The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems

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Title: Poems

Author: Robert Southey

Release date: June 1, 2005 [eBook #8212]

Most recently updated: August 24, 2014

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team

POEMS

by

Robert Southey

1797

GODDESS of the LYRE! with thee comes

Majestic TRUTH; and where TRUTH deigns to come,

Her sister LIBERTY will not be far.

Akenside.

SONNET.

With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begone

Life's upward road I journeyed many a day,

And hymning many a sad yet soothing lay

Beguil'd my wandering with the charms of song.

Lonely my heart and rugged was my way,

Yet often pluck'd I as I past along

The wild and simple flowers of Poesy,

And as beseem'd the wayward Fancy's child

Entwin'd each random weed that pleas'd mine eye.

Accept the wreath, BELOVED! it is wild

And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou

The humble offering, where the sad rue weaves

'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves,

And I have twin'd the myrtle for thy brow.

I have collected in this Volume the productions of very distant periods. The lyric pieces were written in earlier youth; I now think the Ode the most worthless species of composition as well as the most difficult, and should never again attempt it, even if my future pursuits were such as allowed leisure for poetry. The poems addressed to the heart and the understanding are those of my maturer judgment. The Inscriptions will be found to differ from the Greek simplicity of Akenside's in the point that generally concludes them. The Sonnets were written first, or I would have adopted a different title, and avoided the shackle of rhyme and the confinement to fourteen lines.

CONTENTS

To Mary Wollstonecraft …………. 3

The Triumph of Woman …………… 7

Poems on the Slave-Trade ………. 29

Sonnet 1 …………………….. 33

2 …………………….. 34

3 …………………….. 35

4 …………………….. 36

5 …………………….. 37

6 …………………….. 38

To the Genius of Africa ……….. 39

To my own Miniature Picture ……. 44

The Pauper's Funeral ………….. 47

Ode written on 1st of January ….. 49

Inscription 1 ………………… 55

2 ………………… 56

3 ………………… 57

4 ………………… 59

5 ………………… 61

6 ………………… 62

7 ………………… 63

8 ………………… 64

Birth-Day Ode ………………… 67

Birth-Day Ode ………………… 71

Botany-bay Eclogues …………… 75

Elinor ………………………. 77

Humphrey and William ………….. 83

John, Samuel, and Richard ……… 92

Frederic …………………….. 99

Sonnet 1 ……………………. 107

2 ……………………. 108

3 ……………………. 109

4 ……………………. 110

5 ……………………. 111

6 ……………………. 112

7 ……………………. 113

8 ……………………. 114

9 ……………………. 115

10 ……………………. 116

Sappho ……………………… 121

Ode written on 1st. Dece. …….. 126

Written on Sunday Morning …….. 129

On the death of a favorite

old Spaniel ……………….. 132

To Contemplation …………….. 135

To Horror …………………… 140

The Soldier's Wife …………… 145

The Widow …………………… 147

The Chapel Bell ……………… 149

The Race of Banquo …………… 152

Musings on a landscape of

Caspar Poussin …………….. 154

Mary ……………………….. 163

Donica ……………………… 175

Rudiger …………………….. 187

Hymn to the Penates ………….. 203

ERRORS

p.151 - in the last line but one, for nosal, read nasal. p.192 - line 8, for wild, read mild. p. 203 - in the note, for Complicces, read Complices.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN

[Greek (transliterated):

Ou gar thaeluierais demas opasen aemiielesion

Morphaen, ophra xai allaperi chroi technaesainio.

NATMACHIOS.]

TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love,"

The liquid lustre of the melting eye,—

Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these

Did Woman triumph! with no angry frown

View this degrading conquest. At that age

No MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward man

The heaven-blest sword of Liberty; thy sex

Could boast no female ROLAND'S martyrdom;

No CORDE'S angel and avenging arm

Had sanctified again the Murderer's name

As erst when Caesar perish'd: yet some strains

May even adorn this theme, befitting me

To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

The Subject of the following Poem may be found in the Third and Fourth

Chapters of the first Book of Esdras.

THE TRIUMPH of WOMAN.

Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tost

To reach secure at length his native coast,

Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,

The night-blast wildly howling round his head,

Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm

Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;

The journey o'er and every peril past

Beholds his little cottage-home at last,

And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,

Feels his full eyes with transport overflow:

So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign,

And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,

Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise

Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,

Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,

And freed the nation best-belov'd of God.

Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court,

Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort,

Attending Satraps swell the Prince's pride,

And vanquish'd Monarchs grace their Conqueror's side.

No more the Warrior wears the garb of war,

Sharps the strong steel, or mounts the scythed car;

No more Judaea's sons dejected go,

And hang the head and heave the sigh of woe.

From Persia's rugged hills descend the train.

From where Orontes foams along the plain,

From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,

And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.

Thy daughters Babylon to grace the feast

Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,

With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair.

They tinge the cheek which Nature form'd so fair,

Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,

Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.

Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne

In royal state the fair Apame shone;

Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire

Chill with respect, or kindle with desire.

The admiring multitude her charms adore,

And own her worthy of the crown she wore.

Now on his couch reclin'd Darius lay,

Tir'd with the toilsome pleasures of the day;

Without Judaea's watchful sons await

To guard the sleeping pageant of the state.

Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,

Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace,

To each the form of symmetry she gave,

And haughty Genius curs'd each favorite slave;

These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,

Serv'd as he spake, and guarded whilst he slept.

Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid low

The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;

And when the dull and wearying round of Power

Allowed Zorobabel one vacant hour,

He lov'd on Babylon's high wall to roam,

And stretch the gaze towards his distant home,

Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclin'd

Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

As now the perfum'd lamps stream wide their light,

And social converse chears the livelong night,

Thus spake Zorobabel, "too long in vain

"For Sion desolate her sons complain;

"In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow,

"And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe.

"Whilst Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state

"A brighter prospect chear'd our exil'd fate,

"Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,

"And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.

"Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,

"As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,

"And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,

"Soon hid by clouds that dim the scene again.

"Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign

"We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.

"Now when Darius, chief of mild command,

"Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,

"Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,

"And sternly silent shun to seek relief?

"What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng

"Our harps should echo to the chearful song?

"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied,

"And now let all our tuneful skill be tried.

"Whilst the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl,

"And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul,

"Where all around is merriment, be mine

"To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.

"And whilst" his friend replied in state alone

"Lord of the earth Darius fills the throne,

"Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing,

"My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."

To them Zorobabel, on themes like these

"Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please;

"To Wine superior or to Power's strong arms,

"Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.

"To him victorious in the rival lays

"Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;

"The purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold,

"The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;

"A golden couch support his bed of rest,

"The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast;

"His the soft turban, his the car's array

"O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;

"And for his wisdom seated on the throne,

"For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known."

Intent they meditate the future lay,

And watch impatient for the dawn of day.

The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,

The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;

To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,

Swarm thro' the gates, and fill the festive court.

High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,

The fair Apame grac'd the Sovereign's side;

And now she smil'd, and now with mimic frown

Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.

In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,

Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call

Judaea's Bard to grace the thronging hall.

Hush'd is each sound—the attending crowd are mute,

The Hebrew lightly strikes the chearful lute:

When the Traveller on his way,

Who has toil'd the livelong day,

Feels around on every side

The chilly mists of eventide,

Fatigued and faint his wearied mind

Recurs to all he leaves behind;

He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,

The evening hour of social mirth,

And her who at departing day

Weeps for her husband far away.

Oh give to him the flowing bowl,

Bid it renovate his soul;

Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,

And he who wept, no more shall weep;

For his care-clouded brow shall clear,

And his glad eye shall sparkle thro' the tear.

When the poor man heart-opprest

Betakes him to his evening rest,

And worn with labour thinks in sorrow

Of the labor of to-morrow;

When sadly musing on his lot

He hies him to his joyless cot,

And loathes to meet his children there,

The rivals for his scanty fare:

Oh give to him the flowing bowl,

Bid it renovate his soul;

The generous juice with magic power

Shall cheat with happiness the hour,

And with each warm affection fill

The heart by want and wretchedness made chill.

When, at the dim close of day,

The Captive loves alone to stray

Along the haunts recluse and rude

Of sorrow and of solitude;

When he sits with moveless eye

To mark the lingering radiance die,

And lets distemper'd Fancy roam

Amid the ruins of his home,—

Oh give to him the flowing bowl,

Bid it renovate his soul;

The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,

And lull to rest his wakeful woe,

And Joy shall bless the evening hour,

And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

When the wearying cares of state

Oppress the Monarch with their weight,

When from his pomp retir'd alone

He feels the duties of the throne,

Feels that the multitude below

Depend on him for weal or woe;

When his powerful will may bless

A realm with peace and happiness,

Or with desolating breath

Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death:

Oh give to him the flowing bowl,

Bid it humanize his soul;

He shall not feel the empire's weight,

He shall not feel the cares of state,

The bowl shall each dark thought beguile,

And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song;

Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;

Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid,

On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;

The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string,

And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.

Why should the wearying cares of state

Oppress the Monarch with their weight?

Alike to him if Peace shall bless

The multitude with happiness;

Alike to him if frenzied War

Careers triumphant on the embattled plain,

And rolling on o'er myriads slain,

With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.

What tho' the tempest rage! no sound

Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne,

And the red flash that spreads destruction round,

Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown.

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride

Beholds not his own nature? where is he

Who but with deep amazement awe allied

Must muse the mysteries of the human mind,

The miniature of Deity.

For Man the vernal clouds descending

Shower down their fertilizing rain,

For Man the ripen'd harvest bending

Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.

He spreads the sail on high,

The rude gale wafts him o'er the main;

For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow,

Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow,

He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!

Where is the King who with elating pride

Sees not this Man—this godlike Man his Slave?

Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side,

Alike the wife, alike the brave

With timid step and pale, advance,

And tremble at the royal glance;

Suspended millions watch his breath

Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot,

Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life?

In vain his agonizing wife

With tears bedews her husband's face,

And clasps him in a long and last embrace;

In vain his children round his bosom creep,

And weep to see their mother weep,

Fettering their father with their little arms;

What are to him the wars alarms?

What are to him the distant foes?

He at the earliest dawn of day

To daily labor went his way;

And when he saw the sun decline,

He sat in peace beneath his vine:—

The king commands, the peasant goes,

From all he lov'd on earth he flies,

And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.

What tho' yon City's castled wall

Casts o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade?

What tho' their Priests in earnest terror call

On all their host of Gods to aid?

Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower;

In vain her gallant youths expose

Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes.

In vain at that tremendous hour,

Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms,

Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid.

By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round

Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desart ground.

Low shall the mouldering palace lie,

Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,

And thro' the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.

Gay o'er the embattled plain

Moves yonder warrior train,

Their banners wanton on the morning gale!

Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray,

Their glittering helmets flash a brighter day,

The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale:

Far reaches as the aching eye can strain

The splendid horror of their wide array.

Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er

Their glorious pomp the Vultures soar!

Amid the Conqueror's palace high

Shall sound the song of victory:

Long after journeying o'er the plain

The Traveller shall with startled eye

See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.

Lord of the Earth! we will not raise

The Temple to thy bounded praise.

For thee no victim need expire,

For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire!

The burning city flames for thee—

Thine altar is the field of victory!

Thy sacred Majesty to bless

Man a self-offer'd victim freely flies;

To thee he sacrifices Happiness,

And Peace, and Love's endearing ties,

To thee a Slave he lives, to thee a Slave he dies.

Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd to sing;

The shout rush'd forth—for ever live the King!

Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree

Pronounc'd Achaia once again was free;

Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief

Heard the false boon, and bless'd the villain Chief;

Each breast with Freedom's holy ardor glows,

From every voice the cry of rapture rose;

Their thundering clamors burst the astonish'd sky,

And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.

Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring,

And the high hall re-echoed—live the King!

The Mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord,

The assembled Satraps envied and ador'd,

Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes,

And his pleas'd pride already doom'd the prize.

Silent they saw Zorobabel advance:

Quick on Apame shot his timid glance,

With downward eye he paus'd a moment mute,

And with light finger touch'd the softer lute.

Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,

And bent her head and sweetly smil'd applause.

Why is the Warrior's cheek so red?

Why downward droops his musing head?

Why that slow step, that faint advance,

That keen yet quick-retreating glance?

That crested head in war tower'd high,

No backward glance disgrac'd that eye,

No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread

When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead;

Strange tumult now his bosom moves—

The Warrior fears because he loves.

Why does the Youth delight to rove

Amid the dark and lonely grove?

Why in the throng where all are gay,

His wandering eye with meaning fraught,

Sits he alone in silent thought?

Silent he sits; for far away

His passion'd soul delights to stray;

Recluse he roves and strives to shun

All human-kind because he loves but One!

Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest;

But not because the sparkling bowl

To rapture lifts thy waken'd soul [1]

But not because of Power possest,

Not that the Nations dread thy nod,

And Princes reverence thee their earthly God,

Even on a Monarch's solitude

Care the black Spectre will intrude,

The bowl brief pleasure can bestow,

The Purple cannot shield from Woe.

But King of Persia thou art blest,

For Heaven who rais'd thee thus the world above

Has made thee happy in Apame's love!

Oh! I have seen his fond looks trace

Each angel feature of her face,

Rove o'er her form with eager eye,

And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.

Lo! from his brow with mimic frown,

Apame takes the sacred crown;

Her faultless form, her lovely face

Add to the diadem new grace

And subject to a Woman's laws

Darius sees and smiles applause!

He ceas'd, and silent still remain'd the throng

Whilst rapt attention own'd the power of song.

Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow

From ev'ry voice the thundering plaudits flow;

Darius smil'd, Apame's sparkling eyes

Glanc'd on the King, and Woman won the prize.

Now silent sat the expectant crowd, alone

The victor Hebrew gaz'd not on the throne;

With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows,

With statelier stature, loftier now he rose;

Heavenward he gaz'd, regardless of the throng,

And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.

Ancient of Days! Eternal Truth! one hymn

One holier strain the Bard shall raise to thee,

Thee Powerful! Thee Benevolent! Thee Just!

Friend! Father! All in All! the Vines rich blood,

The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering charms,—

These shall we praise alone? Oh ye who sit

Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour

The healthful bowl, remember him whose dews,

Whose rains, whose sun, matur'd the growing fruit,

Creator and Preserver! Reverence Him,

O thou who from thy throne dispensest life

And death, for He has delegated power.

And thou shalt one day at the throne of God

Render most strict account! O ye who gaze

Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form,

Gaze on with love, and loving Beauty, learn

To shun abhorrent all the mental eye

Beholds deform'd and foul; for so shall Love

Climb to the Source of Virtue. God of Truth!

All-Just! All-Mighty! I should ill deserve

Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,

If, so content with ear-deep melodies [2]

To please all profitless, I did not pour

Severer strains; of Truth—eternal Truth,

Unchanging Justice, universal Love.

Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thoughts,

Such strains the Blessed Spirits of the Good

Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven.

The dying notes still murmur'd on the string,

When from his throne arose the raptur'd King.

About to speak he stood, and wav'd his hand,

And all expectant sat the obedient band.

Then just and gen'rous, thus the Monarch cries,

"Be thine Zorobabel the well earned prize.

"The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,

"The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold;

"The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain,

"Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain,

"And rais'd supreme the ennobled race among

"Be call'd MY COUSIN for the victor song.

"Nor these alone the victor song shall bless,

"Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, possess."

"Fall'n is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew cries.

And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,

"Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod,

"Polluted lies the temple of our God,

"Far in a foreign land her sons remain,

"Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain:

"In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years,

"And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.

"O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,

"Restore us to those ruin'd walls again!

"Allow our race to rear that sacred dome,

"To live in liberty, and die at Home."

So spake Zorobabel—thus Woman's praise

Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,

Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,

And freed the Nation best belov'd of God.

[Footnote 1: text showed "foul" which we think was a long s transferred to the modern edition by mistake. Gutenberg Proofreading.]

[Footnote 2: This expression is from OWEN FELLTHAM.]

POEMS

on the

SLAVE TRADE.

I am Innocent of this Blood, SEE YE TO IT!

PREFACE.

When first the Abolition of the SLAVE-TRADE was agitated in England, the friends of humanity endeavoured by two means to accomplish it.—To destroy the Trade immediately by the interference of Government or by the disuse of West-Indian productions: a slow but certain method. For a while Government held the language of justice, and individuals with enthusiasm banished sugar from their tables. This enthusiasm soon cooled; the majority of those who had made this sacrifice (I prostitute the word, but they thought it a sacrifice) persuaded themselves that Parliament would do all, and that individual efforts were no longer necessary. Thus ended the one attempt; and the duplicity with which Mr. Wilberforce has been amused, and the Slave-Merchants satisfied, has now effectually destroyed the other.

There are yet two other methods remaining, by which this traffic will probably be abolished. By the introduction of East-Indian or Maple Sugar, or by the just and general rebellion of the Negroes: by the vindictive justice of the Africans, or by the civilized Christians finding it their interest to be humane.

To these past and present prospects the following Poems occasionally allude: to the English custom of exciting wars upon the Slave Coast that they may purchase prisoners, and to the punishment sometimes inflicted upon a Negro for murder, of which Hector St. John was an eye-witness.

SONNET I

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain

Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?

For ever must your Nigers tainted flood

Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?

Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear

The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore

Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,

With laurels water'd by the widow's tear

Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!

And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,

Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;

For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there

Breathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar,

And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

SONNET II

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,

And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?

Before the gale the laden vessel flies;

The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;

Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew!

Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies!

Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes

As the white sail dim lessens from thy view?

Go pine in want and anguish and despair,

There is no mercy found in human-kind—

Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there!

But may the God of Justice bid the wind

Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,

And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

SONNET III

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run

Down his dark cheek; hold—hold thy merciless hand,

Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command

O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,

As pityless as proud Prosperity,

Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies

Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,

While that inhuman trader lifts on high

The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease

Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these

Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!

That I do feel upon my cheek the glow

Of indignation, when beneath the rod

A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

SONNET IV

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep

As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more

The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,

Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!

Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day

No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan

Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone

In bitterness; thinking that far away

Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song,

Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,

She whom he loves far from the chearful throng

Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door

With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,

And weeps for him who will return no more.

SONNET V

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword

Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade

In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?

Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade

Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought

Of every past delight; his native grove,

Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,

All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought

His soul to madness; round his restless bed

Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile

Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while

She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:

No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,

But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.

SONNET VI

High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung

To all the birds of Heaven, their living food!

He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun

New torturers live to drink their parent blood!

He groans not, tho' the gorging Vulture tear

The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye

Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!

Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care

The right and prudent; for beyond the grave

There is another world! and call to mind,

Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind

Murder is legalized, that there the Slave

Before the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead

"Against the deep damnation of your deed."

TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA

O thou who from the mountain's height

Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight

Of waters to old Niles majestic tide;

Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain

Recallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride,

Amid whose desolated domes

Secure the savage chacal roams,

Where from the fragments of the hallow'd fane

The Arabs rear their miserable homes!

Hear Genius hear thy children's cry!

Not always should'st thou love to brood

Stern o'er the desert solitude

Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high;

Nor Genius should the midnight song

Detain thee in some milder mood

The palmy plains among

Where Gambia to the torches light

Flows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.

Ah, linger not to hear the song!

Genius avenge thy children's wrong!

The Daemon COMMERCE on your shore

Pours all the horrors of his train,

And hark! where from the field of gore

Howls the hyena o'er the slain!

Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies!

Avenging Power awake—arise!

Arise thy children's wrong redress!

Ah heed the mother's wretchedness

When in the hot infectious air

O'er her sick babe she bows opprest—

Ah hear her when the Christians tear

The drooping infant from her breast!

Whelm'd in the waters he shall rest!

Hear thou the wretched mother's cries,

Avenging Power awake! arise!

By the rank infected air

That taints those dungeons of despair,

By those who there imprison'd die

Where the black herd promiscuous lie,

By the scourges blacken'd o'er

And stiff and hard with human gore,

By every groan of deep distress

By every curse of wretchedness,

By all the train of Crimes that flow

From the hopelessness of Woe,

By every drop of blood bespilt,

By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt,

Awake! arise! avenge!

And thou hast heard! and o'er their blood-fed plains

Swept thine avenging hurricanes;

And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar

Dash their proud navies on the shore;

And where their armies claim'd the fight

Wither'd the warrior's might;

And o'er the unholy host with baneful breath

There Genius thou hast breath'd the gales of Death.

So perish still the robbers of mankind!

What tho' from Justice bound and blind

Inhuman Power has snatch'd the sword!

What tho' thro' many an ignominious age

That Fiend with desolating rage

The tide of carnage pour'd!

Justice shall yet unclose her eyes,

Terrific yet in wrath arise,

And trample on the tyrant's breast,

And make Oppresion groan opprest.

To my own

MINIATURE PICTURE

taken at two years of age.

And I was once like this! that glowing cheek

Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow

Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze

Dies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty years

Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends

Who once so dearly prized this miniature,

And loved it for its likeness, some are gone

To their last home; and some, estranged in heart,

Beholding me with quick-averted glance

Pass on the other side! But still these hues

Remain unalter'd, and these features wear

The look of Infancy and Innocence.

I search myself in vain, and find no trace

Of what I was: those lightly-arching lines

Dark and o'erhanging now; and that mild face

Settled in these strong lineaments!—There were

Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee

Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak

Each opening feeling: should they not have known

When the rich rainbow on the morning cloud

Reflects its radiant dies, the husbandman

Beholds the ominous glory sad, and fears

Impending storms? they augur'd happily,

For thou didst love each wild and wonderous tale

Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue

Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece

And rising Rome; therefore they deem'd forsooth

That thou shouldst tread PREFERMENT'S pleasant path.

Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet

Stray in the pleasant paths of POESY,

And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd

There didst thou love to linger out the day

Loitering beneath the laurels barren shade.

SPIRIT of SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong?

This little picture was for ornament

Design'd, to shine amid the motley mob

Of Fashion and of Folly,—is it not

More honour'd by this solitary song?

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh!

Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye

For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,

Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!

Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,

And sorrow for forlorn humanity.

Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come

To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb:

For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care,

Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there.

I sorrow for the ills thy life has known

As thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone,

Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,

Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:

Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,

And thine old age all barrenness and blast!

Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,

Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;

And robb'd of all its energy thy mind,

Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,

Abject of thought, the victim of distress,

To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry storm

Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form;

Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;—

I pause—and ponder on the days to come.

ODE

written on the first of January, 1794

Come melancholy Moralizer—come!

Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;

With me engarland now

The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

Come Moralizer to the funeral song!

