the icy chains of death;

Till with resistless fury proud,

Exulting, pitiless, and loud,

Thou bad’st faint nature own thy hour,

And smot’st her with a giant’s power!

Now gliding on revolving years,

Thou chill’st the ocean, earth, and spheres!

Yet, transient is thy tyrant reign,

Ere nature wakes and smiles again;

Ere spring leads on the rosy hours,

Calls forth her perfumes, tints, and flowers;

Bids zephyrus unlock the streams,

And revel in the fostering beams,

While round the towering trunk they play,

To renovate the shrivell’d spray!

Then up the darting shafts of light,

The insect myriads bend their flight,

And mingling in a mazy throng,

With rapture hum their busy song,

To greet the proud effulgent ray

That deigns to gild their little day!

Oh! ye who nursed in misery’s breast

Have long forgot the hour of rest!

Ye who have traced with ceaseless tears

The seasons of disastrous years,

Behold the gaudy painted fly,

The offspring of a sunny sky;

And trust that He who gilds its wing

With all the rainbow hues of spring;

Who gives the lark its plumage gay

To skim along the floods of day;

Who bids the busy labouring ant

Foresee the freezing hour of want;

Who guides the spider’s vital loom

To weave th’ unwary insect’s doom,

Will teach the sensate reasoning mind,

To own his power, and bow resign’d!

To Him Who Lamented Seeing a Beautiful Woman
Weep.

The tear that falls from Lesbia’s eye,

Down her soft cheek in pity flows;

As ether drops forsake the sky,

To cheer the drooping blushing rose!

Bb Bb1v 194

For, like the sun, her eyes diffuse

O’er her fair cheeks so bright a ray,

That tears must fall like heavenly dews,

Lest the twin roses fade away!

The Admonition.

After the Manner of the Ancient Poets.

Lady! ’tis somewhat strange to find

You still are pleasing, still are kind,

Still gay and lovely, fair and free,

To all—but me!

Ah! lady! when those azure eyes

A knight right loyal would surprise;

If you are just, if you can see,

You’ll turn to me!

I first adored you in your prime,

I follow’d you with restless time;

Yet still a thousand charms I see

That still please me!

Some would declare those eyes were less

With speaking lustre taught to bless;

Yet temper’d sweetness now I see,

More dear to me!

Some would those scanty tresses scorn;

I think thy brows they best adorn

When they no longer wanton free,

Except for me!

’Tis true they are now sprinkled o’er

With silvery lustre; I adore

The placid hue—whose modesty

Most charmeth me!

They do not, like the golden day,

As erst in wild confusion play:

Such dazzling fires I hate to see,

They sicken me!

Thy smooth fair cheek its rosy hue

Hath lost; but though ’tis gone, I view

The tear of sensibility—

That witcheth me!

Soft airs of tender languishment,

And sighs, with tears of discontent,

For boys’ fond passion’s spring may be—

But not for me!

I cannot jealous fear endure:

If wounded much, I seek a cure;

I must be loved, fair nymph, or free:

So answer me?


I swear to love you, if you prove

Deserving such a lover’s love;

I swear till death your slave to be:

Then list to me!

But first my love must be repaid:

I cannot see my being fade,

And sigh and mourn, unless I see

You sigh with me:

Think, lady, you are past your prime,

And soon will be the slave of time!

For time will never constant be,

Lady, like me!

He changes with the passing hour,

He fades to dust the sweetest flower;

And you again may never see

A swain like me!

’Tis autumn, lady! summer’s o’er!

You will behold a spring no more!

Then let your winter moments be

Still gay with me!

The
Way to Keep Him.

A lover, when he first essays

A lady’s heart to gain,

A thousand tender fears betrays,

And talks of jealous pain!

All day he sighs, and sighing swears,

That love, and hope, and anxious cares,

Destroy his peace, his nights molest,

And agonize his “feeling breast!”

If not believed, he ardent pays

Obedient homage still!

And every gentle grace displays,

To gratify her will!

Where’er she goes, he follows true;

And if she flies him, he’ll pursue;

And if she frowns—he’ll still adore;

And if she scorns—he’ll doat the more!

Let her another kindly treat,

He sighs in hopeless pain;

Let her his eyes with coldness meet,

And every glance disdain;

Let her avoid him, wayward prone,

To favour all, save him alone!

Let others see her always glad,

But let him find her—ever sad!

Thus would you keep a lover still,

Unkind and careless prove;

For man is humble—treated ill!

And coldness fosters love!

Bb2r 195

Spurn him with harshness and he sighs;

Most servile, when most cross’d;

Reward with kindness—and he flies;

Adore him—and he’s lost!

Impromptu.

Says Time to Love, “Thou idle boy!

Thy art is now a jest!

Thy raptures only serve to cloy,

And freeze the modern breast.”

“True,” replies Love, “but why dost thou

This keen reproach bestow;

Since ’tis before thy wing I bow

Thy scythe has laid me low;

For what so dims the flame of Love?

(Since coldness is my crime)

Ah! what can so destructive prove

As thou, O chilling Time!”

To Arabella.

(After the Manner of the English Poets.)

My love, whene’er those radiant eyes

Their sunshine on this planet throw,

A thousand arrows Love supplies,

To fill thy lover’s heart with wo!

Lady! when from that rosy lip

The angry word in haste you speak,

My heart is like to sinking ship,

And through my stormy breast would break;

Yet lady! better thou shouldst chide,

Than I offend thy beauty’s pride.

Lady, whene’er you deign to smile,

Though winter frown, it still is spring!

For joy and fancy all the while

Are fluttering on hope’s sunny wing!

Then lady! smile, and let me prove

Each hour a summer day of love!

Bright eyes! then still your brilliance keep,

And lips still glow with ruby red;

And time, oh! never hope to sweep

With envious wing that golden head;

For know, when round my fair you play,

That Love will turn your scythe away!

Taste and Fashion.

Says Fashion to Taste, “I am strangely per
plex’d,

For nothing to please me you bring;

With whims and with changes for ever I’m
vex’d,

And still fancy is wild on the wing!


I’ve invented all things that caprice can devise,

I have mingled all colours—and still

The leaders of Fashion her fancy despise,

And in ridicule, laugh at my skill!

I have dressed and un-dress’d the fair nymphs
of our land,

I’ve display’d every charm they possess;

Like their grand-mother Eve, I have led the
gay band,

Or like Venus, have taught them to bless.”

“And ’tis therefore they scorn you! cried
Taste with a smile,

You have left them with no charm to display!

When I led the blithe phalanx, I taught them
the while,

To be sparing, and decent, and gay!

I told them, that beauty, when seen by all eyes,

Would the proud charm of novelty lose;

And that he is most constant who fearfully sighs,

She the most happy who learns to refuse!”

Let the daughters of Fashion to Truth then give
ear,

Let them hide the fair charms they possess:

And tributes of Fame at their feet shall appear,

And mankind shall their empire confess.

Impromptu
on
* * * *.

When Myra bloom’d at gay fifteen,

Mankind proclaim’d her beauty’s queen,

And every heart adored her:

Now Myra trembles at three-score;

The barbarous sex, alas! no more

A single glance afford her!

Now slander occupies her hours

And spleen her wither’d form devours,

Of “envious fate” complaining!

’Tis thus we see the rose decay,

And all its beauties fade away,

The thorn alone remaining!

Fairy Rhymes.

Oberon’s Invitation to Titania.

Oh! come, my pretty love! and we

Will climb the dewy hill together;

An acorn shall our goblet be,

A rose our couch in sunny weather;

Bb2v 196

Amidst its fragrant leaves we’ll lie,

Listening the zephyrs passing by!

Come, come, my pretty love, and sip

The dew that from each herb is flowing;

And let the insects round thy lip

With envy hover while ’tis glowing!

Beneath a spring-flower’s bell we’ll sing,

While southern gales shall fragrance bring.

Then haste, my pretty queen, and dress

Thy snowy breast with pearls of morning;

Thy smiles shall charm, thy voice shall bless,

Thy beauty every grace adorning!

By dawn-light o’er the daisied ground

We’ll sport, while fairies gambol round.

Ah! why delay, my pretty love!

The sun is sinking in the ocean,

The clear green waters slowly move,

The weary zephyrs scarce have motion!

Soon, soon the gloomy shades of night

Will want those eyes of starry light.

I’ve made thee, love, a canopy

Of tulips tinted rich—a cluster

Of golden cups is waving nigh,

Bathed in the moon-beams’ dewy lustre!

The softest turf shall be our floor,

With twinkling dew-drops spangled o’er!

Thy curtains are of insect’s wings,

With feather-grass festoon’d and corded;

And, for their tassels, zephyr brings

The thistle’s down, in winter hoarded.

Thy pillow is of swan-down fair,

“Which floats upon the summer air.”

Now, Oberon, thy love attends,

His heart with doubt and terror swelling;

While low his brow with sorrow bends,

To mark of love the lonely dwelling!

Oh! come! or ere night’s shadows fly,

The chilling breeze shall bid me die!

Titania’s Answer to Oberon.

In vain, for me, thy gifts display’d,

Meet the red eye of smiling morning;

I still will court the lonely shade,

Alike thy vows and splendours scorning!

Inconstant! every fairy knows

Thy love is like the gale that blows!

Thy oaths are like the summer flowers,

No sooner made than quickly faded;

Thy home, like April’s transient showers,

Now gay—and now by storms invaded!

Thy song is like the vagrant bird,

That sweet in every clime is heard!


Thy couch, so fragrant, rich, and gay,

Will fade ere love has learnt to sicken;

And thou wilt wander far away,

While hope declines, by falsehood stricken:

And o’er the moonlight dewy space

A thousand rivals fear shall trace!

False lover! to the shaggy steep

Titania flies, from thee and sorrow!

There, while beneath the waters sleep,

From night a sable veil I’ll borrow,

And on a thorny pillow rest,

Beside the bird of pity’s nest.

Yes, the lorn nightingale shall be

My only friend in hopeless anguish;

And to the star of evening we

Will tell, how faithful love can languish!

The owl shall watch us all night long,

Hooting the dreary cliffs among!

Go! vagrant lover! ’mid the throng

Of fairy rovers seek a dwelling;

While I in silence mourn my wrongs,

My sighs upon the cold breeze swelling:

Go! sport in wanton, idle play,

While moonlight scatters mimic day.

Go, where the sun its splendour throws

Upon the crest of yon tall mountain—

Go, drink oblivion to love’s woes,

Where evening gilds the lucid fountain:

Go, where inconstant zephyrs flee—

But think, ah! think, no more of me!

The Fortune-Teller,

A Gypsy Tale.

Lubin and Kate, as gossips tell,

Were lovers many a day;

Lubin the damsel loved so well,

That folks pretend to say,

The silly, simple, doting lad

Was little less than loving mad:

A malady not known of late—

Among the little-loving great!

Kate liked the youth; but womankind

Are sometimes given to range.

And oft the giddy sex, we find,

(They know not why)

When most they promise, soonest change,

And still for conquest sigh:

So ’twas with Kate; she, ever roving,

Was never fix’d, though always loving!

Bb3r 197

Stephen was Lubin’s rival; he

A rustic libertine was known;

And many a blushing simple she

The rogue had left—to sigh alone!

Kate cared but little for the rover,

Yet she resolved to have her way;

For Stephen was the village lover,

And women sigh for sovereign sway:

And he, who has been known to ruin,—

Is always sought, and always wooing.

Stephen had long in secret sigh’d;

And Stephen never was deny’d.

Now Lubin was a modest swain,

And therefore treated with disdain:

For, it is said, in love and war,—

The boldest most successful are!

Vows were to him but fairy things,

Borne on capricious Fancy’s wings;

And promises but phantoms airy,

Which falsehood form’d to cheat th’ unwary;

For still deception was his trade:

And though his traffic well was known,

Still every trophy was his own,

Which the proud victor, love, display’d.

In short, this Stephen was the bane

Of every maid—and every swain!

Kate had too often play’d the fool,

And now, at length was caught:

For she, who had been pleased to rule,

Was now, poor maiden, taught!

And Stephen ruled with boundless sway,

The rustic tyrant of his day.

Lubin had given inconstant Kate

Ten pounds, to buy her wedding gear:

And now, ’tis said, though somewhat late,

He thought his bargain rather dear.

For lo! the day before the pair

Had fix’d the marriage chain to wear,

A gypsy gang, a wandering set,

In a lone wood young Lubin met.

All round him press with canting tale,

And, in a jargon well design’d

To cheat the unsuspecting mind,

His listening ears assail.

Some promised riches; others swore

He should by women be adored;

And never sad, and never poor—

Live like a squire, or lord;

Do what he pleased, and ne’er be brought

To shame—for what he did or thought;

Seduce men’s wives and daughters fair,

Spend wealth, while others toil’d in vain.

And scoff at honesty and swear,—

And scoff, and trick, and swear again!


One roguish girl, with sparkling eyes,

To win the handsome Lubin tries;

She smiled, and by her speaking glance,

Enthrall’d him in a wondering trance.

He thought her lovelier far than Kate,

And wish’d that she had been his mate;

For when the fancy is on wing,

Variety’s a dangerous thing:

And Fancy, when she learns to stray,

Will seldom keep the beaten way.

The gypsy girl, with speaking eyes,

Observed her pupil’s fond surprise;

She begg’d that he her hand would cross

With sixpence; and that he should know

His future scene of gain and loss,

His weal and wo.—

Lubin complies. And straight he hears

“That he had many long, long years;

That he a maid inconstant loves,

Who to another slily roves;

That a dark man his bane will be—

And poison his domestic hours;

While a fair woman, treacherously,

Will dress his brow with—thorns and flow
ers!”

It happen’d, to confirm his care—

Stephen was dark,—and Kate was fair!

Nay more, that “home his bride would bring

A little, alien prattling thing

In just six moons!” Poor Lubin hears

All that confirms his jealous fears;

Perplex’d and frantic, what to do

The cheated lover scarcely knew.

He flies to Kate, and straight he tells

The wonder that in magic dwells!

Speaks of the fortune-telling crew,

And how all things the vagrants knew.

Kate hears; and soon determines, she

Will know her future destiny.

Swift to the wood she hies, though late,

To read the tablet of her fate.

The moon its crystal beam scarce show’d

Upon the darkly shadowed road;

The hedge-row was the feasting place

Where, round a little blazing wood,

The wandering, dingy, gabbling race

Crowded in merry mood.

And now she loiter’d near the scene,

Now peep’d the hazel copse between,

Fearful that Lubin might be near,

The story of her fate to hear.—

She saw the feasting circle gay

By the stol’n faggot’s yellow light;

She heard them, as, in sportive play,

They cheer’d the sullen gloom of night.

Nor was sly Kate by all unseen,

Peeping the hazel copse between!