I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,

For well the funeral song

Befits this solemn hour.

But hark! even now the merry bells ring round

With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,

This consecrated day,

To Mirth and Indolence.

Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand

Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,

Whilst her unclouded sun

Illumes thy summer day,

Canst thou rejoice—rejoice that Time flies fast?

That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?

That swift the stream of Years

Rolls to Eternity?

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,

If Power be thine, remember what thou art—

Remember thou art Man,

And Death thine heritage!

Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun

Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,

Her eye all eloquence,

Her voice all harmony?

Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale

Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!

Winter is dark and cold—

Where now the charms of Spring?

Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene

In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid

With stern and frowning front

Appals the shuddering soul?

And would'st thou bid me court her faery form

When, as she sports her in some happier mood,

Her many-colour'd robes

Dance varying to the Sun?

Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road

Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,

With anxious gaze survey

The fruitful far-off vale.

Oh there are those who love the pensive song

To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!

There are who at this hour

Will love to contemplate!

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,

Rejoicing when the fading orb of day

Is sunk again in night,

That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load

With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows

The World a pilgrimage,

The Grave the inn of rest.

Inscriptions

The three Utilitise of Poetry: the praise of Virtue and Goodness, the

Memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the affections.

Welsh Triad.

INSCRIPTION I.

For a TABLET at GODSTOW NUNNERY.

Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers

Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark

Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here

Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:

Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs

Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye

Fair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruit

Is worthless, all[1] is hollowness within,

For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows!

Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced,

And here retir'd to wear her wretched age

In earnest prayer and bitter penitence,

Despis'd and self-despising: think of her

Young Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!

[Footnote 1: I have often seen this hazel: its nuts are apparently very fine, but always without a kernel.]

INSCRIPTION II.

For a COLUMN at NEWBURY.

Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this field

Did FALKLAND fall the blameless and the brave

Beneath a Tyrant's banners: dost thou boast

Of loyal ardor? HAMBDEN perish'd here,

The rebel HAMBDEN, at whose glorious name

The heart of every honest Englishman

Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt,

Friends to their common country both, they fought,

They died in adverse armies. Traveller!

If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord,

In charity remember these good men,

And quell each angry and injurious thought.

INSCRIPTION III.

For a CAVERN that overlooks the River AVON.

Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent

Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile

Thou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heat

O'ercanopied by this arch'd rock that strikes

A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms

Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs

Its dark green branches down, and the wild Bees,

O'er its grey blossoms murmuring ceaseless, make

Most pleasant melody. No common spot

Receives thee, for the Power who prompts the song,

Loves this secluded haunt. The tide below

Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear;

And this high-hanging forest to the wind

Varies its many hues. Gaze Stranger here!

And let thy soften'd heart intensely feel

How good, how lovely, Nature! When from hence

Departing to the City's crouded streets,

Thy sickening eye at every step revolts

From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect

That Man creates the evil he endures.

INSCRIPTION IV.

For the Apartment in CHEPSTOW-CASTLE where HENRY MARTEN the Regicide was imprisoned Thirty Years.

For thirty years secluded from mankind,

Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls

Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread

He paced around his prison: not to him

Did Nature's fair varieties exist;

He never saw the Sun's delightful beams,

Save when thro' yon high bars it pour'd a sad

And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?

He had rebell'd against the King, and sat

In judgment on him; for his ardent mind

Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,

And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! But such

As PLATO lov'd; such as with holy zeal

Our MILTON worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile

From man withheld, even to the latter days,

When CHRIST shall come and all things be fulfill'd.

INSCRIPTION V.

For a MONUMENT at SILBURY-HILL.

This mound in some remote and dateless day

Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age [1] of Hills,

May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road

Not idly lingering. In his narrow house

Some Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deeds

Haply at many a solemn festival

The Bard has harp'd, but perish'd is the song

Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs

The wind that passes and is heard no more.

Go Traveller on thy way, and contemplate

Glory's brief pageant, and remember then

That one good deed was never wrought in vain.

[Footnote 1: The Northern Nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were buried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by the Age of Fire and the Age of Hills.]

INSCRIPTION VI.

For a MONUMENT in the NEW FOREST.

This is the place where William's kingly power

Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,

Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,

The habitants of all the fertile track

Far as these wilds extend. He levell'd down

Their little cottages, he bade their fields

Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste

He might most royally pursue his sports!

If that thine heart be human, Passenger!

Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips

Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then

What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred

Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power

Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man;

And as thy thoughts anticipate that day

When God shall judge aright, in charity

Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.

INSCRIPTION VII.

For a TABLET on the Banks of a Stream.

Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank

Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,

That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,

Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound

Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear

It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold

Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed

Yon glossy insect, on the sand below

How the swift shadow flies. The stream is pure

In solitude, and many a healthful herb

Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:

But passing on amid the haunts of man,

It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence

A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?

Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot

Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.

INSCRIPTION VIII.

For the CENOTAPH at ERMENONVILLE.

STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:

Enshrin'd far distant by his [1] rival's side

His relics rest, there by the giddy throng

With blind idolatry alike revered!

Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet

Explor'd the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU

Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;

Here he has heard the murmurs of the stream,

And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,

When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind

Swept a grey shade. Here if thy breast be full,

If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,

His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home

From hence returning, purified of heart.

[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]

Birth-Day Odes.

O my faithful Friend!

O early chosen, ever found the same,

And trusted and beloved! once more the verse

Long destin'd, always obvious to thine ear,

Attend indulgent.

AKENSIDE.

BIRTH-DAY ODE,

1793.

Small is the new-born plant scarce seen

Amid the soft encircling green,

Where yonder budding acorn rears,

Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:

Slow pass along the train of years,

And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed.

Anon it rears aloft its giant form,

And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm.

Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain,

From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.

Nor BEDFORD will my friend survey

The book of Nature with unheeding eye;

For never beams the rising orb of day,

For never dimly dies the refluent ray,

But as the moralizer marks the sky,

He broods with strange delight upon futurity.

And we must muse my friend! maturer years

Arise, and other Hopes and other Fears,

For we have past the pleasant plains of Youth.

Oh pleasant plains! that we might stray

For ever o'er your faery ground—

For ever roam your vales around,

Nor onward tempt the dangerous way—

For oh—what numerous foes assail

The Traveller, from that chearful vale!

With toil and heaviness opprest

Seek not the flowery bank for rest,

Tho' there the bowering woodbine spread

Its fragrant shelter o'er thy head,

Tho' Zephyr there should linger long

To hear the sky-lark's wildly-warbled song,

There heedless Youth shalt thou awake

The vengeance of the coiling snake!

Tho' fairly smiles the vernal mead

To tempt thy pilgrim feet, proceed

Hold on thy steady course aright,

Else shalt thou wandering o'er the pathless plain,

When damp and dark descends the night

Shivering and shelterless, repent in vain.

And yet—tho' Dangers lurk on every side

Receive not WORLDLY WISDOM for thy guide!

Beneath his care thou wilt not know

The throb of unavailing woe,

No tear shall tremble in thine eye

Thy breast shall struggle with no sigh,

He will security impart,

But he will apathize thy heart!

Ah no!

Fly Fly that fatal foe,

Virtue shall shrink from his torpedo grasp—

For not more fatal thro' the Wretches veins

Benumb'd in Death's cold pains

Creeps the chill poison of the deadly asp.

Serener joys my friend await

Maturer manhood's steady state.

The wild brook bursting from its source

Meanders on its early course,

Delighting there with winding way

Amid the vernal vale to stray,

Emerging thence more widely spread

It foams along its craggy bed,

And shatter'd with the mighty shock

Rushes from the giddy rock—

Hurl'd headlong o'er the dangerous steep

On runs the current to the deep,

And gathering waters as it goes

Serene and calm the river flows,

Diffuses plenty o'er the smiling coast,

Rolls on its stately waves and is in ocean lost.

BIRTH-DAY ODE,

1796.

And wouldst thou seek the low abode

Where PEACE delights to dwell?

Pause Traveller on thy way of life!

With many a snare and peril rife

Is that long labyrinth of road:

Dark is the vale of years before

Pause Traveller on thy way!

Nor dare the dangerous path explore

Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.

Not he who comes with lanthorn light

Shall guide thy groping pace aright

With faltering feet and slow;

No! let him rear the torch on high

And every maze shall meet thine eye,

And every snare and every foe;

Then with steady step and strong,

Traveller, shalt thou march along.

Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,

Regard not thou her tempting call

Her splendors meteor glare;

Tho' courteous Flattery there await

And Wealth adorn the dome of State,

There stalks the midnight spectre CARE;

PEACE, Traveller! does not sojourn there.

If FAME allure thee, climb not thou

To that steep mountain's craggy brow

Where stands her stately pile;

For far from thence does PEACE abide,

And thou shall find FAME'S favouring smile

Cold as the feeble Sun on Heclas snow-clad side,

And Traveller! as thou hopest to find

That low and loved abode,

Retire thee from the thronging road

And shun the mob of human kind.

Ah I hear how old EXPERIENCE schools,

"Fly fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools

"And thou shalt fly from woe;

"The one thy heedless heart will greet

"With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet

"In every Fool a Foe!"

So safely mayest thou pass from these,

And reach secure the home of PEACE,

And FRIENDSHIP find thee there.

No happier state can mortal know,

No happier lot can Earth bestow

If LOVE thy lot shall share.

Yet still CONTENT with him may dwell

Whom HYMEN will not bless,

And VIRTUE sojourn in the cell

Of HERMIT HAPPINESS.

BOTANY BAY

Eclogues

Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find.

Sad as the ruins of the human mind!

BOWLES.

ELINOR.

(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])

Once more to daily toil—once more to wear

The weeds of infamy—from every joy

The heart can feel excluded, I arise

Worn out and faint with unremitting woe;

And once again with wearied steps I trace

The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves

Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er

With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.

Oh there was once a time when ELINOR

Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye

Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul

Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day

Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge

Oft England! have my evening steps stole on,

Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,

And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,

And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage

Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul

Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,

And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.

Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd.

To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,

An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.

Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand

Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power

The fields of England to my exil'd eyes,

The joys which once were mine? even now I see

The lowly lovely dwelling! even now

Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls

And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around

To ask their morning meal:—for I was wont

With friendly band to give their morning meal,

Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn

Streak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light,

And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head

To view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eve

When mildly fading sunk the summer sun,

Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow course

And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought

The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs

Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.

There, my dead father! often have I heard

Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works

Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd

Thy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless child

So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave

Of Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey

Of brutal appetite! at length worn out

With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,

Should dare dishonesty—yet dread to die!

Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,

Where angry England sends her outcast sons—

I hail your joyless shores! my weary bark

Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,

Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene,

The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,

And all the perils of a world unknown.

For Elinor has nothing new to fear

From fickle Fortune! all her rankling shafts

Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease.

Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death

Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,

Where the rude native rests his wearied frame

Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm,

As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,

Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek

The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains

Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand

Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds,

And for the music of the bleating flocks,

Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note

Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes,

The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown

The crimes and comforts of luxurious life,

Nature benignly gives to all enough,

Denies to all a superfluity,

What tho' the garb of infamy I wear,

Tho' day by day along the echoing beach

I cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by day

I earn in honesty my frugal food,

And lay me down at night to calm repose.

No more condemn'd the mercenary tool

Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart

With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms

Round the rank felon, and for daily bread

To hug contagion to my poison'd breast;

On these wild shores Repentance' saviour hand

Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds

And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.]

HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.

(Time, Noon.)

HUMPHREY:

See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun

By this time half his daily race has run?

The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore

And hurries homeward with his fishy store.

Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil

To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!

WILLIAM:

Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows

A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes,

Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat

To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.

Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shore

The weary labourer's morning work is o'er:

The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke

Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak,

Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,

There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.

To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,

No joys domestic crown for us the day,

The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,

Toil all the day, and all the night despair.

HUMPHREY:

Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground

I used to love the village clock's dull sound,

Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,

And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.

'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!

Pshaw! curse this whining—let us fall to dinner.

WILLIAM:

I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot

Each joy domestic of my little cot.

For at this hour my wife with watchful care

Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare,

The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied

And my poor children prattled at my side.

Methinks I see the old oak table spread,

The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,

The cheese my daily food which Mary made,

For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade:

The jug of cyder,—cyder I could make,

And then the knives—I won 'em at the wake.

Another has them now! I toiling here

Look backward like a child and drop a tear.

HUMPHREY:

I love a dismal story, tell me thine,

Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine.

I too my friend can tell a piteous story

When I turn'd hero how I purchas'd glory.

WILLIAM:

But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known

The comforts of a little home thine own:

A home so snug, So chearful too as mine,

'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine;

For there King Charles's golden rules were seen,

And there—God bless 'em both—the King and Queen.

The pewter plates our garnish'd chimney grace

So nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face;

And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung

Well clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, my gun.

Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn—

A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!

Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed,

So covey upon covey eat my seed.

I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim,

I fir'd, they fell, and—up the keeper came.

That cursed morning brought on my undoing,

I went to prison and my farm to ruin.

Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,

No tomb-stone tells where her cold corpse is laid!

My children—my dear boys—

HUMPHREY:

Come—Grief is dry—

You to your dinner—to my story I.

To you my friend who happier days have known

And each calm comfort of a home your own,

This is bad living: I have spent my life

In hardest toil and unavailing strife,

And here (from forest ambush safe at least)

To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.

I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes

And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.

Each evening at return a meal I found

And, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.

One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest

Like a great bumkin in my Sunday's best;

A primrose posey in my hat I stuck

And to the revel went to try my luck.

From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,

See stare and wonder all the live-long day.

A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came

Skill'd in man-catching to beat up for game;

Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;—

Methinks even now the very scene I see!

The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store,

The old blind fiddler seated next the door,

The frothy tankard passing to and fro

And the rude rabble round the puppet-show;

The Serjeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes,

And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums—

And now he gives a bumper to his Wench—

God save the King, and then—God damn the French.

Then tells the story of his last campaign.

How many wounded and how many slain,

Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,

The English marching on, the French retreating,—

"Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye,

"March on to riches, happiness and glory!"

At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,

Then cried—"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"

"Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant—"that's your name?

"'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!

"March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains

"And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.

"Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit!

"Rise to a halbert—as I did—by merit!

"Would'st thou believe it? even I was once

"As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;

"But Courage rais'd me to my rank. How now boy!

"Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy?

"A proper shaped young fellow! tall and straight!

"Why thou wert made for glory! five feet eight!

"The road to riches is the field of fight,—

"Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?

"Why regimentals Numps would give thee grace,

"A hat and feather would become that face;

"The girls would crowd around thee to be kist—

"Dost love a girl?" "Od Zounds!" I cried "I'll list!"

So past the night: anon the morning came,

And off I set a volunteer for fame.

"Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,

"Stand easy!" so I did—till almost dead.

Oh how I long'd to tend the plough again

Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain,

When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throng

Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,

And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,

Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier!

In town I found the hours more gayly pass

And Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;

The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair,

They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care,

The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,

And he almost transferred me to the Devil.

'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story

Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory.

At last discharg'd, to England's shores I came

Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame,

Found my fair friends and plunder'd as they bade me,

They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me and betray'd me.

Tried and condemn'd his Majesty transports me,

And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me,

So ends my dismal and heroic story

And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.

JOHN, SAMUEL, & RICHARD.

(Time, Evening.)

JOHN.

'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away,

And the Sun going down has done watch for the day.

To my mind we live wonderous well when transported,

It is but to work and we must be supported.

Fill the cann, Dick! success here to Botany Bay!

RICHARD.

Success if you will,—but God send me away.

JOHN.

Ah! you lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well;

Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell!

The sailor has no place of safety in store—

From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore!

When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth,

God be thanked in this corner I've got a good birth.

Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know!

'Tis the soldier my friend that's acquainted with woe,

Long journeys, short halting, hard work and small pay,

To be popt at like pidgeons for sixpence a day!—

Thank God! I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay.

JOHN:

Ah! you know but little! I'll wager a pot

I have suffer'd more evils than fell to your lot.

Come we'll have it all fairly and properly tried,

Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide.

SAMUEL:

Done.

JOHN:

Done. 'Tis a wager and I shall be winner;

Thou wilt go without grog Sam to-morrow at dinner.

SAMUEL:

I was trapp'd by the Serjeant's palavering pretences,

He listed me when I was out of my senses.

So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow

And was drill'd to repentance and reason to-morrow.

JOHN:

I would be a sailor and plough the wide ocean,

And was soon sick and sad with the billow's commotion.

So the Captain he sent me aloft on the mast,

And curs'd me, and bid me cry there—and hold fast!

SAMUEL:

After marching all day, faint and hungry and sore,

I have lain down at night on the swamps of the moor,

Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain.

All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain.

JOHN:

I have rode out the storm when the billows beat high

And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd thro' the dark sky,

When the tempest of night the black sea overcast

Wet and weary I labour'd, yet sung to the blast.

SAMUEL:

I have march'd, trumpets sounding—drums beating—flags flying,

Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the dying,

When the shots whizz'd around me all dangers defied,

Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side,

Drove the foe from the mouth of the Cannon away,

Fought, conquer'd and bled, all for sixpence a day.

JOHN:

And I too friend Samuel! have heard the shots rattle,

But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle;

Tho' the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around,

With the blood of our messmates tho' slippery the ground,

The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow,

We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe.

And the hard battle won, so the prize be not sunk,

The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk.

SAMUEL:

God help the poor soldier when backward he goes

In disgraceful retreat thro' a country of foes!

No respite from danger by day or by night

He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight,

Every step that he takes he must battle his way,

He must force his hard meal from the peasant away;

No rest—and no hope, from all succour afar,

God forgive the poor Soldier for going to the war!

JOHN:

But what are these dangers to those I have past

When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast?

When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and weak

And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak,

Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight

From the rocks of the shore catch the light-houses light;

In vain to the beach to assist us they press,

We fire faster and faster our guns of distress,

Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar—

How the giddy wreck reels—as the billows burst o'er—

Leap—leap—for she yawns—for she sinks in the wave—

Call on God to preserve—for God only can save!

SAMUEL:

There's an end of all troubles however at last!

And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast,

When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore

And I thought of the friends I should never see more,

No hand to relieve—scarce a morsel of bread—

Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead!

Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free,

Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see!

I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good,

And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.

When I think what I've suffer'd and where I am now

I curse him who snared me away from the plough.

JOHN:

When I was discharged I went home to my wife,

There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.

My wife was industrious, we earn'd what we spent,

And tho' little we had, were with little content;

And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar,

I bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore.

At midnight they seiz'd me, they dragg'd me away,

They wounded me sore when I would not obey,

And because for my country I'd ventur'd my life,

I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my wife.

Then the fair wind of Fortune chopp'd round in my face

And Want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace—

But all's for the best;—on the world's wide sea cast,

I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.

SAMUEL:

Come Dick! we have done—and for judgment we call.

RICHARD:

And in faith I can give ye no judgment at all.

I've been listening to all the hard labours you've past

And think in plain troth, you're two blockheads at last.

My lads where the Deuce was the wit which God gave ye

When you sold yourselves first to the army or navy?

By land and by sea hunting dangers to roam,

When you might have been hang'd so much easier at home!

But you're now snug and settled and safe from foul weather,

So drink up your grog and be merry together.

FREDERIC.

(Time Night. Scene the woods.)

Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bend

My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint

How thro' the thorny mazes of this wood

Attain my distant dwelling? that deep cry

That rings along the forest seems to sound

My parting knell: it is the midnight howl

Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey!

Again! oh save me—save me gracious Heaven!

I am not fit to die!

Thou coward wretch

Why heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbs

Beneath their palsied burden? is there ought

So lovely in existence? would'st thou drain

Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?

Dash down the loathly bowl! poor outcast slave

Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy

Why should the villain Frederic shrink from Death?

Death! where the magic in that empty name

That chills my inmost heart? why at the thought

Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb?

There are no terrors to surround the Grave,

When the calm Mind collected in itself

Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train

That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt

Then vanish; in that home of endless rest

All sorrows cease.—Would I might slumber there!

Why then this panting of the fearful heart?

This miser love of Life that dreads to lose

Its cherish'd torment? shall the diseased man

Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife,

Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frame

Of fleshly anguish, and the coward wretch,

Whose ulcered soul can know no human help

Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid?

Oh it were better far to lay me down

Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast

Seize on his willing victim!

If to die

Were all, it were most sweet to rest my head

On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death.

But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour

Startle the ear of Death and wake the soul

To frenzy!—dreams of infancy! fit tales

For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes!

I have been guilty, yet my mind can bear

The retrospect of guilt, yet in the hour

Of deep contrition to THE ETERNAL look

For mercy! for the child of Poverty,

And "disinherited of happiness,"

What if I warr'd upon the world? the world

Had wrong'd me first: I had endur'd the ills

Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth

Was but to me one wild waste wilderness;

I had no share in Nature's patrimony,

Blasted were all my morning hopes of Youth,

Dark DISAPPOINTMENT follow'd on my ways,

CARE was my bosom inmate, and keen WANT

Gnaw'd at my heart. ETERNAL ONE thou know'st

How that poor heart even in the bitter hour

Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd

For peace!

My FATHER! I will call on thee,

Pour to thy mercy seat my earnest prayer,

And wait thy peace in bowedness of soul.

Oh thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart,

Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests

On you with holy hope! the hollow howl

Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods

Bursts not with terror on the sober'd sense.

If I have sinn'd against mankind, on them

Be that past sin; they made me what I was.

In these extremest climes can Want no more

Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length

Here shall I rest. What tho' my hut be poor—

The rains descend not thro' its humble roof:

Would I were there again! the night is cold;

And what if in my wanderings I should rouse

The savage from his thicket!

Hark! the gun!

And lo—the fire of safety! I shall reach

My little hut again! again by toil

Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance,

And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'd

Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb—

Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven?

And what could purple more? Oh strengthen me

Eternal One in this serener state!

Cleanse thou mine heart, so PENITENCE and FAITH

Shall heal my soul and my last days be peace.

Sonnets

SONNET I.

Go Valentine and tell that lovely maid

Whom Fancy still will pourtray to my sight,

How her Bard lingers in this sullen shade,

This dreary gloom of dull monastic night.

Say that from every joy of life remote

At evening's closing hour he quits the throng,

Listening alone the ring-dove's plaintive note

Who pours like him her solitary song.

Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh,

Say that of all her charms he loves to speak,

In fancy feels the magic of her eye,

In fancy views the smile illume her cheek,

Courts the lone hour when Silence stills the grove

And heaves the sigh of Memory and of Love.