Bb3v 198

And now across the thicket side

A tatter’d, skulking youth she spied;

He beckon’d her along, and soon,

Hid safely from the prying moon,

His hand with silver thrice she crosses—

“Tell me,” said she, “my gains and losses!”

“You gain a fool, the youth replies,

You lose a lover too.”

The false one blushes deep, and sighs,

For well the truth she knew!

“You gave to Stephen vows; nay more,

You gave him favours rare:

And Lubin is condemn’d to share

What many others shared before!

A false, capricious, guilty heart,

Made up of folly, vice, and art,

Which only takes a wedded mate

To brand with shame a husband’s fate.”

“Hush! hush!” cried Kate, “for Heaven’s sake, be

As secret as the grave!

For Lubin means to marry me;

And if you will not me betray,

I for your silence well will pay;

Five pounds this moment you shall have.”

“I will have ten!” the gypsy cries:—

The fearful, trembling girl complies.

But what was her dismay to find

That Lubin was the gypsy bold,

The cunning, fortune-telling hind

Who had the artful story told—

Who thus was cured of jealous pain,—

And got his ten pounds back again!

Thus fortune pays the lover bold!

But, gentle maids, should fate

Have any secret yet untold,—

Remember simple Kate!

Poor Marguerite.

Swift o’er the wild and dreary waste

A nut-brown girl was seen to haste;

Wide waving was her unbound hair,

And sun-scorch’d was her bosom bare;

For summer’s noon had shed its beams

While she lay wrapp’d in feverish dreams;

While, on the wither’d hedge-row’s side,

By turns she slept, by turns she cried,

Ah! where lies hid the balsam sweet,

To heal the wounds of Marguerite?

Dark was her large and sunken eye,

Which wildly gazed upon the sky;

And swiftly down her freckled face

The chilling dews began to pace:


For she was lorn, and many a day

Had, all alone, been doom’d to stray,

And many a night her bosom warm

Had throbb’d beneath the pelting storm;

And still she cried, “the rain falls sweet,

It bathes the wounds of Marguerite.

Her garments were by briars torn,

And on them hung full many a thorn;

A thistle crown she muttering twined,

Now darted on,—now look’d behind—

And here and there her arm was seen

Bleeding the tatter’d folds between,

Yet on her breast she oft display’d

A faded branch, that breast to shade:

For though her senses were astray,

She felt the burning beams of day;

She felt the wintry blast of night,

And smiled to see the morning light;

For then she cried, I soon shall meet

The plighted love of Marguerite.

Across the waste of printless snow

All day the nut-brown girl would go;

And when the winter moon had shed

Its pale beams on the mountain’s head,

She on a broomy pillow lay,

Singing the lonely hours away;

While the cold-breath of dawn-light flew

Across the fields of glittering dew:—

Swift o’er the frozen lake she past,

Unmindful of the driving blast,

And then she cried, the air is sweet—

It fans the breast of Marguerite.

The weedy lane she loved to tread

When stars their twinkling lustre shed;

While from the lone and silent cot

The watchful cur assail’d her not,

Though at the beggar he would fly,

And fright the traveller passing by:

But she, so kind and gentle seem’d,

Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam’d,

That savage fierceness could not greet

With less than love,—poor Marguerite!

Oft by the splashy brook she stood,

And sung her song to the waving wood;

The waving wood, in murmurs low,

Fill’d up the pause of weary wo;

Oft to the forest tripp’d along,

And inly humm’d her frantic song;

Oft danced mid shadows evening spread

Along the whispering willow-bed.

And wild was her groan,

When she climb’d, alone,

The rough rock’s side,

While the foaming tide

Dash’d rudely against the sandy shore,

And lightning flash’d amid the thunder’s
roar.

Bb4r 199

And many a time she chased the fly,

And mock’d the beetle humming by;

And then, with loud fantastic tone,

She sang her wild strain, sad—alone.

And if a stranger wander’d near,

Or paused the frantic song to hear,

The burthen she would soft repeat,

“Who comes to soothe poor Marguerite?”

And why did she with sun-burnt breast,

So wander, and so scorn to rest?

Why did the nut-brown maiden go

O’er burning plains and wastes of snow?

What bade her feverish bosom sigh,

And dimm’d her large and hazel eye?

What taught her o’er the hills to stray,

Fearless by night, and wild by day?

What stole the hour of slumber sweet,

From the scorch’d brain of Marguerite!

Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn

She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn—

Now on the jutting cliff she stands,

And clasps her cold and trembling hands;—

And now aloud she chants her strain,

While fiercely roars that troublous main.

Now the white breakers curling show

The dread abyss that yawns below,

And still she sighs, the sound is sweet,

It seems to say, poor Marguerite!”

Here will I build a rocky shed,

And here I’ll make my sea-weed bed;

Here gather, with unwearied hands,

The orient shells that deck the sands.

And here will I skim o’er the billows, so high,

And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning
sky;

And the sea-birds, that hover across the wide
main,

And sweep with their pinions the white
bounding plain;

And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest
meet,

Like the storm inthe bosom of poor Marguerite!

The setting sun, with golden ray,

Shall warm my breast, and make me gay.

The clamours of the roaring sea

My midnight serenade shall be!

The cliff, that like a tyrant stands

Exulting o’er the wave-lash’d sands,

With its weedy crown, and its flinty crest,

Shall, on its hard bosom, rock me to rest;

And I’ll watch for the eagle’s unfledg’d brood,

And I’ll scatter their nest, and I’ll drink their
blood;

And under the crag I will kneel and pray,

And silver my robe with the moony ray:

And who shall scorn the lone retreat

Which Heaven has mark’d for Marguerite!


Here did the exiled Henry stray,

Forced from his native land away;

Here, here upon a foreign shore,

His parents, lost, awhile deplore;

Here find, that pity’s holy tear

Could not an alien wanderer cheer:

And now, in fancy, he would view,

Shouting aloud, the rabble crew—

The rabble crew, whose impious hands

Tore asunder nature’s bands!

I see him still,—he waves me on!

And now to the dark abyss he’s gone,—

He calls—I hear his voice so sweet,—

It seems to say—poor Marguerite!

Thus wild she sung! when on the sand

She saw her long-lost Henry stand:

Pale was his cheek, and on his breast

His icy hand he, silent, prest;

And now the twilight shadows spread

Around the tall cliff’s weedy head:

Far o’er the main the moon shone bright,

She mark’d the quivering stream of light—

It danced upon the murmuring wave,

It danced upon her Henry’s grave!

It mark’d his visage, deathly pale,—

His white shroud floating in the gale;

His speaking eyes, his smile so sweet,

That won the love—of Marguerite!

And now he beckon’d her along

The curling moonlight waves among;

No footsteps mark’d the slanting sand

Where she had seen her Henry stand!

She saw him o’er the billows go—

She heard the rising breezes blow;

She shriek’d aloud! The echoing steep

Frown’d darkness on the troubled deep;

The moon in cloudy veil was seen,

And louder howl’d the night blast keen!

And when the morn in splendour dress’d,

Blush’d radiance on the eagle’s nest,

That radiant blush was doom’d to greet—

The lifeless form—of Marguerite!

The Confessor.

A Sanctified Tale.

When superstition ruled the land,

And priestcraft shackled reason,

At Godstow dwelt a goodly band,

Grey monks they were, and but to say

They were not always given to pray,

Would have been construed treason.

Yet some did scoff, and some believed

That sinners were themselves deceived;

Bb4v 200

And taking monks for more than men,

They proved themselves, nine out of ten,

Mere dupes of these old fathers hoary;

But read—and mark the story.

Near, in a little farm, there lived

A buxom dame of twenty-three;

And by the neighbours ’twas believed

A very saint was she!

Yet, every week, for some transgression,

She went to sigh devout confession.

For every trifle seem’d to make

Her self-reproving conscience ache;

And conscience, waken’d, ’tis well known,

Will never let the soul alone.

At Godstow, ’mid the holy band,

Old father Peter held command.

And lusty was the pious man,

As any of his crafty clan;

And rosy was his cheek, and sly

The wanderings of his keen grey eye;

Yet all the farmers’ wives confess’d

The wondrous power this monk possess’d;

Power to rub out the score of sin,

Which Satan chalk’d upon his tally;

To give fresh license to begin,—

And for new scenes of frolic rally.

For abstinence was not his way—

He loved to live—as well as pray;

To prove his gratitude to heaven

By taking freely all its favours,—

And keeping his account still even,

Still mark’d his best endeavours:

That is to say, he took pure ore

For benedictions,—and was known,

While reason oped her golden store,—

Not to unlock his own.—

And often to his cell went he

With the gay dame of twenty-three:

His cell was sacred, and the fair

Well knew, that none could enter there,

Who (such was Peter’s sage decree)

To Paradise ne’er bought a key.

It happen’d that this farmer’s wife

(Call Mistress Twyford—alias Bridget,)

Led her poor spouse a weary life—

Keeping him in an endless fidget!

Yet every week she sought the cell

Where holy father Peter stay’d,

And there did every secret tell,—

And there, at sun-rise, knelt and pray’d.

For near there lived a civil friend,

Than farmer Twyford somewhat stouter,

And he would oft his counsel lend,

And pass the wintry hours away

In harmless play;

But Mistress Bridget was so chaste,

So much with pious manners graced,

That none could doubt her!


One night, or rather morn, ’tis said,

The wily neighbour chose to roam,

And (farmer Twyford far from home)

He thought he might supply his place;

And, void of every spark of grace,

Upon his pillow rest his head.

The night was cold, and father Peter

Sent his young neighbour to entreat her,

That she would make confession free—

To him,—her saintly deputy.

Now, so it happen’d, to annoy

The merry pair, a little boy,

The only son of lovely Bridget,

And, like his daddy, given to fidget,

Enquired who this same neighbour was

That took the place his father left—

A most unworthy, shameless theft,—

A sacrilege on marriage laws!

The dame was somewhat disconcerted;

For, all that she could say or do,

The boy his question would renew,

Nor from his purpose be diverted.

At length, the matter to decide,

“Tis father Peter, she replied;

He’s come to pray,” The child gave o’er,

When a loud thumping at the door

Proclaim’d the husband coming! Lo!

Where could the wily neighbour go?

Where hide his recreant, guilty head—

But underneath the farmer’s bed?—

Now master Twyford kiss’d his child;

And straight the cunning urchin smiled:

Hush, father! hush! ’tis break of day—

And father Peter’s come to pray!

“You must not speak,” the infant cries—

“For underneath the bed he lies.”

Now Mistress Twyford shriek’d and fainted;

And the sly neighbour found, too late,

The farmer than his wife less sainted;

For with his cudgel he repaid

The kindness of his faithless mate,

And fiercely on his blows he laid,

’Till her young lover, vanquish’d swore

He’d play the confessor no more!

Though fraud is ever sure to find

Its scorpion in the guilty mind:

Yet, pious fraud, the devil’s treasure,

Is always paid in tenfold measure.

Edmund’s Wedding.

By the side of the brook, where the willow is
waving,

Why sits the wan youth, in his wedding-suit
gay!

Now sighing so deeply, now franticly raving,

Beneath the pale light of the moon’s sickly
ray?

Cc1r 201

Now he starts, all aghast, and with horror’s
wild gesture,

Cries, “Agnes is coming, I know her white
vesture!

See! see! how she beckons me on to the willow,

Where, on the cold turf, she had made our rude
pillow!

Sweet girl! yes I know thee! thy cheek’s living
roses
Are changed and grown pale with the touch
of despair;
And thy bosom no longer the lily discloses— For thorns, my poor Agnes, are now planted
there!
Thy blue, starry eyes are all dimm’d by dark
sorrow;
No more from thy lip can the flower fragrance
borrow;
For cold does it seem, like the pale light of
morning,
And thou smil’st, as in sadness, thy fond lover
scorning!
From the red scene of slaughter thy Edmund
returning,
Has dress’d himself gaily with May-blooming
flowers;
His bosom, dear Agnes! still faithfully burning, While, madly impatient, his eyes beam in
showers!
O! many a time have I thought of thy beauty— When cannons, loud roaring, taught valour its
duty;
And many a time have I sigh’d to behold thee— When the sulphur of war in its cloudy mist
roll’d me!
At the still hour of morn, when the camp was
reposing,
I wander’d alone on the wide dewy plain: And when the gold curtains of evening were
closing,
I watch’d the long shadows steal over the
main!
Across the wild ocean, half frantic, they bore
me,
Unheeding my groans, from thee, Agnes, they
tore me;
But, though my poor heart might have bled in
the battle,
Thy name should have echoed amidst the loud
rattle!
When I gazed on the field of the dead and the
dying—
O Agnes! my fancy still wander’d to thee! When around my brave comrades in anguish
were lying,
I long’d on the death bed of valour to be. For, severed from thee, my sweet girl, the loud
thunder,
Which tore the soft fetters of fondness asunder, Had only one kindness, in mercy, to show me— To bid me die bravely, that thou, love, may’st
know me!”

His arms now are folded, he bows as in sorrow,

His tears trickle fast down his wedding-suit
gay:

“My Agnes will bless me,” he murmurs, “to
morrow,

As fresh as the breezes that welcome the day!”

Poor youth! know thy Agnes, so lovely and
blooming,

Stern death has embraced, all her beauties entombing!

And, pale as her shroud, in the grave she reposes,

Her bosom of snow all besprinkled with roses!

Her cottage is now in the dark dell decaying,

And shatter’d the casements, and closed is the
door,

And the nettle now waves where the wild kid
is playing,

And the neat little garden with weeds is
grown o’er!

The owl builds its nest in the thatch, and there,
shrieking,

(A place all deserted and lonely bespeaking)

Salutes the night traveller, wandering near it,

And makes his faint heart sicken sadly to hear it.

Then, youth, for thy habit, henceforth thou
shouldst borrow

The raven’s dark colour, and mourn for thy
dear:

Thy Agnes for thee would have cherish’d her
sorrow,

And drest her pale cheek with a lingering
tear:

For, soon as thy steps to the battle departed,

She droop’d, and, poor maiden! she died broken
hearted;

And the turf that is bound with fresh garlands
of roses,

Is now the cold bed where her sorrow reposes!

The gay and the giddy may revel in pleasure,—

May think themselves happy their short summer-day;

May gaze, with fond transport, on fortune’s rich
treasure,

And, carelessly sporting,—drive sorrow away:

But the bosom, where feeling and truth are
united,

From folly’s bright tinsel will turn undelighted

And find, at the grave where thy Agnes is sleeping,

That the proudest of hours, is the lone hour of
weeping!

The youth now approach’d the long branch of
the willow,

And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw
them round:

“Here, here my sweet Agnes! I make my last
pillow,

My bed of long slumber shall be the cold
ground!