SONNET II.

Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way

Homeward thou hastest light of heart along,

If heavily creep on one little day

The medley crew of travellers among,

Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here

On Life's sad journey comfortless he roves,

Remote from every scene his heart holds dear,

From him he values, and from her he loves.

And when disgusted with the vain and dull

Whom chance companions of thy way may doom,

Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,

Turns to itself and meditates on home,

Ah think what Cares must ache within his breast

Who loaths the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!

SONNET III.

Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale

Of days departed. Time in his career

Arraigns not thee that the neglected year

Has past unheeded onward. To the vale

Of years thou journeyest. May the future road

Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend

Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend,

'Till full of days he reach the calm abode

Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age

Of Virtue. With such reverence we behold

The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old

That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage

Now like the monument of strength decayed

With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.

SONNET IV.

What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim

Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear

Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name

Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR

The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart,

Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlorn

Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart,

And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn,

And the dark spectre of departed JOY

Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave

Love I the solitary hour to employ

Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh

Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave

Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.

SONNET V.

Hard by the road, where on that little mound

The high grass rustles to the passing breeze,

The child of Misery rests her head in peace.

Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground

Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on

Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek,

And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak

The soul of Pity. Pale and woe-begone

Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep

The tear of anguish for the babe unborn,

The helpless heir of Poverty and Scorn.

She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep.

I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye,

Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.

SONNET VI

to a brook near the village of Corston.

As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream

And watch thy current, Memory's hand pourtrays

The faint form'd scenes of the departed days,

Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam

Dimly descried yet lovely. I have worn

Upon thy banks the live-long hour away,

When sportive Childhood wantoned thro' the day,

Joy'd at the opening splendour of the morn,

Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sigh

Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek

At the fond thought slow stealing on, would speak

The silent eloquence of the full eye.

Dim are the long past days, yet still they please

As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.

SONNET VII

to the evening rainbow.

Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky

Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray

Each in the other melting. Much mine eye

Delights to linger on thee; for the day,

Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile

Flashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile,

That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain:

But pleasant is it now to pause, and view

Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,

And think the storm shall not return again.

Such is the smile that Piety bestows

On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace

Departing gently from a world of woes,

Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.

SONNET VIII.

With many a weary step, at length I gain

Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays,

Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze

Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain.

'Twas a long way and tedious! to the eye

Tho fair the extended vale, and fair to view

The falling leaves of many a faded hue,

That eddy in the wild gust moaning by.

Even so it fared with Life! in discontent

Restless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went,

Yet wept to think they would return no more!

But cease fond heart in such sad thoughts to roam,

For surely thou ere long shall reach thy home,

And pleasant is the way that lies before.

SONNET IX.

Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky

The orient sun expands his roseate ray,

And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye

Fades the meek radiance of departing day;

But fairer is the smile of one we love,

Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway.

And sweeter than the music of the grove,

The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight

EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight

From the hard durance of the empty throng.

Too swiftly then towards the silent night

Ye Hours of happiness! ye speed along,

Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart,

Pour out the feelings of my burthen'd heart.

SONNET X.

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns

The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud

The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud

Tho' distant; while upon the misty downs

Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.

I never saw so terrible a storm!

Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain

Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form

Cold even as Hope within him! I the while

Pause me in sadness tho' the sunbeams smile

Cheerily round me. Ah that thus my lot

Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd,

Where I might from some little quiet cot,

Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!

Sappho.

A MONODRAMA.

Argument.

To leap from the promontory of LEUCADIA was believed by the Greeks to be a remedy for hopeless love, if the self-devoted victim escaped with life. Artemisia lost her life in the dangerous experiment: and Sappho is said thus to have perished, in attempting to cure her passion for Phaon.

SAPPHO

(Scene the promontory of Leucadia.)

This is the spot:—'tis here Tradition says

That hopeless Love from this high towering rock

Leaps headlong to Oblivion or to Death.

Oh 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head

Swims at the precipice—'tis death to fall!

Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time

To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convuls'd.

To die,—to be at rest—oh pleasant thought!

Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still,

And the wild tempest of the passions husht

In one deep calm; the heart, no more diseas'd

By the quick ague fits of hope and fear,

Quietly cold!

Presiding Powers look down!

In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers,

In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thou

VENUS! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre

Hymn'd with such full devotion! Lesbian groves,

Witness how often at the languid hour

Of summer twilight, to the melting song

Ye gave your choral echoes! Grecian Maids

Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek

That lay of love bear witness! and ye Youths,

Who hang enraptur'd on the empassion'd strain

Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart

Sinks in the deep delirium! and ye too

Shall witness, unborn Ages! to that song

Of warmest zeal; ah witness ye, how hard,

Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain!

Ungrateful Goddess! I have hung my lute

In yonder holy pile: my hand no more

Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move

The heart of Phaon—yet when Rumour tells

How from Leucadia Sappho hurl'd her down

A self-devoted victim—he may melt

Too late in pity, obstinate to love.

Oh haunt his midnight dreams, black NEMESIS!

Whom,[1] self-conceiving in the inmost depths

Of CHAOS, blackest NIGHT long-labouring bore,

When the stern DESTINIES, her elder brood.

And shapeless DEATH, from that more monstrous birth

Leapt shuddering! haunt his slumbers, Nemesis,

Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart,

Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretch

He too shall seek beneath the unfathom'd deep

To hide him from thy fury.

How the sea

Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile,

And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breast

Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn

His votary's sorrows! God of Day shine on—

By Man despis'd, forsaken by the Gods,

I supplicate no more.

How many a day,

O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streams

Delighted have I plung'd, from the hot sun

Screen'd by the o'er-arching groves delightful shade,

And pillowed on the waters: now the waves

Shall chill me to repose.

Tremendous height!

Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs

Support me. Hark! how the rude deep below

Roars round the rugged base, as if it called

Its long-reluctant victim! I will come.

One leap, and all is over! The deep rest

Of Death, or tranquil Apathy's dead calm

Welcome alike to me. Away vain fears!

Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live?

Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one—

Thought worse than death!

(She throws herself from the precipice.)

[Footnote A: [Greek (transliterated)]:

Ou tini choimaetheisa thea teche NUTH erezennae. HESIOD]

ODE

(Written on the FIRST of DECEMBER, 1793.)

Tho' now no more the musing ear

Delights to listen to the breeze

That lingers o'er the green wood shade,

I love thee Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,

Sweet is the summer's evening gale,

Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake

The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul

The silence of the wintry scene,

When Nature shrouds her in her trance

Not undelightful now to roam

The wild heath sparkling on the sight;

Not undelightful now to pace

The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches shine,

And mark the moss of many a hue

That varies the old tree's brown bark,

Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

The cluster'd berries claim the eye

O'er the bright hollies gay green leaves,

The ivy round the leafless oak

Clasps its full foliage close.

So VIRTUE diffident of strength

Clings to RELIGION'S firmer aid,

And by RELIGION'S aid upheld

Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring,

Whose waters hid from summer sun

Have sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's ear

With more than melody.

The green moss shines with icey glare,

The long grass bends its spear-like form,

And lovely is the silvery scene

When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection too may love the hour

When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,

No more expands the bursting bud

Or bids the flowret bloom.

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms

Shall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave.

Again expand the bursting bud,

And bid the flowret bloom.

Written on SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands wend, and there

In lovely Nature see the GOD OF LOVE.

The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest

Rouse not such ardor in my breast,

As where the noon-tide beam

Flash'd from the broken stream,

Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight;

Or where the cloud-suspended rain

Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;

Or when reclining on the clift's huge height

I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands shall repair,

Feed with all Natures charms mine eyes,

And hear all Natures melodies.

The primrose bank shall there dispense

Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense,

The morning beams that life and joy impart

Shall with their influence warm my heart.

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,

Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the woodlands bend my way

And meet RELIGION there.

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray

Where storied windows dim the doubtful day:

With LIBERTY she loves to rove.

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip'd dale;

Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,

Sweet are these scenes to her, and when the night

Pours in the north her silver streams of light,

She woos Reflexion in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

ON THE DEATH

Of a Favourite Old SPANIEL.

And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!

The burthen of old age was heavy on thee.

And yet thou should'st have lived! what tho' thine eye

Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy

The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk

With fruitless repetition, the warm Sun

Would still have cheer'd thy slumber, thou didst love

To lick the hand that fed thee, and tho' past

Youth's active season, even Life itself

Was comfort. Poor old friend! most earnestly

Would I have pleaded for thee: thou hadst been

Still the companion of my childish sports,

And, as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody clifts,

From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark

Recall'd my wandering soul. I have beguil'd

Often the melancholy hours at school,

Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought

Of distant home, and I remember'd then

Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,

Returning at the pleasant holydays,

I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively

Sometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay,

Feeling myself changed too, and musing much

On many a sad vicissitude of Life!

Ah poor companion! when thou followedst last

Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate

That clos'd for ever on him, thou didst lose

Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead

For the old age of brute fidelity!

But fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed,

And HE who gave thee being did not frame

The mystery of life to be the sport

Of merciless man! there is another world

For all that live and move—a better one!

Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine

INFINITE GOODNESS to the little bounds

Of their own charity, may envy thee!

To CONTEMPLATION.

[Greek (transliterated):

Kai pagas fileoimi ton enguthen aechon achthein,

A terpei psopheoisa ton agrikon, thchi tarassei.

MOSCHOS.]

Faint gleams the evening radiance thro' the sky,

The sober twilight dimly darkens round;

In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,

And the slow vapour curls along the ground.

Now the pleas'd eye from yon lone cottage sees

On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play;

The Red-breast on the blossom'd spray

Warbles wild her latest lay,

And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.

Calm CONTEMPLATION,'tis thy favorite hour!

Come fill my bosom, tranquillizing Power.

Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shore

When Ocean stills his waves to rest;

Or when slow-moving on the surge's hoar

Meet with deep hollow roar

And whiten o'er his breast;

For lo! the Moon with softer radiance gleams,

And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.

When the low gales of evening moan along,

I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze,

And roam the pathless forest wilds among,

Listening the mellow murmur of the trees

Full-foliaged as they lift their arms on high

And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.

Or lead me where amid the tranquil vale

The broken stream flows on in silver light,

And I will linger where the gale

O'er the bank of violets sighs,

Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise;

And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight,

And watch the horn-eyed snail

Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,

And mark where radiant thro' the night

Moves in the grass-green hedge the glow-worms living light.

Thee meekest Power! I love to meet,

As oft with even solitary pace

The scatter'd Abbeys hallowed rounds I trace

And listen to the echoings of my feet.

Or on the half demolished tomb,

Whole warning texts anticipate my doom:

Mark the clear orb of night

Cast thro' the storying glass a faintly-varied light.

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour

Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power,

Wandering beneath the sainted pile

When the blast moans along the darksome aisle,

And clattering patters all around

The midnight shower with dreary sound.

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild

By melancholy dreams beguil'd,

While the summer moon's pale ray

Faintly guides me on my way

To the lone romantic glen

Far from all the haunts of men,

Where no noise of uproar rude

Breaks the calm of solitude.

But soothing Silence sleeps in all

Save the neighbouring waterfall,

Whose hoarse waters falling near

Load with hollow sounds the ear,

And with down-dasht torrent white

Gleam hoary thro' the shades of night.

Thus wandering silent on and slow

I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe,

And muse upon the perish'd day

When Hope would weave her visions gay,

Ere FANCY chill'd by adverse fate

Left sad REALITY my mate.

O CONTEMPLATION! when to Memory's eyes

The visions of the long-past days arise,

Thy holy power imparts the best relief,

And the calm'd Spirit loves the joy of grief.

To HORROR.

[GREEK (transliterated):

Tin gar potaeisomai

tan chai schuliches tromeonti

Erchomenan nechuon ana t'aeria, chai melan aima.

Theocritos]

Dark HORROR, hear my call!

Stern Genius hear from thy retreat

On some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat,

Beneath the Abbey's ivied wall

That trembles o'er its shade;

Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone,

Thou lovest to lie and hear

The roar of waters near,

And listen to the deep dull groan

Of some perturbed sprite

Borne fitful on the heavy gales of night.

Or whether o'er some wide waste hill

Thou mark'st the traveller stray,

Bewilder'd on his lonely way,

When, loud and keen and chill,

The evening winds of winter blow

Drifting deep the dismal snow.

Or if thou followest now on Greenland's shore,

With all thy terrors, on the lonely way

Of some wrecked mariner, when to the roar

Of herded bears the floating ice-hills round

Pour their deep echoing sound,

And by the dim drear Boreal light

Givest half his dangers to the wretches sight.

Or if thy fury form,

When o'er the midnight deep

The dark-wing'd tempests sweep

Watches from some high cliff the encreasing storm,

Listening with strange delight

As the black billows to the thunder rave

When by the lightnings light

Thou seest the tall ship sink beneath the wave.

Dark HORROR! bear me where the field of fight

Scatters contagion on the tainted gale,

When to the Moon's faint beam,

On many a carcase shine the dews of night

And a dead silence stills the vale

Save when at times is heard the glutted Raven's scream.

Where some wreck'd army from the Conquerors might

Speed their disastrous flight,

With thee fierce Genius! let me trace their way,

And hear at times the deep heart-groan

Of some poor sufferer left to die alone,

His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night;

And we will pause, where, on the wild,

The [1] Mother to her frozen breast,

On the heap'd snows reclining clasps her child

And with him sleeps, chill'd to eternal rest!

Black HORROR! speed we to the bed of Death,

Where he whose murderous power afar

Blasts with the myriad plagues of war,

Struggles with his last breath,

Then to his wildly-starting eyes

The phantoms of the murder'd rise,

Then on his frenzied ear

Their groans for vengeance and the Demon's yell

In one heart-maddening chorus swell.

Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew,

And night eternal darkens on his view.

HORROR! I call thee yet once more!

Bear me to that accursed shore

Where round the stake the impaled Negro writhes.

Assume thy sacred terrors then! dispense

The blasting gales of Pestilence!

Arouse the race of Afric! holy Power,

Lead them to vengeance! and in that dread hour

When Ruin rages wide

I will behold and smile by MERCY'S side.

[Footnote 1: I extract the following picture of consummate horror, from the notes to a Poem written in twelve syllable verse upon the campaign of 1794 and 1795; it was during the retreat to Deventer. "We could not proceed a hundred yards without perceiving the dead bodies of men, women, children and horses in every direction. One scene made an impression upon my memory which time will never be able to efface. Near another cart we perceived a stout looking man, and a beautiful young woman with an infant, about seven months old, at the breast, all three frozen and dead. The mother had most certainly expired in the act of suckling her child, as with one breast exposed, she lay upon the drifted snow, the milk to all appearance in a stream drawn from the nipple by the babe, and instantly congealed. The infant seemed as if its lips had but just then been disengaged, and it reposed its little head upon the mother's bosom, with, an overflow of milk, frozen as it trickled from the mouth; their countenances were perfectly composed and fresh, resembling those of persons in a sound and tranquil slumber."]

The SOLDIER'S WIFE.

DACTYLICS.

Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart

Travelling painfully over the rugged road,

Wild-visag'd Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance!

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed,

Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back

Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness.

[1] Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,

As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,

Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy hagged face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again,

Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity—

Cold are thy famish'd babes—God help thee, widow'd One!

[Footnote 1: This stanza was supplied by S.T. COLERIDGE.]

The WIDOW.

SAPPHICs.

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,

Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,

When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey

Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions;

Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom!

She had no home, the world was all before her,

She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot,

"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.

"Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger

Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends,—but they have all forsook me!

"Once I had parents,—they are now in Heaven!

"I had a home once—I had once a husband—

"Pity me Strangers!

"I had a home once—I had once a husband—

"I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!"

Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.

On drove the chariot.

On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her;

She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out;

Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining,

On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger,

Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses;

There, did the Traveller find her in the morning,

GOD had releast her.

To the CHAPEL BELL.

"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask

Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,

Am now enforst a far unfitter task

For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"

For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air

Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell,

That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;

And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,

To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.

Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,

Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers

Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,

One being awakening to religious awe?

Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?

Or rather, do not all reluctant creep

To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray

Chiming from village church its chearful sound,

When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day,

And all the rustic train are gathered round,

Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best

And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.

Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day,

The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,

As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,

The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;

I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,

As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.

Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell

Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear

As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell

Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear

Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep

And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!

What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?

Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven;

And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone,

And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.

The RACE of BANQUO.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!

Leave thy guilty sire to die.

O'er the heath the stripling fled,

The wild storm howling round his head.

Fear mightier thro' the shades of night

Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight;

And still he heard his father cry

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly

Leave thy guilty sire to die.

On every blast was heard the moan

The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan;

Loathly night-hags join the yell

And see—the midnight rites of Hell.

Forms of magic! spare my life!

Shield me from the murderer's knife!

Before me dim in lurid light

Float the phantoms of the night—

Behind I hear my Father cry,

Fly, son of Banquo—Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race,

Fearless tread the circled space:

Fearless Fleance venture near—

Sire of monarchs—spurn at fear.

Sisters with prophetic breath

Pour we now the dirge of Death!

MUSINGS on a LANDSCAPE

of

GASPAR POUSSIN.

Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur'd scenes

Beguile the lonely hour; I sit and gaze

With lingering eye, till charmed FANCY makes

The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul

From the foul haunts of herded humankind

Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes

The untainted air, that with the lively hue

Of health and happiness illumes the cheek

Of mountain LIBERTY. My willing soul

All eager follows on thy faery flights

FANCY! best friend; whose blessed witcheries

With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller

O'er the long wearying desart of the world.

Nor dost thou FANCY with such magic mock

My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,

Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage,

Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year

Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced

Lisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry.

Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest me

To such calm joys as Nature wise and good

Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons;

Her wretched sons who pine with want amid

The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down

Before the Moloch shrines of WEALTH and POWER,

AUTHORS of EVIL. Oh it is most sweet

To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart,

Sick of reality. The little pile

That tops the summit of that craggy hill

Shall be my dwelling; craggy is the hill

And steep, yet thro' yon hazels upward leads

The easy path, along whose winding way

Now close embowered I hear the unseen stream

Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam

Gleam thro' the thicket; and ascending on

Now pause me to survey the goodly vale

That opens on my vision. Half way up

Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock

To sit and sun me, and look down below

And watch the goatherd down that high-bank'd path

Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now

His lean rough dog from some near cliff to drive

The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick

Amid their trembling bleat arising oft,

Fainter and fainter from the hollow road

Send their far echoes, till the waterfall,

Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath,

Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet

Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height.

Fair spreads the vale below: I see the stream

Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky.

Where the town-spires behind the castle towers

Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade,

Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd,

Part with white rocks resplendant in the sun,

Should bound mine eyes; aye and my wishes too,

For I would have no hope or fear beyond.

The empty turmoil of the worthless world,

Its vanities and vices would not vex

My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld

The low tower of the little pile, might deem

It were the house of GOD: nor would he err

So deeming, for that home would be the home

Of PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow it

To HIM. Oh life of blessedness! to reap

The fruit of honorable toil, and bound

Our wishes with our wants! delightful Thoughts

That sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE,

Ye leave her to reality awak'd,

Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream

Of friends and liberty and home restor'd,

Startled, and listening as the midnight storm

Beats hard and heavy thro' his dungeon bars.

Mary.

The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene—a poem deservedly popular.

MARY.

I.

Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs,

She never complains, but her silence implies

The composure of settled distress.

II.

No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek,

Cold and hunger awake not her care:

Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak

On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek

Has the deathy pale hue of despair.

III.

Yet chearful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary the Maniac has been;

The Traveller remembers who journeyed this way

No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay

As Mary the Maid of the Inn.

IV.

Her chearful address fill'd the guests with delight

As she welcomed them in with a smile:

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,

And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

V.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they

Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say

That she was too good for his wife.

VI.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,

And smoking in silence with tranquil delight

They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

VII.

"Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire side

"To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied,

"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried

"Who should wander the ruins about.

VIII.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear

"The hoarse ivy shake over my head;

"And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,

"Some ugly old Abbot's white spirit appear,

"For this wind might awaken the dead!"

IX.

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,

"That Mary would venture there now."

"Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied,

"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

"And faint if she saw a white cow."

X.

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"

His companion exclaim'd with a smile;

"I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,

"And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough

"From the elder that grows in the aisle."

XI.

With fearless good humour did Mary comply,

And her way to the Abbey she bent;

The night it was dark, and the wind it was high

And as hollowly howling it swept thro' the sky

She shiver'd with cold as she went.

XII.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid

Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight,

Thro' the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid

Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

XIII.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast

Howl'd dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,

And arrived in the innermost ruin at last

Where the elder tree grew in the aisle.

XIV.

Well-pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near

And hastily gather'd the bough:

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,

She paus'd, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,

Aud her heart panted fearfully now.

XV.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,

She listen'd,—nought else could she hear.

The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread

For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

XVI.

Behind a wide column half breathless with fear

She crept to conceal herself there:

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,

And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear

And between them a corpse did they bear.

XVII.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!

Again the rough wind hurried by,—

It blew off the hat of the one, and behold

Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,—

She felt, and expected to die.

XVIII.

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay come on and first hide

"The dead body," his comrade replies.

She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,

She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

And fast thro' the Abbey she flies.

XIX.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,

She gazed horribly eager around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more,

And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor

Unable to utter a sound.

XX.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,

For a moment the hat met her view;—

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

For—oh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart,

When the name of her Richard she knew!

XXI.

Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by

His gibbet is now to be seen.

Not far from the road it engages the eye,

The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh

Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.

Donica.

In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein very distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshew either the death of the Governor, or some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of an harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water.

It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but that she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, "fair Maids, why keep you company with the dead Virgin whom you suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.

The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a Poem by Thomas Heywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635.

DONICA.

High on a rock, whose castled shade

Darken'd the lake below,

In ancient strength majestic stood

The towers of Arlinkow.

The fisher in the lake below

Durst never cast his net,

Nor ever swallow in its waves

Her passing wings would wet.

The cattle from its ominous banks

In wild alarm would run,

Tho' parched with thirst and faint beneath

The summer's scorching sun.

For sometimes when no passing breeze

The long lank sedges waved,

All white with foam and heaving high

Its deafening billows raved;

And when the tempest from its base

The rooted pine would shake,

The powerless storm unruffling swept

Across the calm dead lake.

And ever then when Death drew near

The house of Arlinkow,

Its dark unfathom'd depths did send

Strange music from below.

The Lord of Arlinkow was old,

One only child had he,

Donica was the Maiden's name

As fair as fair might be.