The sun, when it rises above thy low dwelling,

Shall gild the tall spire where my death-toll is
knelling;

And then the next twilight its soft tears is
shedding,

At thy grave shall the villagers—witness our
wedding!”

Cc Cc1v 202

Now over the hills he beheld a group coming,

Their arms glitter’d bright, as the sun slowly
rose;

He heard them their purposes, far distant, humming,

And welcomed the moment that ended his
woes!—

And now the fierce comrade, unfeeling, espies
him,

He darts through the thicket, in hopes to surprise
him;

But Edmund, of valour the dauntless defender,

Now smiles, while his corporal bids him—“Surrender!”

Soon, proved a deserter, stern justice prevailing,

He died! and his spirit to Agnes is fled:

The breeze on the mountain’s tall summit now
sailing,

Fans lightly the dew-drops that spangle their
bed!

The villagers, thronging around, scatter roses,

The grey wing of evening the western sky closes;

And night’s sable pall, o’er the landscape extending,

Is the mourning of Nature! the solemn scene ending!

The
Alien Boy.

’Twas on a mountain near the western main,

An alien dwelt. A solitary hut

Built on a jutting crag, o’erhung with weeds,

Mark’d the poor exile’s home. Full ten long
years

The melancholy wretch had lived unseen

By all save Henry, a loved little son,

The partner of his sorrows. On the day

When persecution, in the sainted guise

Of liberty, spread wide its venom’d power,

The brave Saint Hubert fled his lordly home,

And, with his baby son, the mountain sought,

Resolved to cherish in his bleeding breast

The secret of his birth—Ah! birth too high

For his now humbled state!—from infancy

He taught him labour’s task: he bade him cheer

The dreary day of cold adversity

By patience and by toil. The summer morn

Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed;

The noontide sultry hour he fearless pass’d

On the shagg’d eminence; while the young kid

Skipp’d to the cadence of his minstrelsy.

At night young Henry trimm’d the faggot fire,

While oft Saint Hubert wove the ample net

To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang

And talk’d, while sullenly the waves would
sound,

Dashing the sandy shore. Saint Hubert’s eyes


Would swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with
joy,

When he observed the opening harvest rich

Of promised intellect, which Henry’s soul,

Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.

Oft the bold youth, in question intricate,

Would seek to know the story of his birth;

Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill

Enquire, why he, and only one beside,

Peopled the desert mountain? Still his sire

Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure,

Varied the conversation. Still the mind

Of Henry ponder’d; for, in their lone hut,

A daily journal would Saint Hubert make

Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak

Of friends forsaken, kindred massacred;

Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes

For ever faded,—lost!

One winter time,

’Twas on the eve of Christmas, the shrill blast

Swept o’er the stormy main; the boiling foam

Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong,

That their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stole

To the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyes

Mark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moon

Gleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a
scene

Would make a stoic shudder! For, amid

The wavy mountains, they beheld, alone,

A little boat, now scarcely visible;

And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy,

Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!

Now the full moon in crimson lustre shone

Upon the outstretch’d ocean. The black clouds

Flew swiftly on, the wild blast following,

And, as they flew, dimming the angry main

With shadows horrible! Still the small boat

Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck

Upon the wide domain of howling death!

Saint Hubert sigh’d! while Henry’s speaking
eye

Alternately the stormy scene survey’d,

And his low hovel’s safety. So pass’d on

The hour of midnight,—and, since first they
knew

The solitary scene, no midnight hour

E’er seem’d so long and weary.

While they stood,

Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes

Fix’d on the troublous ocean, suddenly

The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,

Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side

Of the rude crag,—a human form was seen!

And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice,

And now the slippery weeds gave way, while he

Descended to the sands. The moon rose high—

The wild blast paused, and the poor shipwreck’d
man

Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning
steep

Cc2r 203

He mark’d the lonely exiles. Now he call’d;

But he was feeble, and his voice was lost

Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose

From the wild scene of clamour.

Down the steep

Saint Hubert hurried, boldly venturous,

Catching the slimy weeds from point to point,

And unappall’d by peril. At the foot

Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner

Seized on his outstretch’d arm, impatient, wild

With transport exquisite! But ere they heard

The blest exchange of sounds articulate,

A furious billow, rolling on the steep,

Engulph’d them in oblivion!

On the rock

Young Henry stood, with palpitating heart,

And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d,

Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew;

But, ’mid the elemental strife of sounds,

No human voice gave answer! The clear moon

No longer quiver’d on the curling main,

But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light,

Enough to show all things that moved around,

Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weeds

Waved, as the night-blast swept them; and
along

The rocky shore, the breakers sounding low,

Seem’d like the whispering of a million souls

Beneath the green-deep mourning.

Four long hours

The lorn boy listen’d! four long tedious hours

Pass’d wearily away, when, in the east,

The grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All alone

Young Henry stood aghast, his eye wide fix’d;

While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm,

Uncover’d, met its fury. On his cheek

Despair sat terrible! for, ’mid the woes

Of poverty and toil, he had not known,

Till then, the horror-giving cheerless hour

Of total solitude!

He spoke—he groan’d,

But no responsive voice, no kindred tone,

Broke the dread pause: for now the storm had
ceased,

And the bright sun-beams glitter’d on the breast

Of the green placid ocean. To his hut

The lorn boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,

The pillow still indented, met his gaze,

And fix’d his eye in madness.—From that hour

A maniac wild the alien boy has been;

His garb with sea-weeds fringed, and his wan
cheek,

The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, changed,

Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance

A sea-beat wanderer from the outstretch’d main

Views the lone exile, and with generous zeal

Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly

Darts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuit

To track him, where no footsteps but his own

Have e’er been known to venture! Yet he lives


A melancholy proof, that man may bear

All the rude storms of fate, and still suspire

By the wide world forgotten!

The Granny Grey.

Dame Dowson, was a granny grey,

Who, three-score years and ten,

Had pass’d her busy hours away,

In talking of the men!

They were her theme, at home, abroad,

At wake, and by the winter fire;

Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw’d,

In sunshine or in shade, her ire

Was never calm’d; for still she made

Scandal her pleasure—and her trade!

A grand-daughter Dame Dowson had—

As fair, as fair could be!

Lovely enough to make men mad;

For on her cheek’s soft downy rose

Love seem’d in dimples to repose;

Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly bright,

Like ether drops of liquid light,

Or sapphire gems,—which Venus bore,

When, for the silver-sanded shore,

She left her native sea!

Annetta was the damsel’s name;

A pretty, soft, romantic sound,

Such as a lover’s heart may wound,

And set his fancy in a flame;

For had the maid been christen’d Joan,

Or Deborah, or Hester,—

The little god had coldly prest her,

Or let her quite alone,

For magic is the silver sound—

Which, often, in a name is found!

Annetta was beloved; and she

To William gave her vows;

For William was as brave a youth

As ever claim’d the meed of truth;

And, to reward such constancy,

Nature that meed allows.

But old Dame Dowson could not bear

A youth so brave—a maid so fair.

The Granny Grey, with maxims grave,

Oft to Annetta lessons gave:

And still the burthen of the tale

Was, “Keep the wicked men away,

For should their wily arts prevail,

You’ll surely rue the day!”

And credit was to granny due,

The truth, she by experience, knew!

Cc2v 204

Annetta blush’d, and promised she

Obedient to her will would be.

But love, with cunning all his own,

Would never let the maid alone:

And though she dared not see her lover,

Lest granny should the deed discover,

She, for a woman’s weapon still,

From Cupid’s pinion pluck’d a quill;

And, with it, proved the human art

Cannot confine the female heart.

At length, an assignation she

With William slily made;

It was beneath an old oak tree,

Whose widely spreading shade

The moon’s soft beams contrived to break

For many a village lover’s sake.

But envy has a lynx’s eye;

And granny Dowson cautious went

Before, to spoil their merriment,

Thinking no creature nigh.

Young William came; but at the tree

The watchful grandam found!

Straight to the village hasten’d he,

And summoning his neighbours round,

The hedgerow’s tangled boughs among,

Conceal’d the listening wondering throng.

He told them, that for many a night

An old grey owl was heard;

A fierce, ill-omen’d, crabbed bird—

Who fill’d the village with affright.

He swore this bird was large and keen,

With claws of fire, and eye-balls green;

That nothing rested where she came;

That many pranks the monster play’d,

And many a timid trembling maid

She brought to shame,

For negligence that was her own:

Turning the milk to water clear,

And spilling from the cask small-beer;

Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,

And shewing imps in looking-glasses;

Or, with heart-piercing groan,

Along the church-yard path swift gliding,

Or, on a broomstick, witch-like, riding.

All listen’d trembling; for the tale

Made cheeks of ochre chalky pale;

The young a valiant doubt pretended;

The old believed, and all attended.

Now to Dame Dowson he repairs,

And in his arms enfolds the granny.

Kneels at her feet, and fondly swears

He will be as true as any!

Caresses her with well-feign’d bliss,

And, fearfully, implores a kiss;—

On the green turf distracted lying,

He wastes his ardent breath in sighing.

The dame was silent; for the lover

Would, when she spoke,


She fear’d, discover

Her envious joke:

And she was too much charm’d to be

In haste,—to end the comedy!

Now William, weary of such wooing,

Began, with all his might, hallooing:—

When suddenly from every bush

The eager throngs impatient rush;

With shouting, and with boisterous glee,

Dame Dowson they pursue,

And from the broad oak’s canopy,

O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,

They bear in triumph the old dame,

Bawling, with loud huzzas, her name:

“A witch, a witch!” the people cry,

“A witch!” the echoing hills reply:

Till to her home the granny came,

Where, to confirm the tale of shame,

Each rising day they went, in throngs,

With ribald jests, and sportive songs:

Till granny of her spleen repented;

And to young William’s ardent pray’r,

To take for life Annetta fair,—

At last—consented.

And should this tale fall in the way

Of lovers cross’d, or grannies grey—

Let them confess, ’tis made to prove—

The wisest heads—too weak for love.

Golfre,

A Gothic Swiss Tale,
in Five Parts.

Where freezing wastes of dazzling snow

O’er Leman’s lake rose towering,

The baron Golfre’s castle strong

Was seen, the silvery peaks among,

With ramparts darkly lowering!—

Tall battlements of flint uprose,

Long shadowing down the valley,

A grove of sombre pine, antique,

Amid the white expanse would break,

In many a gloomy alley.

A strong portcullis entrance show’d,

With ivy brown hung over;

And stagnate the green moat was found,

Whene’er the traveller wander’d round,

Or moon-enamour’d lover.

Within the spacious courts were seen

A thousand gothic fancies;

Of banners, trophies, armour bright,

Of shields thick batter’d in the fight,

And interwoven lances.

Cc3r 205

The Baron Golfre long had been

To solitude devoted;

And oft in prayer would pass the night,

Till day’s vermilion stream of light

Along the blue hill floated.

And yet his prayer was little mark’d

With pure and calm devotion;

For oft, upon the pavement bare,

He’d dash his limbs, and rend his hair,

With terrible emotion!

And sometimes he, at midnight hour,

Would howl, like wolves wide-prowling;

And pale the lamps would glimmer round—

And deep the self-moved bell would sound,

A knell prophetic tolling!

For, in the hall, three lamps were seen,

That quiver’d dim;—and near them

A bell-rope hung, that from the tower

Three knells would toll at midnight’s hour,

Startling the soul to hear them!

And oft a dreadful crash was heard,

Shaking the castle’s chambers!

And suddenly the lights would turn

To pale grey, and dimly burn,

Like faint and dying embers.

Beneath the steep a maiden dwelt,

The dove-eyed Zorietto;

A damsel bless’d with every grace—

And springing from as old a race,

As Lady of Loretto!

Her dwelling was a goatherd’s poor;

Yet she his heart delighted;

Their little hovel open stood,

Beside a lonesome frowning wood,

To travellers—benighted.

Yet oft, at midnight, when the moon

Its dappled course was steering,

The castle bell would break their sleep,

And Zorietto slow would creep—

To bar the wicket—fearing!

What did she fear? Oh dreadful thought!

The moon’s wan lustre streaming;

The dim grey lamps, the crashing sound,

The lonely bittern—shrieking round

The roof,—with pale light gleaming.

And often, when the wintry wind

Loud whistled o’er their dwelling,

They sat beside their faggot fire,

While Zorietto’s aged sire

A dismal tale was telling.

He told a long and dismal tale,

How a fair lady perished;


How her sweet baby, doom’d to be

The partner of her destiny,

Was by a peasant cherish’d!

He told a long and dismal tale,

How, from a flinty tower,

A lady wailing sad was seen,

The lofty grated bars between,

At dawnlight’s purple hour!

He told a tale of bitter wo,

His heart with pity swelling,

How the fair lady pined and died,

And how her ghost, at Christmas-tide

Would wander—near her dwelling.

He told her, how a lowly dame

The lady, lorn, befriended—

Who changed her own dear baby, dead,

And took the lady’s in its stead—

And then—“Forgive her, Heaven!” he said;

And so his story ended.

Part Second.

As on the rushy floor she sat,

Her hand her pale cheek pressing,

Oft on the goatherd’s face her eyes

Would fix intent, her mute surprise

In frequent starts confessing.

Then slowly would she turn her head,

And watch the narrow wicket

And shudder, while the wintry blast,

In shrilly cadence, swiftly pass’d

Along the neighbouring thicket.

One night, it was in winter time,

The castle bell was tolling;

The air was still, the moon was seen

Sporting her starry train between,

The thin clouds round her rolling.

And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,

Her timid bosom panting;

And now the crickets faintly sing;

And now she hears the raven’s wing

Sweeping their low roof, slanting.

And, as the wicket latch she closed,

A groan was heard!—she trembled!

And now a clashing, steely sound,

In quick vibrations, echoed round,

Like murderous swords assembled!

She started back; she look’d around,—

The goatherd swain was sleeping;

A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,

She would have call’d, but could not speak,

While through the lattice peeping.

Cc2v 206

And O! how dimly shone the moon

Upon the snowy mountain!

And fiercely did the wind blast blow,

And now her tears began to flow,

Fast as a falling fountain.

And now she heard the castle bell

Again toll sad and slowly;

She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—

She thought upon the dismal tale—

And pray’d with fervour holy!

And now her little string of beads

She kiss’d—and cross’d her breast;

It was a simple rosary,

Made of the mountain holly-tree,

By sainted fathers blest!

And now the wicket open flew,

As though a whirlwind fell’d it;

And now a ghastly figure stood

Before the maiden—while her blood

Congeal’d, as she beheld it;

His face was pale, his eyes were wild,

His beard was dark; and near him

A stream of light was seen to glide,

Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;

The bravest soul might fear him!

His forehead was all gash’d and gored,

His vest was black and flowing,

His strong hand grasped a dagger keen;

And wild and frantic was his mien,

Dread signs of terror showing.

“O fly me not! the baron cried,

In Heaven’s name, do not fear me!”

Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—

Three paly lamps they now behold—

While a faint voice, cried—“Hear me!”

And now, upon the threshold low,

The wounded Golfre, kneeling,

Again to Heaven address’d his prayer;

The waning moon, with livid glare,

Was down the dark sky stealing.

They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,

Tears to the red stream adding:

The haughty Golfre gazed, admired!

The peasant girl his fancy fired,

And set his senses madding!

He prest her hand; she turn’d away,

Her blushes deeper glowing,

Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears:

So the wild rose more fresh appears

When the soft dews are flowing!


Again the baron fondly gazed;

Poor Zorietto trembled;

And Golfre watch’d her throbbing breast,

Which seem’d with weighty woes oppress’d,

And softest love dissembled.

The goatherd fourscore years had seen,

And he was sick and needy;

The baron wore a sword of gold,

Which poverty might well behold

With eyes wide stretch’d and greedy!

The dawn arose! the yellow light

Around the Alps spread cheering!

The baron kiss’d the goatherd’s child—

“Farewell!” she cried, and blushing smiled—

No future peril fearing.

Now Golfre homeward bent his way,

His breast with passion burning:

The chapel bell was rung for prayer,

And all—save Golfre, prostrate there—

Thank’d Heaven for his returning!

Part Third.

Three times the orient ray was seen

Above the east cliff mounting,

When Golfre sought the cottage grace,

To share the honours of his race,

With treasures beyond counting!

Th’ evening sun was burning red,

The twilight veil spread slowly,

While Zorietto, near the wood

Where long a little cross had stood,

Was singing vespers holy.

And now she kiss’d her holly-beads,

And now she cross’d her breast;

The night-dew fell from every tree—

It fell upon her rosary,

Like tears of heaven twice bless’d!

She knelt upon the brown moss cold,

She knelt with eyes mild beaming!

The day had closed, she heard a sigh!

She mark’d the clear and frosty sky

With starry lustre gleaming.

She rose; she heard the draw-bridge chains

Loud clanking down the valley;

She mark’d the yellow torches shine

Between the antique groves of pine,

Bright’ning each gloomy alley

And now the breeze began to blow,

Soft-stealing up the mountain;

Cc4r 207

It seem’d at first a dulcet sound—

Like mingled waters, wandering round,

Slow falling from a fountain.

And now, in wilder tone it rose,

The white peaks sweeping shrilly:

It play’d amidst her golden hair,

It kiss’d her bosom cold and fair,

And sweet as vale-born lily!

She heard the hollow tread of feet

Thridding the piny cluster;

The torches flamed before the wind;

And many a spark was left behind,

To mock the glowworm’s lustre.

She saw them guard the cottage door,

Her heart beat high with wonder!

She heard the fierce and northern blast,

As o’er the topmost point it pass’d,

Like peals of bursting thunder!

And now she had hied her swift along,

And reach’d the guarded wicket;

But O! what terror filled her soul,

When thrice she heard the deep bell toll,

Above the gloomy thicket.

Now fierce the baron darted forth,

His trembling victim seizing;

She felt her blood in every vein

Move with a sense of dead’ning pain,

As though her heart were freezing.

“This night,” said he, “yon castle towers

Shall echo to their centre!

For, by the holy cross, I swear,”

And straight a cross of ruby glare

Did through the wicket enter!

And now a snowy hand was seen

Slow moving round the chamber!

A clasp of pearl it seem’d to bear—

A clasp of pearl most rich and rare!

Fix’d to a zone of amber.

And now the lonely hovel shook,

The wicket open flying;

And by the croaking raven flew,

And, whistling shrill, the night-blast blew,

Like shrieks that mark the dying!

But suddenly the tumult ceased—

And silence, still more fearful,

Around her little chamber spread,

Such horrors as attend the dead,

Where no sun glitters cheerful!

“Now, Jesu, hear me!” Golfre cried;

“Hear me!” a faint voice mutter’d!


The baron drew his poniard forth—

The maiden sunk upon the earth,

And—“Save me, Heaven!” she utter’d.

“Yes Heaven will save thee, Golfre said,

Save thee to be my bride!”

But while he spoke, a beam of light

Shone on her bosom, deathly white,

Then onward seem’d to glide.

And now the goatherd, on his knees,

With frantic accent cried,

“O! God forbid! that I should see

The beauteous Zorietto be

The baron Golfre’s bride!”

Poor lady! she did shrink and fall,

As leaves fall in September!

Then be not baron Golfre’s bride—

Alack! in yon black tower she died—

Full well I do remember!

Oft to the lattice grate I stole,

To hear her sweetly singing;

And oft, whole nights, beside the moat,

I listen’d to the dying note—

Till matin’s bell was ringing.

And when she died! poor lady dear!

A sack of gold she gave,

That masses every Christmas day

Twelve bare-foot monks should sing, or say,

Slow moving round her grace.

That, at the holy Virgin’s shrine,

Three lamps should burn for ever—

That every month the bell should toll,

For prayers to save her husband’s soul—

I shall forget it never!

While thus he spoke, the baron’s eye

Look’d inward on his soul:

For he the masses ne’er had said—

No lamps their quivering light had shed,

No bell taught to toll!

And yet the bell did toll, self-moved;

And sickly lamps were gleaming;

And oft their faintly wandering light

Illumed the chapel aisles at night,

Till morn’s broad eye was beaming.

Part Fourth.

The maid refused the baron’s suit,

For well she loved another;

The angry Golfre’s vengeful rage

Nor pride nor reason could assuage,

Nor pity prompt to smother.

Cc4v 208

His sword was gone; the goatherd swain

Seem’d guilty, past recalling:

The baron now his life demands,

Where the tall gibbet skirts the lands,

With blackening bones appalling!

Low at the baron’s feet, in tears,

Fair Zorietto kneeling,

The goatherd’s life required;—but found

That pride can give the deepest wound

Without the pang of feeling.

That power can mock the sufferer’s woes,

And triumph o’er the sighing;

Can scorn the noblest mind oppress’d,

Can fill with thorns the feeling breast,

Soft pity’s tear denying.

“Take me!” she cried, “but spare his age—

Let me his ransom tender;

I will the fatal deed atone,

For crimes that never were my own,

My breaking heart surrender.”

The marriage day was fixed, the towers

With banners rich were mounted;

His heart beat high against his side,

While Golfre, waiting for his bride,

The weary minutes counted.

The snow fell fast, with mingling hail,

The dawn was late and lowering;

Poor Zorietta rose aghast!

Unmindful of the northern blast,

And prowling wolves devouring.

Swift to the wood of pines she flew,

Love made the assignation;

For there the sovereign of her soul

Watch’d the blue mists of morning roll

Around her habitation.

The baron, by a spy appriz’d,

Was there before his bride;

He seized the youth, and madly strew’d

The white cliff with his streaming blood,

Then hurl’d him down its side.

And now, ’twas said, a hungry wolf

Had made the youth his prey:

His heart lay frozen on the snow,

And here and there a purple glow

Speckled the pathless way.

The marriage day at length arrived,

The priest bestow’d his blessing:

A clasp of orient pearl fast bound

A zone of amber circling round,

Her slender waist compressing.


On Zorietto’s snowy breast

A ruby cross was heaving:

So the pale snow-drop faintly glows,

When shelter’d by the damask rose,

Their beauties interweaving

And now the holy vow began

Upon her lips to falter!

And now all deathly wan she grew,

And now three lamps of vivid hue

Pass’d slowly round the altar.

And now she saw the clasp of pearl

A ruby lustre taking;

And thrice she heard the castle bell

Ring out a loud funereal knell,

The antique turrets shaking.

O! then how pale the baron grew,

His eyes wide staring fearful!

While o’er the virgin’s image fair

A sable veil was borne on air,

Shading her dim eyes tearful.

And on her breast a clasp of pearl

Was stain’d with blood fast flowing;

And round her lovely waist she wore

An amber zone; a cross she bore

Of rubies, richly glowing.

The bride her dove-like eyes to heaven

Raised, calling Christ to save her!

The cross now danced upon her breast;

The shuddering priest his fears confess’d,

And benedictions gave her.

Upon the pavement sunk the bride.

Cold as a corpse, and fainting;

The pearly clasp, self-bursting, show’d

Her beating side, where crimson glow’d

Three spots of Nature’s painting.

Three crimson spots of deepest hue!

The baron gazed with wonder:

For on his buried lady’s side

Just three such drops had Nature dyed,

An equal space asunder.

And now remembrance brought to view,

(For Heaven the truth discloses,)

The baby, who had early died,

Bore, tinted on its little side,

Three spots—as red as roses!

Now, ere the wedding-day had past,

Stern Golfre and his bride

Walk’d forth to taste the evening breeze,

Soft sighing mid the sombre trees,

That drest the mountain’s side.

Dd1r 209

And now, beneath the grove of pine,

Two lovely forms were gliding;

A lady, with a beauteous face!

A youth, with stern, but manly grace,

Smiled,—as in scorn deriding.

Close by the wandering bride they pass’d,

The red sun sinking slowly:

And to the little cross they hied—

And there she saw them, side by side,

Kneeling with fervour holy.

The little cross with golden tinged,

The western radiance stealing;

And now it bore a purple hue,

And now all black and dim it grew,

And still she saw them kneeling.

White were their robes as fleecy snow,

Their faces pale, yet cheerful:

Their golden hair, like waves of light,

Shone lustrous mid the glooms of night;

Their starry eyes were tearful.

And now they look’d to Heaven, and smiled,

Three paly lamps descended!

And now their shoulders seem’d to bear

Expanding pinions broad and fair,

And now they waved in viewless air!

And so the vision ended.

Part Fifth.

Now, suddenly, a storm arose,

The thunder roar’d tremendous!

The lightning flash’d, the howling blast,

Fierce, strong, and desolating, pass’d

The altitudes stupendous!

Rent by the wind, a fragment huge

From the steep summit bounded:

That summit, where the peasant’s breast

Found, ’mid the snow, a grave of rest,

By Golfre’s poniard wounded.

Loud shrieks across the mountain wild,

Fill’d up the pause of thunder:

The groves of pine the lightning pass’d,

And swift the desolating blast

Scatter’d them wide asunder.

The castle turrets seem’d to blaze,

The lightning round them flashing;

The draw-bridge now was all on fire,

The moat foam’d high with furious ire,

Against the black walls dashing.

The prison tower was silver white,

And radiant as the morning;


Two angel’s wings were spreading wide,

The battlements from side to side,

And lofty roof adorning.

And now the bride was sore afraid.

She sigh’d, and cross’d her breast;

She kiss’d her simple rosary,

Made of the mountain holly-tree,

By sainted fathers blest.

She kiss’d it once, she kiss’d it twice;

It seem’d to freeze her breast;

The cold showers fell from every tree,

They fell upon her rosary,

Like Nature’s tears, “twice blest!”

“What do ye fear?” the baron cried—

For Zorietto trembled.—

“A wolf, she sigh’d with whisper low,

Hark how the angry whirlwinds blow,

Like demons dark assembled!

That wolf which did my lover slay!”

The baron wildly started.

“That wolf accursed! she madly cried—

Whose fangs by human gore were dyed,

Who dragg’d him down the mountain’s side,

And left me—broken hearted!”

Now Golfre shook in every joint,

He grasp’d her arm, and mutter’d;

Hell seem’d to yawn on every side;

“Hear me!” the frantic tyrant cried—

“Hear me!” a faint voice utter’d.

“I hear thee! yes, I hear thee well!”

Cried Golfre, “I’ll content thee:

I see thy vengeful eye-balls roll—

Thou com’st to claim my guilty soul—

The fiends—the fiends have sent thee!”

And now a goatherd-boy was heard,

Swift climbing up the mountain:

A kid was lost, the fearful hind

Had roved his truant care to find,

By woodland’s side and fountain.

And now a murmuring throng advanced,

And howlings echo’d round them:

Now Golfre tried the path to pace,

His feet seem’d rooted to the place,

As though a spell had bound them.

And now loud mingling voices cried—

“Pursue that wolf, pursue him!”

The guilty baron, conscience stung,

About his fainting daughter hung,

As to the ground she drew him.

“O! shield me, holy Mary! shield

A tortured wretch!” he mutter’d.

Dd Dd1v 210

“A murderous wolf! O God! I crave

A dark, unhallow’d, silent grave—”

Aghast, the caitiff utter’d.

“’Twas I, beneath the goatherd’s bed,

The golden sword did cover;

’Twas I who tore the quivering wound,

Pluck’d forth the heart, and scatter’d round

The life-stream of thy lover.”

And now he writh’d in every limb,

And big his heart was swelling;

Fresh peals of thunder echo’d strong,

With famish’d wolves the peaks among

Their dismal chorus yelling!

“O, Jesu, save me!” Golfre shriek’d—

But Golfre shriek’d no more!

The rosy dawn’s returning light

Display’d his corse,—a dreadful sight,

Black, wither’d, smear’d with gore!

High on a gibbet, near the wood,

His mangled limbs were hung;

Yet Zorietto oft was seen

Prostrate the chapel aisles between,

When holy mass was sung.

And there three lamps now dimly burn,—

Twelve monks their masses saying;

And there the midnight bell doth toll,

For quiet to the murderer’d soul—

While all around are praying.

For charity and pity kind,

To gentle souls are given;

And mercy is the sainted power

Which beams through misery’s darkest hour,

And lights the way—to heaven.

Jasper.

I.

The night was long, ’twas winter time,

The moon shone pale and clearly;

The woods were bare, the nipping air

Across the heath, as cold as death,

Blew shrilly and severely,

II.

And awful was the midnight scene!

The silent river flowing,

The dappled sky, the screech-owl’s cry,

The blackening tower, the haunted bower,

Where poisonous weeds were growing!


III.

With footsteps quick, and feverish heart

One tatter’d garment wearing,

Poor Jasper, sad, alone, and mad,

Now chaunted wild, and now he smiled,

With eyes wide fix’d and glaring.

IV.

His cheek was wan, his lip was blue,

His head was bare and shaggy;

His limbs were torn by many a thorn;

For he had paced the pathless waste,

And climb’d the steep rock craggy.

V.

An iron window in the tower

Slow creek’d as it was swinging;

A gibbet stood beside the wood,

The blast did blow it to and fro,

The rusty chains were ringing.

VI.

His voice was hollow as the tone

Of cavern’d winds, and mournful;

No tears could flow, to calm his wo;

Yet on his face sat manly grace,

And grief, sublimely scornful!

VII.

Twelve freezing nights poor Jasper’s breast

Had braved the tempests yelling;

For misery keen his lot had been

Since he had left, of sense bereft,

A tyrant’s father’s dwelling.

VIII.

The father, who with lordly pride,

Saw him from Mary sever;

Saw her fair cheek in silence speak,

Her eyes blue light, so heavenly bright,

Grow dim, and fade for ever!

IX.

“How hot yon sun begins to shine!

The maniac cried aloud laughing:

I feel the pain that burns my brain;

Thy sulphur beams bids ocean steam,

Where all the fiends are quaffing.

X. Soft, soft the dew begins to rise, I’ll drink it while ’tis flowing; Down every tree the bright rills see, Quick let me sip, they’ll cool my lip, For now my blood is glowing. Dd2r 211 XI. Hark! the she-wolf howling by! Poor Jasper smiles to hear thee; For he can hide by the hedge-row’s side, While storms shall sweep the mountain’s steep; Then, she-wolf, can he fear thee? XII. Pale moon! thou spectre of the sky! I see thy white shroud waving: And now behold thy bosom cold— Oh! memory sad, it made me mad! Then wherefore mock my raving! XIII. Yes! on my Mary’s bosom cold Death laid his bony fingers. Hark! how the wave begins to lave The rocky shore!—I hear it roar— The whirling pilot lingers! Oh! bear me, bear me o’er the main! XIV. See the white sails are flying: Yon glittering stars shall be my car, And by my side shall Mary glide, Mild as the south wind sighing. XV. My bare-foot way is mark’d with blood— Well—what care I for sorrow? The sun shall rise to cheer the skies, The wintry day shall pass away, And summer smile to-morrow! XVI. ’The frosted heath is wide and drear, And rugged is my pillow; Soon shall I sleep beneath the deep— How calm to me that sleep will be, Rock’d by the bounding billow! XVII. The village clock strikes mournfully, It is my death-bell tolling; But though yon cloud begins to shroud The gliding moon, the day-stream soon Shall down yon steep come rolling. XVIII. Roll down yon steep, broad flood of light! Drive hence that spectre! Jasper Remembers now, her snowy brow— Tis Mary! see—she beckons me— O let me! let me clasp her!
XIX. She fades away! I feel her not,— She’s gone!—’tis dark and dreary: The drizzling rain now chills my brain, The bell, for me, tolls mournfully! Come, death! for I am weary. XX. I’ll steal beneath yon haunted tower, And wait the day-star’s coming; The bat shall flee at sight of me, The ivy’d wall shall be my pall— My priest, the night-fly humming. XXI. Yon spectre’s iron shroud I’ll steal, With frozen drops bespangled! The night-shade too, besprent with dew, With many a flower of healing power, Shall cool my bare-feet mangled. XXII. Is it the storm that Jasper feels! Ah, no! ’tis passion blighted! The owlet’s shriek makes white my cheek, The dark toads stray across my way, And sorely am I frighted. XXIII. Amid the broom my bed I’ll make, Dry fern shall be my pillow; And, Mary, dear! wert thou but here, Blest shall I be, sweet maid, with thee, To weave a crown of willow. XXIV. The church-yard path is wet with dew, Hence, ravens! for I fear ye! Fall, gentle showers, revive the flowers That feebly wave on Mary’s grave; But whisper—she will hear you! XXV. Beneath the yew-tree’s shadow long, I’ll hide me and be wary; But I shall weep when others sleep! Is it the dove that calls its love? No! ’tis the voice of Mary! XXVI. How merrily the lark is heard! The ruddy dawn advancing: Jasper is gay! his wedding-day To-morrow’s sun shall see begun, With music and with dancing! Dd2v 212 XXVII. How sullen moans the midnight main! How wide the dim scene stretches! The moony light all silver white, Across the wave, illumines the grave Of Heaven-deserted wretches! XXVIII. The dead-lights gleam, the signal sounds! Poor bark! the storm with beat thee! What spectre stands upon the sands? ’Tis Mary dear! Oh do not fear— Thy Jasper flies to meet thee”

XXIX.

Now to the silent river’s side

Poor Jasper rush’d unwary;

With frantic haste the green bank paced,

Plunged in the wave—no friend to save,

And, sinking, call’d—on Mary!

London’s Summer Morning.

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds

Of summer’s morning, in the sultry smoke

Of noisy London? On the pavement hot

The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face

And tatter’d covering, shrilly bawls his trade,

Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door

The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell

Proclaims the dustman’s office; while the street

Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins

The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts;

While tinmen’s shops, and noisy trunk-makers,

Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,

Fruit barrows, and the hunger-giving cries

Of vegetable venders, fill the air.

Now every shop displays its varied trade,

And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet

Of early walkers. At the private door

The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,

Annoying the smart ’prentice, or neat girl,

Tripping with band-box lightly. Now the sun

Darts burning splendour on the glittering pane,

Save where the canvas awning throws a shade

On the gay merchandize. Now, spruce and
trim,

In shops (where beauty smiles with industry),

Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger

Peeps through the window, watching every
charm.

Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute

Of humming insects, while the limy snare

Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter

Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous,

To trim the half-fill’d lamp; while at his feet


The pot-boy yells discordant! All along

The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man cries

In tone monotonous, and side-long views

The area for his traffic: now the bag

Is slily open’d, and the half-worn suit

(Sometimes the pilfer’d treasure of the base

Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,

Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now

Bears his huge load along the burning way;

And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,

To paint the summer morning.

Lines.

Bid me the ills of life endure,

Ills that shall rend my heart!

Bid me resign the hope of cure,

And cherish endless smart!

Bid me a weary wanderer be,

But never bid me part from thee!

Bid me encounter vulgar scorn;

And, hopeless of relief,

Bid me awake each sadden’d morn,

To feed the source of grief!

Bid me from pomp and splendour flee,

But never bid me fly from thee!

Bid me o’er barren deserts rove,

O’er mountains rude and bare;

Bid me the keenest torments prove,

That feeling bosoms share!

Bid me no dawn of comfort see—

I’ll bear it all—if blest with thee!

Lesbia and Her Lover.

Lesbia upon her bosom wore

The semblance of her lover;

And oft with kisses she would cover

The senseless idol, and adore

The dear capricious rover.

Lesbia would gaze upon his eyes,

And think they look’d so speaking,

That oft her gentle heart was breaking;

While glancing round with frequent sighs,

She seem’d her lover seeking!

One day, says Reason, “Why embrace

A cold and senseless lover?

What charms can youthful eyes discover

In such a varnish’d painted face?

Prithee the task give over.”

Dd3r 213

Cried Lesbia, “Reason, wherefore blame?

Must you the cause be told?

My breathing lover I behold

With features painted just the same—

As senseless and as cold!

Then, Reason, ’tis the better way

The harmless to commend;

My breathing lover soon would end

My weary life, to grief a prey—

This never can offend!”

To Jealousy.

A thousand torments wait on love;

The sigh, the tear, the anguish’d groan!

But he who never learnt to prove

A jealous pang, has nothing known.

For jealousy, supreme of wo,

Nursed by distorted fancy’s power,

Can round the heart bid misery grow,

Which darkens with the lingering hour;

While shadows, blanks to reason’s orb,

In dread succession haunt the brain;

And pangs, that every pang absorb,

In wild convulsive tumults reign.

At morn, at eve, the fever burns,

While phantoms tear the aching breast;

Day brings no calm, and night returns,

But marks no soothing hour of rest.

Nor when the bosom’s wasted fires

Are all extinct, is anguish o’er;

For jealousy, which ne’er expires,

Can wound—when passion is no more.

To a Friend
Who Asked the Author’s Opinion of
a Kiss.

“What is a kiss?” ’tis but a seal

That, warmly printed, soon decays;

’Tis but a zephyr taught to steal

Where fleeting falsehood, smiling, plays.

The breeze will kiss the flower—but soon

From flower to weed inconstant blows:

Such is the kiss of love, the boon

Which fickle fancy oft bestows.


A perfumed kiss once Venus gave

The rose that caught her lover’s sigh;

That rose with every gale would wave,

At every glance of morning die:

Would give its radiance to the beam

Which glowing noon promiscuous threw;

Or to the twilight’s parting gleam

Would yield responsive tears of dew.

Oft to the bee its love would give,

And breathe its odours wild around;

With honied sweets bid pleasure live,

Or with its hidden mischiefs wound.

This rose was white, and to be blest,

Around it insect myriads flew,

Charm’d by the wonders of its breast,

Thrice essenced in the summer dew.

But when the lip of beauty shed

A rival sweetness on that breast,

It blush’d, and droop’d its fragrant head,

Ashamed to be so proudly blest.

Its colour changed, a crimson glow,

Fix’d on its alter’d form, appears;

While round the sighing zephyrs blow,

And Nature bathes its leaves in tears.

Then, does not every kiss impart,

In magic thrills of speechless pleasure,

Reproaches to the wandering heart,

That knows not how to prize the treasure?

O yes! then let thy bosom prove

No throb—but friendship’s throb divine;

And let the kiss of fickle love,

Capricious monitor,—be thine!

A Reflection.

The loathsome toad, whose misery feeds

On noxious dews and baneful weeds,

Disgusts the startled sight;

Yet, when the sultry vapours lower,

He drinks the poison from each flower,

Shook by the wings of night.

Behold the beauteous speckled snake,

Writhing amidst the leafy brake,

Gilt by the beams of day:

Mark, as the wandering victim’s eyes

Fix on its dazzling orient dyes,

The traitor stings its prey!

Trace, then, the moral, simply true;

Here Nature’s varying picture view,

Where outward forms deceive;

Dd3v 214

Where worth in loathsome garb we find,

While glittering vice, with power combined,

In splendid baseness live!

The
Poet’s Garret.

Come, sportive fancy! come with me, and trace

The poet’s attic home! the lofty seat

Of the heaven-tutor’d nine! the airy throne

Of bold imagination, rapture fraught

Above the herds of mortals. All around

A solemn stillness seems to guard the scene,

Nursing the brood of thought—a thriving brood

In the rich mazes of the cultured brain.

Upon thy altar, an old worm-eat board,

The pannel of a broken door, or lid

Of a strong coffer, placed on three-legg’d stool,

Stand quires of paper, white and beautiful!

Paper, by destiny ordain’d to be

Scrawl’d o’er and blotted; dash’d, and scratch’d,
and torn;

Or mark’d with lines severe, or scatter’d wide

In rage impetuous! Sonnet, song, and ode,

Satire, and epigram, and smart charade;

Neat paragraph, or legendary tale,

Of short and simple metre, each by turns

Will there delight the reader.

On the bed

Lies an old rusty suit of “solemn black,”

Brush’d thread-bare, and, with brown, unglossy
hue,

Grown somewhat ancient. On the floor is seen

A pair of silken hose, whose footing bad

Shows they are travellers, but who still bear

Marks somewhat holy. At the scanty fire

A chop turns round, by packthread strongly
held;

And on the blacken’d bar a vessel shines

Of batter’d pewter, just half fill’d, and warm,

With Whitbread’s beverage pure. The kitten
purs,

Anticipating dinner; while the wind

Whistles through broken panes, and drifted
snow

Carpets the parapet with spotless garb,

Of vestal coldness. Now the sullen hour

(The fifth hour after noon) with dusky hand

Closes the lids of day. The farthing light

Gleams through the cobweb’d chamber, and
the bard

Concludes his pen’s hard labour. Now he eats

With appetite voracious! nothing sad

That he with costly plate, and napkins fine,

Nor china rich, nor fork of silver, greets

His eye or palate. On his lyric board

A sheet of paper serves for table-cloth;


A heap of salt is served,—oh! heavenly treat!

On ode Pindaric! while his tuneful puss

Scratches his slipper for her fragment sweet

And sings her love-song soft, yet mournfully.

Mocking the pillar Doric, or the roof

Of architecture Gothic, all around

The well-known ballads flit, of Grub-street
fame!

The casement, broke, gives breath celestial

To the long dying-speech; or gently fans

The love-inflaming sonnet. All around

Small scraps of paper lie, torn vestiges

Of an unquiet fancy. Here a page

Of flights poetic—there a dedication—

A list of dramatis personæ, bold,

Of heroes yet unborn, and lofty dames

Of perishable compound, light as fair,

But sentenced to oblivion!

On a shelf,

(Yclept a mantle-piece) a phial stands,

Half fill’d with potent spirits!—spirits strong,

Which sometimes haunt the poet’s restless brain,

And fill his mind with fancies whimsical.

Poor poet! happy art thou, thus removed

From pride and folly! for in thy domain

Thou canst command thy subjects; fill thy
lines;

Wield th’ all-conquering weapon Heaven bestows

On the grey goose’s wing! which, towering
high,

Bears thy sick fancy to immortal fame!

To John Taylor, Esq.

To the heart that has feeling, what gift is so
rare

As the wreath which the hand of true elegance
weaves?

’Tis the only delight which proud friendship
can share;

For bestowing it, tastes the same rapture it
gives!

Like the soft dews of morning, it flows from the
mind!

To expand the weak blossom, just waking to
day!

Like the sunbeam, with warmth and with lustre
combined,

It diffuses it perfumes, and bids it look gay!

Then think not the praises your kindness bestows,

Like the zephyrs, pass over my bosom, and
die;

For, I know ’tis from friendship the bright
current flows,

That reflects the small floweret with tints of
the sky!

Dd4r 215

With the fair hand of nature to guide me along,

I no laurel from art or from learning implore!

For my bosom, that prompts the rude efforts of
song,

Courts the wild-rose of Fancy, and asks for
no more!

The rose that pure friendship divests of its
thorns!

And the breath of fond praise bids eternally
bloom!

That through life the rough path-way with
fragrance adorns!

And with Hope’s gentle promise encircles the
tomb!

Lines

Sent by Peter Pindar to Mrs. Robinson, borrowing her Lap-Dog to paint his Likeness.

From her who sweeps the Sapphic lyre,

Come, pretty cur, whom I admire;

A moment quit her fond embrace.

Yes, little creature, haste away

Whate’er thy name, Bejoux or Tray;

And let me paint thy mop-like face.

O tell thy mistress, if she choose

Her idle moments to amuse

With my shock poll, instead of thine,

She’s welcome, up or in her bed,

To smooth my ears or pat my head,

And bid me on her breast recline.

Were this to happen, I should be,

O cur, a happier dog than thee.

The Answer.

By Mrs. Robinson.

O Peter! since thy sportive Muse

A puppy for her theme will choose,

How envied must his race of brothers be!

How will their mop-like tresses flow,

How will their mops and long ears glow,

When crown’d by genius, Peter, and by thee!

But thou, the Muses’ watch-dog, Peter,

Who scared the highest with thy metre,

Thou never wouldst a servile state survive:

Thou wouldst not wear a puppy’s chain,

But treating bondage with disdain,

Wouldst hope to lead where I would wish to
drive.


Then, Peter, boast a nobler pate,

Nor envy Shock’s inglorious state;

For, know, the puppy species I despise!

With thee I’ll wander, wake, or dream,

By Helicon’s immortal stream,

Where Peter guards a passage to the skies!

But if, in sportive vein, you seek

To paint a puppy’s whiskered cheek,

My little favourite shall your levee grace;

For oft, if they are not belied,

At levees, in due pomp and pride,

The highest patronize the fawning race.

My dog has something more to boast;

He scorns the cringing, sneaking host,

And looks to lasting wreaths by genius twined;

Since, Peter, with his magic help,

Will keep in countenance the whelp,

And prove the painter, like the puppy—kind!

To Leonardo.

And dost thou hope to fan my flame

With the soft breath of Friendship’s name?

And dost thou think the thin disguise

Can veil the mischief from my eyes?

Alas, sweet bard! the dazzling ray

Long round my fearful heart did play

In Reason’s sober mantle dress’d;

It pour’d warm incense on my breast,

My mind in rosy fetters bound,

Then, smiling, gave the insidious wound!

Yes, I have lived each bliss to feel

That o’er the sensate heart can steal;

Have tasted all that youth could bring

On giddy fashion’s painted wing;

Have mark’d the base and sordid mind

Couch’d in the sentiment refined!

Have known flush’d adulation’s song

The brain’s weak labyrinths wind among,

And with its feathery touch impart

Corroding anguish to the heart!

Have heard the soothing, specious tale

O’er the unguarded sense prevail,

In every varying clime the same,

Under the mask of Friendship’s name.

Harmonious bard! if thou hast found

Envenom’d Slander’s careless wound;

If hopes o’erthrown, and jealous fears,

Have drench’d thy manly cheek with tears;

If fell Caprice, insatiate fiend,

Has taught the darling of thy mind,

Unblushing, with the vile to rove

In the coarse path of vagrant love;

Dd4v 216

O scorn the wretch, subdue thy pains,

And soar exulting from her chains!

Yes, I can “triumph,” I can “bear,”

Can quell the ruthless fiend Despair;

Can brave Ingratitude’s keen dart,

And pluck it, rankling, from my heart.

But cease thy soft notes’ silver strain,

That wakes thy soul to living pain;

Cease to recall thy slumbering mind

To all the pangs it left behind:

Perhaps again love’s potent art

May wind a spell about thy heart,

May round its branching fibres twine

The thrilling joy, the hope divine,

Thy feeling breast again may prove

Th’ ecstatic harmonies of love.

Nor will I bend my lonely way

Where cheerless horror vails the day:

Can Lapland’s chilling spheres control

The genial warmth that swells the soul?

’Midst lakes of ice, or clouds of snow,

Thy swelling bosom still would glow;

Nor will its vivid powers decay

’Till life’s last flame shall fade away!

The
Snake and the Linnet;
A Fable.

Inscribed to Her who will remember it.

“Self-pamper’d ignorance, in fancied state, Frowns on the humbler dignity of worth! Through life’s short summer, miserably great; And, born illustrious—shames the pride of birth!”

Beside a wood, whose lofty shade

O’ercanopy’d the neighbouring glade,

Where no rude wanderer’s step was seen

To print the dew that gemm’d the green:

Where many a wild-flower, scatter’d round,

Shed fragrance o’er the enamell’d ground;

Beneath a branch of verdant hue,

To chant its lays, a Linnet flew;

Tired of its life, it sought repose,

And pour’d its plaint, to soothe its woes:

For long the tuneful feather’d choir

Had vex’d its heart with envious ire;

And, conscious of its sweeter lays,

With insult mock’d its harmless days.

Its soft song echo’d through the grove,

Mild as the murmurs of the dove;


Not e’en the Lark’s melodious throat

Could emulate its thrilling note.

Oft, at still evening’s hour, it flew

To sip the drops of scented dew,

That, trickling from the cowslip’s head,

Adorn’d with pearls its mossy bed;

While owls and ravens, hovering near,

With screams discordant dinn’d its ear:

For hateful to th’ envious throng,

Are the sweet sounds of witching song;

And vainly shall its magic steal

O’er the dull mind that cannot feel.

Near, on a bank, with flowerets drest,

A speckled reptile form’d its nest;

Oft would it writhe in wanton play,

And bask beneath the solar ray.

The Snake the gentle warbler spy’d,

In all its charms—in all its pride;

And, dazzled with its lustrous dyes,

Its shining form, its brilliant eyes,

Flew round its head with curious gaze,

And wanton’d ’midst its leafy maze;

But, ah! the linnet’s ’witching strain

Assail’d its tasteless ears in vain;

For the fell snake, with murderous art,

Glanced at its breast, and stung its heart!

’Tis thus the fairest forms invite,

With glittering charms, the wondering sight:

We gaze upon the beauteous mien,

Nor dread its mischiefs while unseen;

Nor feel, that modest worth confess’d

Inflames with rage the envious breast;

While mean and fulsome flattery finds

A welcome pass—to vulgar minds!

Ode;
The Eagle and Flock of Geese.

How rarely, by the outward show,

The inward soul can mortals know!

How gaudy flits the insect’s wing,

While we gaze, heedless of its sting!

How lustrous to the startled eye

Seems the swift lightning, darting by!

But moralizing is so very old,

A fable shall, in lieu of it, be told.

Once on a time, an eagle bold,

(Appointed by his master, Jove,

O’er this terrestrial sphere to rove)

Held his high station on a sea-girt shore,

Where many a whitening billow roll’d,

Laving the strand with desolating roar!

Ee1r 217

Long had he tower’d the sovereign of the peak,

His cloud-roof’d nest defied the wind and
rain;

A solitude sublime,

Sacred to deathless Time!

No human foot the craggy height would seek,

Save where the ship-wreck’d soul, despairing,
clung

On the wild reeds that round it hung,

Or waved fantastic, mocking the roused main!

There, ’mid the deafening din of wind and
wave,

This lordly bird his daring eye would roll;

And oft his pinions in the green-deep lave,

And oft, with ravenous beak, the lesser birds
control:

The curlew’s yell, the bittern’s hollow cry,

Would greet the lofty despot passing by;

Till all the neighbouring rocks were left, and he

Reign’d tyrant of the cliff that bound the raging
sea.

Sick with the plenitude of power,

This eagle, in a gloomy hour,

Regardless of his master, Jove,

Resolved to rove;

And, skimming o’er the waters wide,

Ambition-taught, a new dominion tried.

On th’ ethereal floods of day,

He bent, with eager rage, his ardent way;

With steady eye he view’d the solar blaze,

And bask’d, undazzled, in meridian rays;

Full on the western gale his course pursued,

And, with imperious pride, bathed in the sunny
flood!

To make my fable short, this bird,

Like many of Ambition’s race,

With consciousness of strength was grown absurd,

Or, plainer speaking, sought his own disgrace:

The bird of mighty Jove (thought he)

May scatter wide the bolts of destiny.

Away he flies!

Thirsting for carnage, eager to embrue

His talons in the streaming blood

Of lesser birds (more useful and more good:)

For this proud eagle knew no joy

Like that which prompts the powerful to destroy!

Soon to a distant scene he came,

Where, on a yellow, broomy heath,

Quaffing the dawn’s resuscitating breath,

Waddled a flock of geese, peaceful and tame:

No towering wings had they, but fed content

On stubble, or what bounteous Nature sent;

And, till this luckless hour,

They felt, by an instinctive power,

That the wide mead, and golden heath,

The breezy morn, the sunny noon,


The dewy vale, soft twilight’s breath,

Sighing its odours to the modest moon;

Skies, seasons, herbage, water, wind,

Were all for Nature’s commoners design’d;

That the world-fostering sun

O’er all his equal journey run:

Poor fools! they little knew that Heaven’s best
things

Were portion’d out by birds with eagle wings;

That all the lord of sunny lustre seizes,

He hovers o’er, and gives them what he pleases;

That is to say, he lets them all alone

Provided he may call the airy world—his own!

The eagle now was hovering near;

The geese look’d up askance, and gabbled loud
with fear!

“Dull birds! the sun-eyed desolator cried,

Soon in your panting hearts my talons shall be dyed!

Plebeian brawlers! you shall know

That I was destined to subdue

Such things as you!

And crush your little empires base and low.

Look at these eyes,

Behold the fire that in them lies!

View my resistless wing,

Form’d from ethereal heights to spring!

Though gaunt my lofty form,

Toil-worn with many a busy storm,

With restless nights and restless days,

Still can I meet the sun with dauntless gaze;

That sun which lends me all his light

And sanctions my aerial flight;

Plebeians bold,

Shrink and behold!”

“Well!” cried a gander fierce and old,

“We listen, and we do behold!

We hear thee arrogant and vain,

Disturbing this our peaceful plain!

We know that fate has given thee power

O’er earth, and oceans vast to scower;

But what attends thy lofty flight?

Do you not ravage all you find,

Filling the harmless with affright,

And mangling our defenceless kind?

Shame on such cruel sport, away!

Go hide thy meagre form in shades,

Brave not the redden’d front of day,

But skulk in cavern’d rocks and gloomy glades.

No use art thou to human-kind;

For though with crimson rag, our race

Is driven to slaughter and disgrace,

Still are we for some good design’d:

And though we yield our little breath,

We save the creature man from death:

We feed him, and he finds his ends

In making humble birds his friends:

While fierce despoilers, such as thee,

But dash with bitter woes our cup of destiny!”

Ee Ee1v 218

So says the fable! Let the eagle’s wing

Above such lowly teachers fly;

For harmless, humble, peaceful birds, I sing,

Their fellow-commoner, and Nature’s laureat,
I!

Lines

Written on a Day of Public Rejoicing.

While shouts and acclamations rend the skies,

From the deep ocean, bleeding, cold, and wan,

See groaning spectres in a phalanx rise,

To mourn the miseries of ambitious man!

O’er them the rude sea dashes, mix’d with gore;

The wild winds howl in dreadful blasts along;

The sulphur showers upon the high deck roar,

And livid lightnings flash the waves among!

Here glides the parent, bleeding is his breast!

Here the lost husband falls, and, groaning,
dies!

Here the loved sons, the mother’s darlings, rest,

While o’er their mangled limbs the billows
rise!

Are these forgot? Oh! Nature! yet awhile

Shed the soft tear, and heave the tender sigh;

Suspend the shout of triumph, rapture’s smile;

And raise, in sorrow raise, the tearful eye.

Let reason, truth, religion’s power divine,

Call to the feeling and reflecting mind

The wretched sufferers who in anguish pine—

The soldier’s, sailor’s kindred—left behind!

And while the long-drawn pompous cavalcade

Bids clamorous exultation lift the head;

Let mild humanity the triumph aid,

And pity’s tear embalm the sainted dead!

The Swan.

Majestic bird! who lovest to glide

In all the plumed pomp of pride!

Who in the glassy stream all day

Pursuest the bright pellucid way!

Why art thou, bird of splendid grace,

More favoured then thy kindred race?

Why art thou form’d so wondrous fair,

With downy breast, and pinions rare?

And wherefore, on the liquid way,

Dost thou enjoy superior sway?

No song is thine, no thrilling note

Winds dulcet from thy beauteous throat;


No mazy flight thy wings essay

Along the burning plains of day!

No murmuring cadence marks in thee

Love’s soul-entrancing minstrelsy!

Thou canst not raise the eagle eye

To greet the sovereign of the sky!

No sweetly social instinct sways

The tenor of thy placid days;

Man finds in thee no cheerful song

To lead his weary feet along;

No mild domestic friend to pour

Soft music through life’s sombre hour:

For thou, to sullen pleasures prone,

Liv’st, proudly, for thyself alone!

The lark, that soars on early wing,

And, soaring, loves his joy to sing;

The swallow, who to distant skies,

Allured by gentler zephyrs, flies;

The thrush, that twitters while the dawn

Spreads purpling lustre o’er the lawn,

Are richer far in powers than thee,

With all thy vaunted majesty!

Then what avails thy lofty crest?

What all the down that clothes thy breast?

What thy slow-gliding haughty grace,

That scarcely moves the lucid space?

Man finds in thee no soft control

To heal the pain-inflicted soul!

For outward beauty’s pleasing power

Charms only for its little hour;

And reason sickens when we find

A form without a kindred mind!

Lines

On hearing a Gentleman declare, that no Women
were so handsome as the English.

Beauty, the attribute of heaven,

In various forms to mortals given,

With magic skill enslaves mankind,

As sportive fancy sways the mind.

Search the wide world—go where you will,

Variety pursues you still:

Capricious Nature knows no bound,

Her unexhausted gifts are found

In every clime, in every face,

Each has its own peculiar grace.

To Gallia’s frolic scenes repair,

There reigns the tiny debonnaire

The mincing step, the slender waist,

The lip with bright vermilion graced;

The short pert nose, the pearly teeth,

With the small dimpled chin beneath;

The social converse, gay and free,

The smart bon mot and repartée

Ee2r 219

Italia boasts the melting fair,

The pointed step, the stately air;

Th’ impassion’d look, the languid eye,

The voice of thrilling harmony;

Insidious love, conceal’d in smiles,

That charms, and as it charms, beguiles.

View Grecian maids, whose finish’d forms

Th’ admiring sculptor’s fancy warms;

There let thy wondering eye behold

The softest gems of nature’s mould;

The look that Reynolds learnt to trace

From Sheridan’s See the portrait of the late Mrs. Sheridan, in the
character of Saint Cecilia.
bewitching face.

Imperious Turkey’s pride is seen

In beauty’s luxuriant mien;

The dark and sparkling orbs that glow

Beneath a polish front of snow;

The auburn curl, which zephyr blows

About the cheek of glowing rose;

The shorten’d zone, the swelling breast,

With costly gems profusely dress’d,

Reclined in softly waving bowers,

On painted beds of fragrant flowers;

Where odorous canopies dispense

Arabia’s spices to the sense;

Where listless indolence and ease

Proclaim the sovereign wish—to please.

’Tis thus capricious fancy shows

How far her frolic empire goes:

On Asia’s sands, on Alpine snow,

We trace her steps where’er we go;

The British maid with timid grace,

The tawny Indian’s varnish’d face,

The jetty African, the fair

Nursed by Europa’s softer air,

With various charms delight the mind;

For fancy governs all mankind.

Stanzas,
Written for The Shrine of Bertha. A Novel, written by M. E. Robinson.

Pleased with the calm bewitching hour,

When evening shadows o’er the plain,

I seek my solitary bower,

And listen to the night-owl’s strain!

Here, where the woven ivy hangs,

Once the rich shrine of marble rose!

And chaste-eyed vestals sigh’d their pangs,

And bathed, with icy tears, their woes.


And here, where on the rugged ground

The sculptured fragments scatter’d lie,

Erst did the choral anthem sound,

And holy incense meet the sky.

What are ye now? ye arches drear,

What can ye show to soothe the breast?

Save pensive twilight’s frequent tear,

That falls in crystal lustre drest!

Yet o’er the scene of rude decay

Blithe nature darts the morning beam!

And here the blushing evening ray

Inspires the soul with fancy’s dram!

And here wan Cynthia sheds her light,

The shatter’d roofs and walls among;

And here the solemn hour of night

Is cheer’d by philomela’s song!

And here the pilgrim, poor and sad,

No kindred smile his breast to warm,

May find what cruel foes forbad,

A shelter from the howling storm!

Blow, blow, ye keen, ye ruthless winds!

Ye livid lightnings, dart around!

While terror freezes guilty minds,

And conscience owns the cureless wound.

Here can I view, unchill’d with dread,

The lofty aisle and shadowy dome;

The turrets tottering o’er the dead;

The long-drawn monumental gloom!

Here, still, without one holy rite,

The hapless Bertha’s form shall sleep!

While blushing rigour shrinks from light,

And Melancholy hides—to weep.

With Superstition gliding round,

A thousand ghastly shades shall gleam;

While o’er the dew-besprinkled ground

Steals the faint moon’s retiring beam!

Yet, hither shall the red-breast bring

The lily, and the palest rose;

And all the fairest flowers of spring,

To dress her bed—of long repose.

Oh, gentle bird! no wanderer rude

Shall bid thee from these ruins flee;

Blest minstrel of this solitude!

Still shalt thou sing—to solace me.

Stanzas.

The chilling gale that nipp’d the rose,

Now murmuring sinks to soft repose;

Ee2v 220

The shadowy vapours sail away

Upon the silvery floods of day;

Health breathes on every face I see;

But ah! she breathes no more on me!

The butterfly, with rain-bow wing,

Flits round the blushing front of spring;

And if a gloomy hour appears,

Fans her warm breast, and sips her tears,

Love wakes the feather’d choir to glee;

But ah! she smiles no more on me!

The jasmine wafts its perfume meek,

To kiss the rose’s glowing cheek;

Pale twilight sheds her vagrant showers

To wake Aurora’s infant flowers;

May smiles their native charms to see;

But ah! she smiles no more on me!

The sea-boy, by the tempest’s roar,

Dash’d on some rude and rocky shore,

Sees Hope, amidst the furious foam,

That points towards his distant home!

But I, alas! shall never see

Hope’s radiant beam reflect on me!

E’en Zembla’s freezing sons, forlorn,

Await their long-expected morn;

Swift to their icy cliffs they run,

To greet, at length, the tardy sun!

But dark despair shall never see

The dawn of comfort shine on me!

Then, far I’ll wander, where no ray

Breaks through the gloom of doubtful day;

There will I court the midnight hour,

The lingering dawn, the wintry shower;

For cold and comfortless shall be

Each future scene ordain’d for me!

Stanzas.
From The Shrine of Bertha.

Farewell! dear haunts of pleasing woes!

Ye sun-burnt vales and forests drear;

Where oft, at evening’s solemn close,

I drop the sad, the pensive tear.

Farewell! ye vineyards, whose rich glow

Derides the flaming orb of light!

Ye limpid streams, that brawling flow,

Ye vanes, that greet the traveller’s sight.

Farewell, ye shades of mountain pine,

Ye rude rocks, blackening o’er the wave;

And oh! farewell, dear rugged shrine,

That marks my Bertha’s lowly grave.


I go to paths of brighter hue:

Yet memory oft shall wander here;

And Fancy still shall flowerets strew,

Begemm’d with Pity’s holy tear!

And when to distant realms I stray,

To mingling scenes of pomp and glee,

Oft will I steal, loved shade, to pray,

And drop a tender tear for thee!

That tear perchance may give relief,

And medicine comfort to my woes!

For oft from sympathetic grief

The wounded bosom finds repose.

Oh! I would ruminate and mourn

From early dawn ’till fading eve;

For ’midst the gay this heart forlorn

Would turn to thee—and turn to grieve.

Still would my zealous care display

Each tribute thy sad fate demands!

Oft would I scatter garlands gay,

To shield thee from unhallow’d hands.

When morn, its sunny wings spread wide,

Should wake each flower of gaudiest hue,

Thy shrine should glow with softer pride,

My tears surpass its spangling dew!

And when at evening’s crimson hour

The bat and beetle flit around,

Faint echo, from yon mouldering tower,

Should greet my song’s prophetic sound.

And when the tissued veil of night

Should scatter wide a doubtful gloom,

Oft would I steal from mortal sight,

To weep and sigh o’er Bertha’s tomb!

But ah! farewell! no more thy strain

Shall vibrate through yon cloister’s shade;

No more enchant the village swain,

Or sooth to hope the love-lorn maid!

No more, when rapt in pensive mood,

The convent’s bell, with silver sound,

Shall echo through yon spectred wood,

To wake me from my dream profound;

No more the distant taper’s glare

Shall through the painted windows burn,

To mark the vesper hour of prayer,

And bid my truant steps—return!

Oh Bertha! since ordain’d to part,

Since destined from thy dust to stray,

Let resignation bathe my heart!

And thy meek spirit—guide my way.

Ee3r 221

The Miser.

Miser, why countest thou thy treasure,

Thy ill got hoards of paltry gold?

Hast thou a throb of secret pleasure

When conscience whispers soft and slow,

These are the shoals that from oppression flow,

For which thy fame is sold?

Why dost thou doat on useless ore?

Thou hast no joy in all thy wealth;

Thou never hear’st the simple poor

Bless thy benevolence, and cry,

While gratitude illumes the upraised eye,

“Heaven grant thee years of health!”

Why dost thou, in the gloom of night,

While the loud tempest rages wide,

Tremble with horror’s cold affright,

And, grasping every shining wo,

To some dark nook with faltering footsteps go,

Thy useless heaps to hide?

Dost thou not hear the thunder’s voice,

Reproving Heaven’s just vengeance, speak?

Dost thou not hear the fiends rejoice,

While on thy tottering roof obscure,

The tears of outraged Nature whelming pour,

To chill thy wither’d cheek?

See thy lean frame, thy sunken eyes;

Behold thy victor Death, and know,

That when the wretched miser dies,

No bosom pities—on his tomb

No grateful wreath of spring shall ever bloom,

No tear of friendship flow!

Forgotten—or, if not, abhorr’d!

Can all thy treasures left behind,

Bid memory thy toil reward,

Or meek religion breathe to Heaven

One prayer that thou may’st ever be forgiven,

O! miscreant unkind!

Thou that wouldst live beloved, caress’d,

Let sweet humanity be given

By thee to e’en a foe distress’d:

For where the child of virtue sighs,

Where genius to thy open threshold flies,

Know, ’tis the path to heaven!

Stanzas

Presented with a Gold Chain Ring to a once dear
Friend.

Oh! take these little easy chains,

And may they hold you while you live:


For know, each magic link contains

The richest treasure I can give!

An emblem, earnest, of my love!

Pure as gold that forms the toy;

The more ’tis tried, the more ’twill prove

Beyond the touch of base alloy.

As even as these links shall be

The giver’s mind, that scorns to range;

And, like the heart ordain’d for thee,

They may be broke! but cannot change!

Then, take the little shining toy,

And may it never quit thy sight;

And let it be my proudest joy,

To know my chains, though lasting, light!

A Fragment.

I love the labyrinth, the silent glade,

For soft repose, and conscious rapture made;

The melancholy murmurs of the rill,

The moaning zephyrs, and the breezy hill;

The torrent, roaring from the flinty steep,

The morning gales that o’er the landscape sweep,

The shade that dusky twilight meekly draws

O’er the calm interval of Nature’s pause!

Till the chaste moon, slow stealing o’er the plain,

Wraps the dark mountain in her silvery train!

Soothing, with sympathetic tears, the breast

That seeks for solitude, and sighs for rest!

To
the May Fly.

Poor insect! what a little day

Of sunny bliss is thine!

And yet thou spread’st thy light wings gay,

And bidst them, spreading, shine.

Thou humm’st thy short and busy tune,

Unmindful of the blast;

And careless, while ’tis burning noon,

How quick that noon be past!

A shower would lay thy beauty low;

The dew of twilight be

The torrent of thy overthrow,

Thy storm of destiny!

Ee3v 222

Then spread thy little shining wing,

Hum on thy busy lay!

For man, like thee, has but his spring,

Like thine, it fades away!

1795-01January, 1795.

Pavement slippery, people sneezing,

Lords in ermine, beggars freezing;

Titled gluttons dainties carving,

Genius in a garret starving.

Lofty mansions, warm and spacious;

Courtiers cringing and voracious;

Misers scarce and wretched heeding;

Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.

Wives who laugh at passive spouses;

Theatres, and meeting-houses;

Balls, where simpering misses languish;

Hospitals, and groans of anguish.

Arts and sciences bewailing;

Commerce drooping, credit failing;

Placemen mocking subjects loyal;

Separations, weddings royal.

Authors who can’t earn a dinner;

Many a subtle rogue a winner;

Fugitives for shelter seeking;

Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.

Taste and talents quite deserted;

All the laws of truth perverted;

Arrogance o’er merit soaring;

Merit silently deploring.

Ladies gambling night and morning;

Fools the works of genius scorning;

Ancient dames for girls mistaken;

Youthful damsels quite forsaken.

Some in luxury delighting;

More in talking than in fighting;

Lovers old, and beaux decrepid;

Lordlings empty and insipid.

Poets, painters, and musicians;

Lawyers, doctors, politicians;

Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes,

Seeking fame by different roads.

Gallant souls with empty purses;

Generals only fit for nurses;

School-boys, smit with martial spirit,

Taking place of veteran merit.

Honest men who can’t get places,

Knaves who show unblushing faces:


Ruin hasten’d, peace retarded;

Candour spurn’d, and art rewarded.

Impromptu

Sent to a Friend who had left his Gloves, by mistake,
at the Author’s house on the preceding evening.

Your gloves I send,

My worthy friend,

With no gallant intent:

With gauntlet I

No knight defy,

So take it as ’tis meant.

In merry mood,

’Tis understood,

That frolic fancy loves,

When eye-lids close

In sweet repose,

To steal a pair of gloves.

But neither here

(I vow and swear)

My sportive measures rule;

Too weak to wield

The daring shield,

Too old to play the fool.

Though dark their hue,

Their semblance true,

Like fortune’s frowns appear;

By absence torn,

Like me, they mourn

For him—who thought them dear.

Then take the pair,

And let them share

The warmth that from your breast

On all bestows,

The balm of woes,

Which gives to sorrow—rest!

These truant twins,

To mend their sins,

Shall wait your kind command;

And every day

Or sad, or gay,

Shall—take you by the hand.

In solitude

’Mid sorrows rude,

Or passion’s wildest storm,

Where’er you go,

Through weal or wo,

You’ll find them ever warm.

So fare you well;

This pair shall tell,

And tell with lungs of leather,

Ee4r 223

That friends who part,

Must know the smart

They never feel together.

Madrigal.

Love was a little blooming boy,

Fond, innocent, and true;

His every smile was fraught with joy,

And every joy was new!

Till stealing from his mother’s side,

The urchin lost his way;

And wandering far o’er deserts wide,

Thus, weeping, pour’d his lay:

“O Time! I’ll dress thy locks of snow

With wreaths of fragrant flowers;

And all that rapture can bestow

Shall deck thy fleeting hours:

But for one day, one little day,

Thy wings in pity spare;

That I may homeward bend my way,

For all my wreaths are there.”

Time, cheated by his tears and sighs,

The wily god confess’d;

When, soaring to his native skies,

He sought his mother’s breast!

Short was his bliss! the treacherous boy

Was hurl’d from clime to clime,

And found, amidst his proudest joy,

He’d still the wings of Time!

Anacreontic.

To Cupid.

Hither, god of pleasing pain,

Hither bring my wand’ring swain;

See, my bower is hung with roses,

On my couch Content reposes;

See, fond Hope her blush concealing,

O’er the ivy’d threshold stealing;

While to meet her, Bliss advances—

Mark their soft ecstatic glances!

Here shall Mirth his revels keep,

While dull Care retires to weep.

Now the myrtle wreaths divine

Round my auburn tresses twine;

See my white transparent vest

Scarce confines my beating breast;

Hark! the lyre’s melodious measure

Wakes the vapid soul to pleasure;


Light-heel’d Graces, tripping round,

Scarcely print the velvet ground:

Time arrests his busy wing,

And wantons in the sportive ring;

See! his scythe he throws away,

And scorns to stint the rapturous day!

See, advancing full of glee,

Laughing Health and Jollity!

Dapper fairies, skipping, strew

Fragrant buds begemm’d with dew!

See, the rosy god of wine,

Crown’d with clustering boughs of vine,

Sportive, mirth-inspiring guest,

Temperance leads to grace the feast!

See, the tuneful Nine advance;

And Valour, with his laurel’d lance;

And Sport, with glowing cheek of fire;

And bright-eyed Truth, and young Desire;

While in their train, with modest mien,

Divine Philanthropy is seen!

And gentle Friendship wandering nigh,

And Sympathy with tearful eye;

While godlike Genius, heaven’s best boast

Sheds radiance o’er the glittering host!

Come, then, god of pleasing pain,

Come, then, with my wandering swain;

See, my bower drops ruby wine,

Canopy’d with twisted vine!

See, in every citron grove,

Luscious fruits to feast my love.

Bring him quickly, darling boy!

Touch his heart with conscious joy:

If he pines with jealous fears,

With thy breath disperse his tears;

If he sighs repentant, say,

Love shall waft those sighs away!

Zephyr, whose enamell’d wing

Fans the perfumed breast of spring,

Essence on my pillow throws,

Pilfer’d form the musky rose;

Pillow! thou shalt ne’er be press’d

Till my vagrant love shall rest!

Say, thou rosy urchin, say,

Is not Life a fleeting day?

Morn, a scene of childish folly;

Evening, cold and melancholy?

Let us revel while ’tis noon;

Sombre night will shroud us soon.

See our star of twilight peep

O’er yon mountain’s dusky steep;

Round thy brow thy fillet bind:

Love that roves, is ever blind!

Soft, perhaps the truant swain

Sighs some other nymph to gain:

Gentle urchin, if ’tis so,

Let the silly wanderer go.

Ee4v 224

No, he comes! I own thy skill!

Now, let the fates do what they will!

Stanzas.

Teach me, love, since thy torments no precepts
can cure,

Since reflection and reason deny me relief;

Oh! teach me thy scorn and thy wrongs to endure,

While the balm of resentment shall solace
my grief.

Let my sighs never heave, let my tears never
flow,

Let the smile of contempt the stern victor
defy;

For the tear has a charm which no art can bestow,

And the language of love is the soul-breathing
sigh.

Let me shun the proud despot who causes my
care,

Lest the torture I suffer should feed his disdain;

For my tyrant delights in the pang of despair,

And the sound which he loves, is the deep
groan of pain.

I will traverse the desert, climb mountains untrod,

Where reflection shall sadden with legions
of woes;

I will cool my scorch’d brain on the dew-moisten’d
sod,

While around my torn bosom the loud tempest
blows.

Yet the mild breath of morning shall bid the
storm fly,

And the sun’s glowing wreath shall encircle
the steep;

But my bosom shall never forget the deep sigh,

Nor my eyes lose their vision that prompts
them to weep.

Then oh! where shall I wander in search of repose?

Where explore that oblivion that calms the
wrung breast,—

Since the lover finds sorrow wherever he goes,

And the world has for passion no pillow of
rest?

Anacreontic.

You say, my love, the drifted snow

Around our ivy roof is flying;


Why, what care I? our bosoms glow,

And love still smiles, the storm defying!

Love shall no angry tempest fear,

Though frowning skies the hail may scatter;

For still our guardian god is near,

Should howling blasts our hovel shatter.

Let icy bosoms freeze, while shrill

The north-wind blows around our dwelling;

Our bosoms know the glowing thrill,

And still with melting joys are swelling!

The hollow gust that passes by,

We scarcely hear, no danger fearing;

Yet love’s most soft and murmur’d sigh

Shall speak in accents sweetly cheering.

Our faggot fire shall brighter blaze,

Our bed of down invite to slumber;

And, ’till the morn shall spread its rays,

Time shall delicious moments number.

See the dull flame our taper shows,

How faint it burns!—well let it quiver;

The torch of love unwasted glows,

And still shall glow as bright as ever!

Anacreontic.
To Bacchus.

Is it the purple grape that throws

A lustre on the sparkling eye?

Is it the nectar-draught that glows

Upon the lip of ruby dye?

Is it the Bacchanalian set

That makes old Time his scythe forget;

And gives the long, long joyous night,

To fill the breast with rich delight?

Does wine expand the glowing soul?

Does friendship weave the magic vine,

And strengthen in the magic bowl?

Does genius own its power divine?

Does science smile, and wisdom find

The nectar cup expand the mind?

And does the morn’s returning light

Approve “the long, long joyous night?”

If so, thou rosy god! then take

My ardent vows, and give to mirth

The fleeting hour; for thou can’st make

This mortal scene a heaven on earth!

Bring, bring the magic cup, and we

Will laugh and chant the catch and glee,

That all the long and joyous night

Our hearts shall glow with rich delight!

Ff1r 225

But if thy purple stream should prove

The spell my finer sense to bind;

If it can dim the flame of love,

Or chill the source that warms the mind;

If reason, Bacchus, flies from thee,

I ne’er thy grovelling slave will be!

Nor will I share thy long, long night,

Which robs the soul of pure delight.

Anacreontic.

Bring me the flowing cup, dear boy,

And bring it full; for I

Must taste the grateful liquid joy,

And bid dull sorrow fly:

Bring, bring the sparkling cup divine,

And let its beverage, sweet, be mine.

Not with the purple luscious stream

Its crystal sides must glow;

Not with a feverish restless dream

Will withering anguish go;

Bring me the cup of beverage pure,

Which shall the wounds of memory cure.

Give to the Bacchanalian throng

Phœnicia’s perfumed glass,

While tipsy revelry and song

Greet time, and bid him pass:

I ask the goblet—not of wine,

I ask the limpid draught divine!

Let the hot sun beam give the fruit

A bloom of purple hue;

Let the pale moon, in silvery suit,

Scatter nocturnal dew;

I to the fountain clear will haste,

A healthful crystal cup to taste:

And now my feverish senses fine

A calm and soothing rest;

Sweet are the visions of my mind,

And tranquil is my breast:

For ’twas from Lethe’s sacred stream

I drank farewell to passion’s dream!

Morning.

Anacreontic.

The sun now climbs the eastern hill;

Awake, my love! thine eyes unclose!

Hark! near our hut the limpid rill

Calls thee, soft tinkling, from repose!


The lark soars high above thy couch of rest;

And on the plain the hunter’s cries

Call echo from the misty skies:

Awake, my love! those glances meet,

Which promise hours of blisses sweet!

The dew-pearls fall from every flower—

See how they glitter o’er the heath!

While balmy breathings fill the bower

Where love still sighs with softer breath.

’Tis time to wake, my love! the day

On sunny wing flies swift away:

Noon will thy velvet cheek annoy,

And evening’s dews will damp thy joy:

Then wake, my love! and ope thine eyes,

As bright, as blue, as summer skies!

We’ll hunt the rein-deer, chase the boar,

Thou shalt my Atalanta be!

And when out sportive toil is o’er,

Venus shall snatch a grace from thee!

Young Bacchus shall his ivy band

Receive from thy soft snowy hand;

And Time his scythe aside shall fling,

While rosy rapture holds his wing:

Then wake, my love! the sun his beam

Darts golden on the rapid stream.

Thy cheek shall bloom, as Hebe’s fair;

Thy lip shall steep’d in honey be;

The graces shall entwine thy hair;

The loves shall weave a zone for thee;

Thy feet shall bound across the waste,

Like Daphne’s by Apollo chased;

And every breeze that round thee blows,

Shall bring the fragrance of the rose.

Then come, my love! thy hours employ

No more in dreams—but wake to joy.

I hear thy voice, I see those orbs

As blue, as brilliant as the day;

Thy vermil lip the dew absorbs,

And scents thy breath like opening May;

Upon thy dimpled cheek the hue

Of summer’s blushing buds I view;

And on thy bosom’s spotless glow,

The whiteness of the mountain snow;

Ah! close those eyes again—for see,

All nature is eclipsed by thee!

Male Fashions for 17991799.

Crops like hedgehogs, high-crown’d hats,

Whiskers like Jew Moses;

Padded collars, thick cravats,

And cheeks as red as roses.

Ff Ff1v 226

Faces painted pink and brown;

Waistcoats stripp’d and gaudy;

Sleeves thrice doubled thick with down,

And straps to brace the body.

Short great-coats that reach the knees,

Boots like French postillion;

Worn the G— race to please,

But laugh’d at by the million.

Square-toed shoes, with silken strings,

Pantaloons not fitting;

Finger deck’d with wedding rings,

And small-clothes made of knitting.

Curricles so low, that they

Along the ground seem dragging;

Hacks that weary half the day

In Rotten-row are fagging.

Bull-dogs grim, and boxers bold,

In noble trains attending;

Science which is bought with gold,

And flatterers vice commending.

Hair cords, and plain rings, to show

Many a lady’s favour,

Bought by every vaunting beau,

With mischievous endeavour.

Such is giddy Fashion’s son!

Such a modern lover!

Oh! would their reign had ne’er begun!

And may it soon be over!

Female Fashions for 1799.

A form, as any taper, fine;

A head like half-pint bason;

Where golden cords, and bands entwine,

As rich as fleece of Jason.

A pair of shoulders strong and wide,

Like country clown enlisting;

Bare arms long dangling by the side,

And shoes of ragged listing!

Cravats like towels, thick and broad,

Long tippets made of bear-skin,

Muffs that a Russian might applaud,

And rouge to spoil a fair skin.

Long petticoats to hide the feet,

Silk hose with clocks of scarlet;

A load of perfume, sickening sweet,

Bought of Parisian varlet.


A bush of hair, the brow to shade,

Sometimes the eyes to cover;

A necklace that might be display’d

By Otaheitean lover!

A bowl of straw to deck the head,

Like porringer unmeaning;

A bunch of poppies flaming red,

With motley ribands streaming.

Bare ears on either side the head,

Like wood-wild savage satyr;

Tinted with deep vermillion red,

To shame the blush of nature.

Red elbows, gauzy gloves, that add

An icy covering merely;

A wadded coat, the shape to pad,

Like Dutch women—or nearly.

Such is caprice! but, lovely kind!

Oh! let each mental feature

Proclaim the labour of the mind,

And leave your charms to nature.

Anacreontic.

The day is past! the sultry west,

Its golden curtain closes!

My mossy couch is gaily drest

With leaves of summer roses—

For thee!

The day is past! the silvery moon

Will light the shadowy mountain soon;

Then, come, my love, let soft delight

Give downy wings to fleeting night—

With me!

The day is past! the rising dews

Spangle the meadows over;

Where buds retint their faded hues,

To greet the wandering lover—

Like thee!

The gossamer its silver thread

Winds round the glow-worm’s twinkling head;

The beetle sounds its drony horn,

And pearl-drops all the flowers adorn—

For me!

The purple vine its branches bends,

The bower of love confining;

And there the rosy god attends,

An ivy wreath entwining—

For thee!

The golden goblets foaming round,

Seem with impatient streams to bound:

Ff2r 227

Haste, haste, my truant, let thy lip

The cup of heavenly nectar sip—

With me!

But let not low and base desire

Degrade thy bosom’s feeling;

Let love illume his sacred fire,

The light of truth revealing—

For thee!

Let vulgar common natures rove

In paths of sordid, sensual love;

But know, the frozen, grovelling mind,

Nor friend, nor monitor, shall find—

In me!

Stanzas

To a Friend who wished to have my Portrait.

E’en from the early days of youth,

I’ve bless’d the sacred voice of truth—

And candour is my pride:

I always speak what I believe;

I know not if I can deceive—

Because I never tried.

I’m often serious, sometimes gay,

Can laugh the fleeting hours away,

Or weep for others’ wo:

I’m proud! this fault you cannot blame,

Nor does it tinge my cheek with shame:

Your friendship made me so.

I’m odd, eccentric, fond of ease,

Impatient, difficult to please;

Ambition fires my breast:

Yet, not for wealth or titles vain;

Let but the laurel deck my strain,

And dulness take the rest.

In temper quick, in friendship nice;

I doat on genius, shrink from vice,

And scorn the flatterer’s art:

With penetrating skill can see,

Where, mask’d in sweet simplicity,

Lies hid the treacherous heart.

If once betray’d, I scarce forgive;

And though I pity all that live,

And mourn for every pain,

Yet never could I court the great,

Or worship fools, whate’er their state;

For falsehood I disdain.


I’m jealous, for I fondly love;

No feeble flame my heart can prove,

Caprice ne’er dimm’d its fires

I blush to see the human mind,

For nobler, prouder claims design’d,

The slave of low desires.

Reserved in manner, where unknown;

A little obstinate, I own,

And apt to form opinion;

Yet envy never broke my rest,

Nor could self-interest bow my breast

To folly’s base dominion.

No gaudy trappings I display,

Nor meanly plain, nor idly gay,

Yet sway’d by fashion’s rule;

For singularity, we find,

Betrays to every reasoning mind,

The pedant or the fool.

I fly the rich, the sordid crowd,

The little great, the vulgar proud,

The ignorant and base:

To sons of genius homage pay,

And own their sovereign right to sway—

Lords of the human race.

When coxcombs tell me I’m divine,

I plainly see the weak design,

And mock a tale so common:

Howe’er the flattering strain may flow,

My faults, alas! too plainly show,

I’m but a mortal woman!

Such is my portrait—now believe

My pencil never can deceive,

And know me what I paint.

Taught in affliction’s rigid school,

I act from principle, not rule,

No sinner, yet no saint.

The
Old Beggar.

I.

Do you see the old beggar who sits at yon gate,

With his beard silver’d over like snow?

Though he smiles as he meets the keen arrows
of fate,

Still his bosom is wearied with wo.

Ff2v 228

II.

Many years has he sat at the foot of the hill,

Many days seen the summer sun rise;

And at evening the traveller passes him still,

While the shadows steal over the skies.

III.

In the bleak blast of winter he hobbles along

O’er the heath, at the dawning of day;

And the dew-drops that freeze the rude thistles
among,

Are the stars that illumine his way.

IV.

How mild is his aspect, how modest his eye,

How meekly his soul bears each wrong!

How much does he speak by his eloquent sigh,

Though no accent is heard from his tongue.

V.

Time was, when this beggar in martial trim
dight,

Was as bold as the chief of his throng;

When he march’d through the storms of the day
or the night,

And still smiled as he journey’d along.

VI.

Then his form was athletic, his eyes’ vivid
glance

Spoke the lustre of youth’s glowing day!

And the village all mark’d, in the combat and
dance,

The brave younker still valiant as gay.

VII.

When the prize was proposed, how his footsteps
would bound,

While the maid of his heart led the throng,

While the ribands that circled the May-pole
around,

Waved the trophies of garlands among!

VIII.

But love o’er his bosom triumphantly reign’d,

Love taught him in secret to pine;

Love wasted his youth, yet he never complain’d,

For the silence of love—is divine!

IX.

The dulcet toned word, and the plaint of despair,

Are no signs of the soul-wasting smart;

Tis the pride of affection to cherish its care,

And to count the quick throbs of the heart.


X.

Amidst the loud din of the battle he stood,

Like a lion, undaunted and strong;

But the tear of compassion was mingled with
blood,

When his sword was the first in the throng.

XI.

When the bullet whizz’d by, and his arm bore
away,

Still he shrunk not, with anguish oppress’d;

And when victory shouted the fate of the day,

Not a groan check’d the joy of his breast,

XII.

To his dear native shore the poor wanderer
hied;

But he came to complete his despair;

For the maid of his soul was that morning a
bride!

And a gay lordly rival was there!

XIII.

From that hour, o’er the world he has wander’d
forlorn;

But still love his companion would go;

And though deeply fond memory planted its
thorn,

Still he silently cherish’d his wo.

XIV.

See him now, while with age and with sorrow
oppress’d,

He the gate opens slowly, and sighs!

See him drop the big tears on his wo-wither’d
breast,

The big tears that fall fast from his eyes!

XV.

See his habit all tatter’d, his shrivell’d cheek
pale;

See his locks, waving thin in the air;

See his lip is half frozen with the sharp cutting
gale,

And his head, o’er the temples, all bare!

XVI.

His eye-beam no longer in lustre displays

The warm sunshine that visits his breast;

For deep sunk is its orbit, and darken’d its
rays,

And he sighs for the grave’s silent rest.

Ff3r 229

XVII.

And his voice is grown feeble, his accent is slow,

And he sees not the distant hill’s side;

And he hears not the breezes of morn as they
blow,

Nor the streams that soft murmuring glide.

XVIII.

To him all is silent, and mournful, and dim,

E’en the seasons pass dreary and slow;

For affliction has placed its cold fetters on
him,

And his soul is enamour’d of wo.


XIX.

See the tear, imploring, is fearful to roll,

Though in silence he bows as you stray;

’Tis the eloquent silence which speaks to the
soul,

’Tis the star of his slow-setting day!

XX.

Perchance, ere the May-blossoms cheerfully wave,

Ere the zephyrs of summer soft sigh;

The sun-beams shall dance on the grass o’er his
grave

And his journey be mark’d—to the sky.

The End.

Ff3v [Table of contents omitted]