A bloom as bright as opening morn

Flush'd o'er her clear white cheek,

The music of her voice was mild,

Her full dark eyes were meek.

Far was her beauty known, for none

So fair could Finland boast,

Her parents loved the Maiden much,

Young EBERHARD loved her most.

Together did they hope to tread

The pleasant path of life,

For now the day drew near to make

Donica Eberhard's wife.

The eve was fair and mild the air,

Along the lake they stray;

The eastern hill reflected bright

The fading tints of day.

And brightly o'er the water stream'd

The liquid radiance wide;

Donica's little dog ran on

And gambol'd at her side.

Youth, Health, and Love bloom'd on her cheek,

Her full dark eyes express

In many a glance to Eberhard

Her soul's meek tenderness.

Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale

Sigh'd thro' the long lank sedge,

The air was hushed, no little wave

Dimpled the water's edge.

Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forth

Strange music from beneath,

And slowly o'er the waters sail'd

The solemn sounds of Death.

As the deep sounds of Death arose,

Donica's cheek grew pale,

And in the arms of Eberhard

The senseless Maiden fell.

Loudly the youth in terror shriek'd,

And loud he call'd for aid,

And with a wild and eager look

Gaz'd on the death-pale Maid.

But soon again did better thoughts

In Eberhard arise,

And he with trembling hope beheld

The Maiden raise her eyes.

And on his arm reclin'd she moved

With feeble pace and slow,

And soon with strength recover'd reach'd

Yet never to Donica's cheek

Return'd the lively hue,

Her cheeks were deathy, white, and wan,

Her lips a livid blue.

Her eyes so bright and black of yore

Were now more black and bright,

And beam'd strange lustre in her face

So deadly wan and white.

The dog that gambol'd by her side,

And lov'd with her to stray,

Now at his alter'd mistress howl'd

And fled in fear away.

Yet did the faithful Eberhard

Not love the Maid the less;

He gaz'd with sorrow, but he gaz'd

With deeper tenderness.

And when he found her health unharm'd

He would not brook delay,

But press'd the not unwilling Maid

To fix the bridal day.

And when at length it came, with joy

They hail'd the bridal day,

And onward to the house of God

They went their willing way.

And as they at the altar stood

And heard the sacred rite,

The hallowed tapers dimly stream'd

A pale sulphureous light.

And as the Youth with holy warmth

Her hand in his did hold,

Sudden he felt Donica's hand

Grow deadly damp and cold.

And loudly did he shriek, for lo!

A Spirit met his view,

And Eberhard in the angel form

His own Donica knew.

That instant from her earthly frame

Howling the Daemon fled,

And at the side of Eberhard

The livid form fell dead.

Rudiger.

Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or small barge make toward the shore, drawn by a Swan in a silver chain, the one end fastened about her neck, the other to the vessel; and in it an unknown soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful presence, who stept upon the shore; which done, the boat guided by the Swan left him, and floated down the river. This man fell afterward in league with a fair gentlewoman, married her, and by her had many children. After some years, the same Swan came with the same barge into the same place; the soldier entering into it, was carried thence the way he came, left wife, children and family, and was never seen amongst them after.

Now who can judge this to be other than one of those spirits that are named Incubi? says Thomas Heywood. I have adopted his story, but not his solution, making the unknown soldier not an evil spirit, but one who had purchased happiness of a malevolent being, by the promised sacrifice of his first-born child.

RUDIGER.

Bright on the mountain's heathy slope

The day's last splendors shine

And rich with many a radiant hue

Gleam gayly on the Rhine.

And many a one from Waldhurst's walls

Along the river stroll'd,

As ruffling o'er the pleasant stream

The evening gales came cold.

So as they stray'd a swan they saw

Sail stately up and strong,

And by a silver chain she drew

A little boat along,

Whose streamer to the gentle breeze

Long floating fluttered light,

Beneath whose crimson canopy

There lay reclin'd a knight.

With arching crest and swelling breast

On sail'd the stately swan

And lightly up the parting tide

The little boat came on.

And onward to the shore they drew

And leapt to land the knight,

And down the stream the swan-drawn boat

Fell soon beyond the sight.

Was never a Maid in Waldhurst's walls

Might match with Margaret,

Her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark,

Her silken locks like jet.

And many a rich and noble youth

Had strove to win the fair,

But never a rich or noble youth

Could rival Rudiger.

At every tilt and turney he

Still bore away the prize,

For knightly feats superior still

And knightly courtesies.

His gallant feats, his looks, his love,

Soon won the willing fair,

And soon did Margaret become

The wife of Rudiger.

Like morning dreams of happiness

Fast roll'd the months away,

For he was kind and she was kind

And who so blest as they?

Yet Rudiger would sometimes sit

Absorb'd in silent thought

And his dark downward eye would seem

With anxious meaning fraught;

But soon he rais'd his looks again

And smil'd his cares eway,

And mid the hall of gaiety

Was none like him so gay.

And onward roll'd the waining months,

The hour appointed came,

And Margaret her Rudiger

Hail'd with a father's name.

But silently did Rudiger

The little infant see,

And darkly on the babe he gaz'd

And very sad was he.

And when to bless the little babe

The holy Father came,

To cleanse the stains of sin away

In Christ's redeeming name,

Then did the cheek of Rudiger

Assume a death-pale hue,

And on his clammy forehead stood

The cold convulsive dew;

And faltering in his speech he bade

The Priest the rites delay,

Till he could, to right health restor'd,

Enjoy the festive day.

When o'er the many-tinted sky

He saw the day decline,

He called upon his Margaret

To walk beside the Rhine.

"And we will take the little babe,

"For soft the breeze that blows,

"And the wild murmurs of the stream

"Will lull him to repose."

So forth together did they go,

The evening breeze was mild,

And Rudiger upon his arm

Did pillow the sweet child.

And many a one from Waldhurst's walls

Along the banks did roam,

But soon the evening wind came cold,

And all betook them home.

Yet Rudiger in silent mood

Along the banks would roam,

Nor aught could Margaret prevail

To turn his footsteps home.

"Oh turn thee—turn thee Rudiger,

"The rising mists behold,

"The evening wind is damp and chill,

"The little babe is cold!"

"Now hush thee—hush thee Margaret,

"The mists will do no harm,

"And from the wind the little babe

"Lies sheltered on my arm."

"Oh turn thee—turn thee Rudiger,

"Why onward wilt thou roam?

"The moon is up, the night is cold,

"And we are far from home."

He answered not, for now he saw

A Swan come sailing strong,

And by a silver chain she drew

A little boat along.

To shore they came, and to the boat

Fast leapt he with the child,

And in leapt Margaret—breathless now

And pale with fear and wild.

With arching crest and swelling breast

On sail'd the stately swan,

And lightly down the rapid tide

The little boat went on.

The full-orb'd moon that beam'd around

Pale splendor thro' the night,

Cast through the crimson canopy

A dim-discoloured light.

And swiftly down the hurrying stream

In silence still they sail,

And the long streamer fluttering fast

Flapp'd to the heavy gale.

And he was mute in sullen thought

And she was mute with fear,

Nor sound but of the parting tide

Broke on the listening ear.

The little babe began to cry

And waked his mother's care,

"Now give to me the little babe

"For God's sake, Rudiger!"

"Now hush thee, hush thee Margaret!

"Nor my poor heart distress—

"I do but pay perforce the price

"Of former happiness.

"And hush thee too my little babe,

"Thy cries so feeble cease:

"Lie still, lie still;—a little while

"And thou shalt be at peace."

So as he spake to land they drew,

And swift he stept on shore,

And him behind did Margaret

Close follow evermore.

It was a place all desolate,

Nor house nor tree was there,

And there a rocky mountain rose

Barren, and bleak, and bare.

And at its base a cavern yawn'd,

No eye its depth might view,

For in the moon-beam shining round

That darkness darker grew.

Cold Horror crept thro' Margaret's blood,

Her heart it paus'd with fear,

When Rudiger approach'd the cave

And cried, "lo I am here!"

A deep sepulchral sound the cave

Return'd "lo I am here!"

And black from out the cavern gloom

Two giant arms appear.

And Rudiger approach'd and held

The little infant nigh;

Then Margaret shriek'd, and gather'd then

New powers from agony.

And round the baby fast and firm

Her trembling arms she folds,

And with a strong convulsive grasp

The little infant holds.

"Now help me, Jesus!" loud she cries.

And loud on God she calls;

Then from the grasp of Rudiger

The little infant falls.

And now he shriek'd, for now his frame

The huge black arms clasp'd round,

And dragg'd the wretched Rudiger

Adown the dark profound.

Hymn

TO THE

Penates.

Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.

The words of Agur.

The Title of the following Poem will probably remind the Reader of Akenside's Hymn to the Naiads, but the manner in which I have treated the subject fortunately precludes comparison.

HYMN to the PENATES.

Yet one Song more! one high and solemn strain

Ere PAEAN! on thy temple's ruined wall

I hang the silent harp: there may its strings,

When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile,

Make melancholy music. One Song more!

PENATES! hear me! for to you I hymn

The votive lay. Whether, as sages deem,

Ye dwell in the [1]inmost Heaven, the [2]COUNSELLORS

Of JOVE; or if, SUPREME OF DEITIES,

All things are yours, and in your holy train

JOVE proudly ranks, and JUNO, white arm'd Queen.

And wisest of Immortals, aweful Maid

ATHENIAN PALLAS. Venerable Powers!

Hearken your hymn of praise! tho' from your rites

Estranged, and exiled from your altars long,

I have not ceased to love you, HOUSEHOLD GODS!

In many a long and melancholy hour

Of solitude and sorrow, has my heart

With earnest longings prayed to rest at length

Beside your hallowed hearth—for PEACE is there!

Yes I have loved you long. I call on you

Yourselves to witness with what holy joy,

Shunning the polished mob of human kind,

I have retired to watch your lonely fires

And commune with myself. Delightful hours

That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know

All the recesses of my wayward heart,

Taught me to cherish with devoutest care

Its strange unworldly feelings, taught me too

The best of lessons—to respect myself!

Nor have I ever ceas'd to reverence you

DOMESTIC DEITIES! from the first dawn

Of reason, thro' the adventurous paths of youth

Even to this better day, when on mine ear

The uproar of contending nations sounds,

But like the passing wind—and wakes no pulse

To tumult. When a child—(for still I love

To dwell with fondness on my childish years,

Even as that Persian favorite would retire

From the court's dangerous pageantry and pomp,

To gaze upon his shepherd garb, and weep,

Rememb'ring humble happiness.) When first

A little one, I left my father's home,

I can remember the first grief I felt,

And the first painful smile that cloathed my front

With feelings not its own: sadly at night

I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth;

And when the lingering hour of rest was come,

First wet with tears my pillow. As I grew

In years and knowledge, and the course of Time

Developed the young feelings of my heart,

When most I loved in solitude to rove

Amid the woodland gloom; or where the rocks

Darken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave

Recluse to sit and brood the future song,

Yet not the less, PENATES, loved I then

Your altars, not the less at evening hour

Delighted by the well-trimm'd fire to sit,

Absorbed in many a dear deceitful dream

Of visionary joys: deceitful dreams—

Not wholly vain—for painting purest joys,

They form'd to Fancy's mould her votary's heart.

By Cherwell's sedgey side, and in the meads

Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects

The willow's bending boughs, at earliest dawn

In the noon-tide hour, and when the night-mists rose,

I have remembered you: and when the noise

Of loud intemperance on my lonely ear

Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sat,

Pondering on loftiest themes of man redeemed

From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness,

I blest you, HOUSEHOLD GODS! because I loved

Your peaceful altars and serener rites.

Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven

Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man

To mingle with the world; still, still my heart

Sighed for your sanctuary, and inly pined;

And loathing human converse, I have strayed

Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howl'd the blast,

And gaz'd upon the world of waves, and wished

That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep,

In woodland haunts—a sojourner with PEACE.

Not idly fabled they the Bards inspired,

Who peopled Earth with Deities. They trod

The wood with reverence where the DRYADS dwelt;

At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hour

They saw the OREADS on their mountain haunts.

And felt their holy influence, nor impure

Of thought—or ever with polluted hands

Touched they without a prayer the NAIAD'S spring;

Yet was their influence transient; such brief awe

Inspiring as the thunder's long loud peal

Strikes to the feeble spirit. HOUSEHOLD GODS,

Not such your empire! in your votaries' breasts

No momentary impulse ye awake—

Nor fleeting like their local energies,

The deep devotion that your fanes impart.

O ye whom YOUTH has wilder'd on your way,

Or VICE with fair-mask'd foulness, or the lure

Of FAME that calls ye to her crowded paths

With FOLLY's rattle, to your HOUSEHOLD GODS

Return! for not in VICE's gay abodes,

Not in the unquiet unsafe halls of FAME

Does HAPPINESS abide! O ye who weep

Much for the many miseries of Mankind,

More for their vices, ye whose honest eyes

Frown on OPPRESSION,—ye whose honest hearts

Beat high when FREEDOM sounds her dread tocsin;—

O ye who quit the path of peaceful life

Crusading for mankind—a spaniel race

That lick the hand that beats them, or tear all

Alike in frenzy—to your HOUSEHOLD GODS

Return, for by their altars VIRTUE dwells

And HAPPINESS with her; for by their fires

TRANQUILLITY in no unsocial mood

Sits silent, listening to the pattering shower;

For, so [3]SUSPICION sleep not at the gate

Of WISDOM,—FALSEHOOD shall not enter there.

As on the height of some huge eminence,

Reach'd with long labour, the way-faring man

Pauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain

With many a sore step travelled, turns him then

Serious to contemplate the onward road,

And calls to mind the comforts of his home,

And sighs that he has left them, and resolves

To stray no more: I on my way of life

Muse thus PENATES, and with firmest faith

Devote myself to you. I will not quit

To mingle with the mob your calm abodes,

Where, by the evening hearth CONTENTMENT sits

And hears the cricket chirp; where LOVE delights

To dwell, and on your altars lays his torch

That burns with no extinguishable flame.

Hear me ye POWERS benignant! there is one

Must be mine inmate—for I may not chuse

But love him. He is one whom many wrongs

Have sicken'd of the world. There was a time

When he would weep to hear of wickedness

And wonder at the tale; when for the opprest

He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor

A good man's honest anger. His quick eye

Betray'd each rising feeling, every thought

Leapt to his tongue. When first among mankind

He mingled, by himself he judged of them,

And loved and trusted them, to Wisdom deaf,

And took them to his bosom. FALSEHOOD met

Her unsuspecting victim, fair of front,

And lovely as [4]Apega's sculptured form,

Like that false image caught his warm embrace

And gored his open breast. The reptile race

Clung round his bosom, and with viper folds

Encircling, stung the fool who fostered them.

His mother was SIMPLICITY, his sire

BENEVOLENCE; in earlier days he bore

His father's name; the world who injured him

Call him MISANTHROPY. I may not chuse

But love him, HOUSEHOLD GODS! for we were nurst

In the same school.

PENATES! some there are

Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell,

Gazing with eye remote on all the ways

Of man, his GUARDIAN GODS; wiselier they deem

A dearer interest to the human race

Links you, yourselves the SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.

No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world,

No light of human reason penetrate

That depth where Truth lies hid. Yet to this faith

My heart with instant sympathy assents;

And I would judge all systems and all faiths

By that best touchstone, from whose test DECEIT

Shrinks like the Arch-Fiend at Ithuriel's spear,

And SOPHISTRY'S gay glittering bubble bursts,

As at the spousals of the Nereid's son,

When that false [5] Florimel, by her prototype

Display'd in rivalry, with all her charms

Dissolved away.

Nor can the halls of Heaven

Give to the human soul such kindred joy,

As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels,

When with the breeze it wantons round the brow

Of one beloved on earth; or when at night

In dreams it comes, and brings with it the DAYS

And JOYS that are no more, Or when, perchance

With power permitted to alleviate ill

And fit the sufferer for the coming woe,

Some strange presage the SPIRIT breathes, and fills

The breast with ominous fear, and disciplines

For sorrow, pours into the afflicted heart

The balm of resignation, and inspires

With heavenly hope. Even as a Child delights

To visit day by day the favorite plant

His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth,

And watch all anxious for the promised flower;

Thus to the blessed spirit, in innocence

And pure affections like a little child,

Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends

Beloved; then sweetest if, as Duty prompts,

With earthly care we in their breasts have sown

The seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowers

Whose odour reacheth Heaven.

When my sick Heart,

(Sick [6] with hope long delayed, than, which no care

Presses the crush'd heart heavier;) from itself

Seeks the best comfort, often have I deemed

That thou didst witness every inmost thought

SEWARD! my dear dead friend! for not in vain,

Oh early summon'd in thy heavenly course!

Was thy brief sojourn here: me didst thou leave

With strengthen'd step to follow the right path

Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe

The deep regret of Nature, with belief,

My EDMUND! that thine eye's celestial ken

Pervades me now, marking no mean joy

The movements of the heart that loved thee well!

Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your rites

DOMESTIC GODS! arose. When for his son

With ceaseless grief Syrophanes bewail'd,

Mourning his age left childless, and his wealth

Heapt for an alien, he with fixed eye

Still on the imaged marble of the dead

Dwelt, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrath

A safe asylum, fled the offending slave,

And garlanded the statue and implored

His young lost Lord to save: Remembrance then

Softened the father, and he loved to see

The votive wreath renewed, and the rich smoke

Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet.

From Egypt soon the sorrow-soothing rites

Divulging spread; before your [7] idol forms

By every hearth the blinded Pagan knelt,

Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there

Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes

With human blood your sanctuary defil'd:

Till the first BRUTUS, tyrant-conquering chief,

Arose; he first the impious rites put down,

He fitliest, who for FREEDOM lived and died,

The friend of humankind. Then did your feasts

Frequent recur and blameless; and when came

The solemn [8] festival, whose happiest rites

Emblem'd EQUALITY, the holiest truth!

Crown'd with gay garlands were your statues seen,

To you the fragrant censer smok'd, to you

The rich libation flow'd: vain sacrifice!

For nor the poppy wreath nor fruits nor wine.

Ye ask, PENATES! nor the altar cleans'd

With many a mystic form; ye ask the heart

Made pure, and by domestic Peace and Love

Hallowed to you.

Hearken your hymn of praise,

PENATES! to your shrines I come for rest,

There only to be found. Often at eve,

Amid my wanderings I have seen far off

The lonely light that spake of comfort there,

It told my heart of many a joy of home,

And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazed

From some high eminence on goodly vales

And cots and villages embower'd below,

The thought would rise that all to me was strange

Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot

Where my tir'd mind might rest and call it home,

There is a magic in that little word;

It is a mystic circle that surrounds

Comforts and Virtues never known beyond

The hallowed limit. Often has my heart

Ached for that quiet haven; haven'd now,

I think of those in this world's wilderness

Who wander on and find no home of rest

Till to the grave they go! them POVERTY

Hollow-eyed fiend, the child of WEALTH and POWER,

Bad offspring of worse parents, aye afflicts,

Cankering with her foul mildews the chill'd heart—

Them WANT with scorpion scourge drives to the den

Of GUILT—them SLAUGHTER with the price of death

Buys for her raven brood. Oh not on them

GOD OF ETERNAL JUSTICE! not on them

Let fall thy thunder!

HOUSEHOLD DEITIES!

Then only shall be Happiness on earth

When Man shall feel your sacred power, and love

Your tranquil joys; then shall the city stand

A huge void sepulchre, and rising fair

Amid the ruins of the palace pile

The Olive grow, there shall the TREE OF PEACE

Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state

Shall bless the race redeemed of Man, when WEALTH

And POWER and all their hideous progeny

Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind

Live in the equal brotherhood of LOVE.

Heart-calming hope and sure! for hitherward

Tend all the tumults of the troubled world,

Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness

Alike: so he hath will'd whose will is just.

Meantime, all hoping and expecting all

In patient faith, to you, DOMESTIC GODS!

I come, studious of other lore than song,

Of my past years the solace and support:

Yet shall my Heart remember the past years

With honest pride, trusting that not in vain

Lives the pure song of LIBERTY and TRUTH.

[Footnote 1: Hence one explanation of the name Penates, because they were supposed to reign in the inmost Heavens.]

[Footnote 2: This was the belief of the ancient Hetrusci, who called them Consentes and Complicces]

[Footnote 3:

Oft, tho' Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleeps

At Wisdom's gate, and to Simplicity

Resigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no ill

Where no ill seems.

MILTON.]

[Footnote 4: One of the Ways and Means of the Tyrant Nabis. If one of his Subjects refused to lend him money, he commanded him to embrace his Apega; the statue of a beautiful Woman so formed as to clasp the victim to her breast, in which a pointed dagger was concealed.]

[Footnote 5:

Then did he set her by that snowy one,

Like the true saint beside the image set,

Of both their beauties to make paragone

And trial whether should the honour get:

Streightway so soone as both together met,

The enchaunted damzell vanish'd into nought;

Her snowy substance melted as with heat,

Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought

But the emptie girdle which about her wast was wrought.

SPENCER.]

[Footnote 6: Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. PROVERBS.

Qua non gravior mortalibus addita cura,

SPES ubi longa venit.

STATIUS.]

[Footnote 7: It is not certainly known under what form the Penates were worshipped. Some assert, as wooden or brazen rods shaped like trumpets: others, that they were represented as young men.]

[Footnote 8: The Saturnalia.]

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Table of Contents

POEMS

SONNET.

CONTENTS

ERRORS

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN

TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

POEMS

PREFACE.

SONNET I

SONNET II

SONNET III

SONNET IV

SONNET V

SONNET VI

TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL

ODE

INSCRIPTION I.

INSCRIPTION II.

INSCRIPTION III.

INSCRIPTION IV.

INSCRIPTION V.

INSCRIPTION VI.

INSCRIPTION VII.

INSCRIPTION VIII.

BOTANY BAY

ELINOR.

HUMPHREY:

WILLIAM:

HUMPHREY:

WILLIAM:

HUMPHREY:

WILLIAM:

HUMPHREY:

JOHN.

RICHARD.

JOHN.

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

JOHN:

SAMUEL:

RICHARD:

FREDERIC.

SONNET I.

SONNET II.

SONNET III.

SONNET IV.

SONNET V.

SONNET VIII.

SONNET IX.

SONNET X.

SAPPHO

ODE

DACTYLICS.

MARY.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

DONICA.

RUDIGER.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE