The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Through France and Switzerland the artist ranged,
Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains changed;
Then viewed them all with inexpressed delight,
Scenes rich by day, or grander still by night.
As on the Alps the avalanches rise,
Hills of eternal winter pierce the skies.
He climbed their sides, with perseverance true,
Till kingdoms on each side were in his view.
Arrived at Rome, his young and eager mind
With works of ev'ry master was refined.
What there he saw, what artists can behold,
To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold:
But he returned again to Cumbria's fells,
To Derwentwater and to Grasmere's dells;
Then his rich neighbours flocked around to hear
How well he liked at Rome, what paintings he saw there.
He said, De Urban's lively canvas spoke,
And Raphael's pencil ev'ry passion woke;
Carracci's masterpiece would make you weep,—
He knew so well what would his paintings keep,
That on each face you'd think old Nature played,
And Life seemed dancing in the light and shade:
But would not any trav'ller seem a fool
To tell the masters of each varied school?
Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine,
But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine:
For he who once was well content with beer,
Must now have spirits, his weak heart to cheer;
Then he could tell what he had seen away,
Live in high life, and ne'er have aught to pay.
Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast?
Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest?
Is there for mortals any earthly curse?
There's nothing to a genius that is worse.
Hundreds have spirits sent unto the tomb,
And made for youth the grave an early home.
Death's the dire consequence of drinking deep,
Then children, widow, and relations weep.
So 'twas with Paros—he could paint the form
Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm
Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew,
Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view
Paint well the billows, that they seemed to roll,
And with his pow'rful pencil freeze the soul.
Nature was in his strokes, and every touch
Was neither yet too little nor too much;
Secure in his imagination's might,
Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right.
Upraised to fame, his company was sought,
And likenesses he sketched as if they thought;
So well he touched the portrait of the fair,
She seemed to breathe, as life herself was there,
The battle piece of Prestonpans he took,—
The scene the noble mind of Paros woke.
An ancient song, with fire in every line,
Gave the first sketches of the great design;
These were the words that fired his feeling heart,
And told how madly Stuart played his part:
Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains changed;
Then viewed them all with inexpressed delight,
Scenes rich by day, or grander still by night.
As on the Alps the avalanches rise,
Hills of eternal winter pierce the skies.
He climbed their sides, with perseverance true,
Till kingdoms on each side were in his view.
Arrived at Rome, his young and eager mind
With works of ev'ry master was refined.
What there he saw, what artists can behold,
To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold:
But he returned again to Cumbria's fells,
To Derwentwater and to Grasmere's dells;
Then his rich neighbours flocked around to hear
How well he liked at Rome, what paintings he saw there.
He said, De Urban's lively canvas spoke,
And Raphael's pencil ev'ry passion woke;
139
He knew so well what would his paintings keep,
That on each face you'd think old Nature played,
And Life seemed dancing in the light and shade:
But would not any trav'ller seem a fool
To tell the masters of each varied school?
Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine,
But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine:
For he who once was well content with beer,
Must now have spirits, his weak heart to cheer;
Then he could tell what he had seen away,
Live in high life, and ne'er have aught to pay.
Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast?
Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest?
Is there for mortals any earthly curse?
There's nothing to a genius that is worse.
Hundreds have spirits sent unto the tomb,
And made for youth the grave an early home.
Death's the dire consequence of drinking deep,
Then children, widow, and relations weep.
So 'twas with Paros—he could paint the form
Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm
Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew,
Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view
Paint well the billows, that they seemed to roll,
And with his pow'rful pencil freeze the soul.
Nature was in his strokes, and every touch
Was neither yet too little nor too much;
140
Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right.
Upraised to fame, his company was sought,
And likenesses he sketched as if they thought;
So well he touched the portrait of the fair,
She seemed to breathe, as life herself was there,
The battle piece of Prestonpans he took,—
The scene the noble mind of Paros woke.
An ancient song, with fire in every line,
Gave the first sketches of the great design;
These were the words that fired his feeling heart,
And told how madly Stuart played his part:
“The flashing claymores gleam afar,
And small the files in distance are,
Each helmet glitters like a star,
As clansmen are advancing.
And small the files in distance are,
Each helmet glitters like a star,
As clansmen are advancing.
The trenches dug are broad and deep,
In which the loaded cannon sleep—
Silent their guns the terrors keep,
To wait the Scotch artillery.
In which the loaded cannon sleep—
Silent their guns the terrors keep,
To wait the Scotch artillery.
Behind the hill the fight began,
Death came with ev'ry kilted clan,
And down fell many a Southern man,
The pipers sounding victory.
Death came with ev'ry kilted clan,
And down fell many a Southern man,
The pipers sounding victory.
141
They yet remembered Glencoe's vale,
And sent their bullets thick as hail,
And with the broadswords cut the mail,
And met the slaughter dreadfully.
And sent their bullets thick as hail,
And with the broadswords cut the mail,
And met the slaughter dreadfully.
Now rages discord—man and steed
Rush to the charge—they fall, they bleed—
Forgot is many a noble deed,
The battle burns so terribly.
Rush to the charge—they fall, they bleed—
Forgot is many a noble deed,
The battle burns so terribly.
Each cannonier, with charge in hand,
And others with the blazing brand,
Close to the heated cannon stand,
The smoke ascending rapidly.
And others with the blazing brand,
Close to the heated cannon stand,
The smoke ascending rapidly.
The steeds, that left the foam behind,
The pennons, streaming in the wind,
And Scots, that scorned a coward's mind,
Rushed to the onset gallantly.
The pennons, streaming in the wind,
And Scots, that scorned a coward's mind,
Rushed to the onset gallantly.
The English, loyal and more true,
The thistle scorned, and firmer grew,
As closer pressed the bonnets blue,
Inspired with Highland minstrelsy.
The thistle scorned, and firmer grew,
As closer pressed the bonnets blue,
Inspired with Highland minstrelsy.
The smoke, the blaze, the charge, the fire,
The ranks that fall ere these retire,
And England's banner lifted higher,
Were grandeur and sublimity.
The ranks that fall ere these retire,
And England's banner lifted higher,
Were grandeur and sublimity.
142
Then darkness comes—the blaze is seen
At distance, and long time between
Each flash, which through the day had been
From cannon quick as musketry.
At distance, and long time between
Each flash, which through the day had been
From cannon quick as musketry.
What Scotland won soon Scotland lost;
Culloden all the glory tost
To the cold shades, and there the frost
Nipped her sharp thistle cruelly.
Culloden all the glory tost
To the cold shades, and there the frost
Nipped her sharp thistle cruelly.
Brave Gardner!—in death he lay;
A better never lost the day,
Nor nobler spirit fled away
To realms of blest eternity.
A better never lost the day,
Nor nobler spirit fled away
To realms of blest eternity.
The banners now must wave no more,
The dreadful conflict now is o'er,
And Scotland shall be clear from gore,
For discord's lost in amity.”
The dreadful conflict now is o'er,
And Scotland shall be clear from gore,
For discord's lost in amity.”
On the broad canvas Paros had portrayed
The varying glances of each shining blade,
Left all descriptive poetry behind,
And stamped at once the battle on the mind;
But close beside him was the bottle hung—
He drank when faint, then painted as he sung;
But when the cheering draught had lost its head,
His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled.
When warmed with wine, his airy thoughts brought home
The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome;
Columns of ev'ry order, laid on earth,
Where Desolation frolicked in her mirth;
All Nature rolled before his strong ideas—
The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas:
But soon his pulses in quick motions beat,
His ruined appetite enjoys no meat,
His frame decays, the mind is weaker made,
He starts in dreams—his bosom's sore afraid,
No pleasure can his weeping Anna give;
To him 'tis now no happiness to live;
He values not the bubble of a name,
Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame.
When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled,
Bound to the confines of a dying bed,
The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer;
His mind was weak, his dissolution near,
When his pale cheek was laid on Anna's breast,
And his cold hand by her he loved was pressed.
What weeping then!—no language now can tell
How tears were rained when such a genius fell.
Then was destroyed a gen'rous noble mind,
While the destroyer lurked in shades behind.
Dreadful Intemperance! thy tempting snare
Holds while thou slayest, O father of Despair!
There lay the artist, ready for the tomb,
His valued paintings hung around the room;
Here the old ruin, and the shades below
Spread where the crystal streams of Eden flow,
And there the copy of the ocean storm,
From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form.
Oh! the sad sight—'twas solemn there to tread,
To view his works, and see the artist dead.
How placid he appeared!—he seemed asleep—
I wept, and all his portraits seemed to weep.
It was the last farewell—he could not hear—
His eyes were closed in peace, and not a tear
Wet his pale cheek—he panted not for breath,
But outshone life, as calm he lay in death.
The varying glances of each shining blade,
Left all descriptive poetry behind,
And stamped at once the battle on the mind;
But close beside him was the bottle hung—
He drank when faint, then painted as he sung;
But when the cheering draught had lost its head,
His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled.
143
The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome;
Columns of ev'ry order, laid on earth,
Where Desolation frolicked in her mirth;
All Nature rolled before his strong ideas—
The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas:
But soon his pulses in quick motions beat,
His ruined appetite enjoys no meat,
His frame decays, the mind is weaker made,
He starts in dreams—his bosom's sore afraid,
No pleasure can his weeping Anna give;
To him 'tis now no happiness to live;
He values not the bubble of a name,
Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame.
When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled,
Bound to the confines of a dying bed,
The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer;
His mind was weak, his dissolution near,
When his pale cheek was laid on Anna's breast,
And his cold hand by her he loved was pressed.
What weeping then!—no language now can tell
How tears were rained when such a genius fell.
Then was destroyed a gen'rous noble mind,
While the destroyer lurked in shades behind.
Dreadful Intemperance! thy tempting snare
Holds while thou slayest, O father of Despair!
There lay the artist, ready for the tomb,
His valued paintings hung around the room;
144
Spread where the crystal streams of Eden flow,
And there the copy of the ocean storm,
From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form.
Oh! the sad sight—'twas solemn there to tread,
To view his works, and see the artist dead.
How placid he appeared!—he seemed asleep—
I wept, and all his portraits seemed to weep.
It was the last farewell—he could not hear—
His eyes were closed in peace, and not a tear
Wet his pale cheek—he panted not for breath,
But outshone life, as calm he lay in death.
His spirit's fled, his hand is still,
His pencils now are useless laid,
No more to sketch the vale or hill,
No more to touch the light and shade.
His pencils now are useless laid,
No more to sketch the vale or hill,
No more to touch the light and shade.
Let violets bloom where he is lain!
Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb!
He ne'er can paint your tints again—
True genius now has left its home.
Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb!
He ne'er can paint your tints again—
True genius now has left its home.
Relations wept, and Anna deeply sighed,
For Anna, had he lived, had been his bride;
But all their weeping was an empty show,
Compared to Philo's “eloquence of woe.”
When Philo entered, not a word he spoke—
The feelings of the friend and poet woke;
Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep,
When Paros' eyes were sealed in endless sleep.
He thought upon the soul of genius fled,
Words burst in sorrow while young Philo said—
“Where is the spirit gone? Could such a mind
Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind?
Could matter think? could dust through systems roll?
No—'twas the spirit fled without control.
Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air—
Look on his corpse when there's no spirit there.
The mind that once was kept by genius bright,
I knew in innocence, when, day or night,
Joy plumed its wings: Oh, happiest days on earth!
When pleasure changed from purest joy to mirth,
From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep,
When health was good—we knew not how to weep.
His mind for ever stretched in fancy strong,
He soared too high on earth to tarry long:
But language fails, while thus my bosom swells—
I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells;
Then shall unnumbered worlds, and all things new,
Beyond the reach of mortals, burst upon our view.”
For Anna, had he lived, had been his bride;
But all their weeping was an empty show,
Compared to Philo's “eloquence of woe.”
145
The feelings of the friend and poet woke;
Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep,
When Paros' eyes were sealed in endless sleep.
He thought upon the soul of genius fled,
Words burst in sorrow while young Philo said—
“Where is the spirit gone? Could such a mind
Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind?
Could matter think? could dust through systems roll?
No—'twas the spirit fled without control.
Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air—
Look on his corpse when there's no spirit there.
The mind that once was kept by genius bright,
I knew in innocence, when, day or night,
Joy plumed its wings: Oh, happiest days on earth!
When pleasure changed from purest joy to mirth,
From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep,
When health was good—we knew not how to weep.
His mind for ever stretched in fancy strong,
He soared too high on earth to tarry long:
But language fails, while thus my bosom swells—
I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells;
Then shall unnumbered worlds, and all things new,
Beyond the reach of mortals, burst upon our view.”
Through Nature Philo's lively fancy flew,
He something of each varied science knew;
He read of Polar wonders with delight,
And searched each cause on which the learned write,
He learned to know how little mortals know
Of things above, or meanest things below,
That when the northern dancing streamers fly,
They cannot tell how these can light the sky;
He learned to know that men of wit and thought,
With greatest learning, scarce have learned ought.
Philo the works of navigators read,
That round the globe the bending canvas spread;
He knew by reading what each clime brought forth,
Between New Zealand and the cold Cape North.
Astronomy he loved—his soul flew far,
Through all the systems, to the Polar star,
Nor rested there—he struggled to explain
The cause of tides that roll upon the main.
Greek was his glory, Homer's verse he knew,
His mind through Æschylus with pleasure flew;
He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong,
From great Euripides to Sappho's song;
His mind was learning's self, for such as he,
That love to learn, grasp at infinity.
The microscopic beauties they behold,
Where atom insects seem as tinged with gold,
Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was,
In quick succession through their fancies pass,
And every language, vulgar or refined,
Are nothing to express the scholar's mind.
He something of each varied science knew;
146
And searched each cause on which the learned write,
He learned to know how little mortals know
Of things above, or meanest things below,
That when the northern dancing streamers fly,
They cannot tell how these can light the sky;
He learned to know that men of wit and thought,
With greatest learning, scarce have learned ought.
Philo the works of navigators read,
That round the globe the bending canvas spread;
He knew by reading what each clime brought forth,
Between New Zealand and the cold Cape North.
Astronomy he loved—his soul flew far,
Through all the systems, to the Polar star,
Nor rested there—he struggled to explain
The cause of tides that roll upon the main.
Greek was his glory, Homer's verse he knew,
His mind through Æschylus with pleasure flew;
He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong,
From great Euripides to Sappho's song;
His mind was learning's self, for such as he,
That love to learn, grasp at infinity.
The microscopic beauties they behold,
Where atom insects seem as tinged with gold,
Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was,
In quick succession through their fancies pass,
And every language, vulgar or refined,
Are nothing to express the scholar's mind.
147
Philo in study passed his years away,
Ere he was led to college far astray.
There, with all aids, the dissipated youth
Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth;
The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse,
At every step the human heart grows worse,
Though these can have the globes, the map, the chart,
And every help of Nature and of Art,—
Old vellum manuscripts of Runic lore,
And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er.
From Egypt curiosities are brought,
Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought,
Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome,
Where Learning had a palace for her home.
Language is now at college which was spoke
When Britons groaned beneath the Saxon yoke.
All that three thousand years can now supply,
Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye;
However dark the works, they there can gain
Others that will the darkest parts explain.
But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide,
For Nature's scenes and his own closet sighed.
Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase—
All chances there, but still he wanted peace,
And sighed for solitude beneath some hill,
Where at its foot runs swift the moorland rill,
The blossomed bough, the birds upon each spray,
Chanting their vespers to departing day,
Where bounding trouts within the brook arise,
When winds are still, and sporting are the flies.
Such rural pleasures Philo then could please,
And nought on earth can equal joys like these.
No pleasure half so near the joys above,
As he experienced when he met his love,
True as Leander, she as Hero true,
Bliss most refined, the greatest e'er he knew.
Kings have not more, and riches cannot give
Such bliss as when in innocence we live.
Ere he was led to college far astray.
There, with all aids, the dissipated youth
Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth;
The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse,
At every step the human heart grows worse,
Though these can have the globes, the map, the chart,
And every help of Nature and of Art,—
Old vellum manuscripts of Runic lore,
And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er.
From Egypt curiosities are brought,
Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought,
Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome,
Where Learning had a palace for her home.
Language is now at college which was spoke
When Britons groaned beneath the Saxon yoke.
All that three thousand years can now supply,
Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye;
However dark the works, they there can gain
Others that will the darkest parts explain.
But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide,
For Nature's scenes and his own closet sighed.
Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase—
All chances there, but still he wanted peace,
And sighed for solitude beneath some hill,
Where at its foot runs swift the moorland rill,
The blossomed bough, the birds upon each spray,
Chanting their vespers to departing day,
148
When winds are still, and sporting are the flies.
Such rural pleasures Philo then could please,
And nought on earth can equal joys like these.
No pleasure half so near the joys above,
As he experienced when he met his love,
True as Leander, she as Hero true,
Bliss most refined, the greatest e'er he knew.
Kings have not more, and riches cannot give
Such bliss as when in innocence we live.
Within the valley Philo had a friend,
With whom he many a happy hour could spend,
His greatest glory was to make him blest—
He lent the youth all volumes he possessed.
Here Philo, happy, passed his hours away,
Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray.
He read of battles, and the sons of Jove,
Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love.
In learning's happy hours the youth was blest,
Till love's strong passion raged within his breast;
Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire
Was quenched amid the fervour of desire;
Forgot the things below, the orbs above,
His tow'ring spirit was subdued by love.
She that had vowed to love him while away,
Bless him at eve, and think on him by day,
Like woman, to be rid of anxious pain,
Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain.
Then fell the genius—Philo's love was scorned,
In silent grief the foolish scholar mourned,
Cobwebs were seen among his modern books,
And Care had stamped her image on his looks.
What tuneful Virgil? or what Homer then?
What all the writings of the wisest men?
What all the greatest literature of earth?
What all his studies?—all are nothing worth.
French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek,
Served but the anguish of his soul to speak.
His loving heart beat fast with anguish wrung,
And thus, in tuneful Greek, the scholar sung:
With whom he many a happy hour could spend,
His greatest glory was to make him blest—
He lent the youth all volumes he possessed.
Here Philo, happy, passed his hours away,
Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray.
He read of battles, and the sons of Jove,
Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love.
In learning's happy hours the youth was blest,
Till love's strong passion raged within his breast;
Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire
Was quenched amid the fervour of desire;
Forgot the things below, the orbs above,
His tow'ring spirit was subdued by love.
She that had vowed to love him while away,
Bless him at eve, and think on him by day,
149
Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain.
Then fell the genius—Philo's love was scorned,
In silent grief the foolish scholar mourned,
Cobwebs were seen among his modern books,
And Care had stamped her image on his looks.
What tuneful Virgil? or what Homer then?
What all the writings of the wisest men?
What all the greatest literature of earth?
What all his studies?—all are nothing worth.
French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek,
Served but the anguish of his soul to speak.
His loving heart beat fast with anguish wrung,
And thus, in tuneful Greek, the scholar sung:
“What is the consummation of desire,
The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire?
What pleasures from the greatest knowledge flow?
Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe.
The peasants may admire the learned youth;
But did the poor unlettered know the truth,
How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent,
They then would sing, enjoying true content.
The learn'd may search in ancient books for years,
And read till not a novelty appears,
These cannot Nature from the bosom move,
No—more they know, the stronger is their love;
And women, oh! I write it with a tear,
Soon lose affection when you are not there.
Oh, angel forms! Heaven's masterpiece on earth!
Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth!
Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe!
But why be blamed, since Nature made you so?
Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays,
But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze.”
The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire?
What pleasures from the greatest knowledge flow?
Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe.
The peasants may admire the learned youth;
But did the poor unlettered know the truth,
How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent,
They then would sing, enjoying true content.
The learn'd may search in ancient books for years,
And read till not a novelty appears,
These cannot Nature from the bosom move,
No—more they know, the stronger is their love;
150
Soon lose affection when you are not there.
Oh, angel forms! Heaven's masterpiece on earth!
Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth!
Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe!
But why be blamed, since Nature made you so?
Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays,
But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze.”
Now Philo's years amount to twenty-one,
And he a learned youth, a hopeful son;
His lyre he tuned, and love was in its sounds,
And he sole master of three thousand pounds.
As when the rider, on the grassy plain,
The useless bridle thrown upon the mane,
The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throw,
Resolved all passions of mankind to know.
A sable velvet coat he first had made,
And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed;
With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo ranged,
As fancy led, so his amusements changed;
Each night at parties, at the course next day,
And thus the hours of Philo passed away:
Or when the horn proclaimed the cheerful chase,
Philo was there, with pleasure on his face.
At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball,
With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all,
No thoughts of feeble age, or future days—
His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise.
His gay companions now with him would go,
And view the far-famed field of Waterloo;
Provided well with gold, they bade farewell
Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell.
When in the strongest gale, upon the prow
Young Philo stood, and watched the waves below,
Whose foaming tops were whitened o'er with spray,
And tossed the vessel as she ploughed her way;
With heart undaunted he beheld the tide—
His mind rejoiced to see the vessel ride,
Her head amid the waves, her stern on high,
And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky;
One hand was firmly grasped around the line,
The other held a quart of purple wine.
Serene, he viewed the waves in every form,
And vowed 'twas wine inspired him in the storm:
For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plough
Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below.
The tempest ceased, the winds retired to rest,
The bark skimmed smoothly o'er the ocean's breast.
On deck the sea-sick passengers appeared,
By Philo and the sailors loudly cheered.
The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll,
The sight had warmed his genius, fired his soul;
The lightning's flash, the thunder, and the sea
Had raised his mind to noblest ecstasy.
The sails were full, and, leaning on her side,
Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide,
And soon the land is seen in distance blue—
The level shores of Belgium they view.
The music sounds, the wines like water run,
When mirth upon the vessel is begun,
The captain joins, and there the spirits shine,
The choicest brandy, and the best of wine,
And soon they hailed a vessel which they knew,—
The captain from the steerage quickly threw
A cask of Hollands—with the best 'twas stored—
The sailors shouted when 'twas heaved on board.
Then discord rose, and every sailor drunk—
Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk.
The boat was lowered, but mirth and joy were o'er,
They fell-but from that fall they rose no more,
Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land,
And left them nearly buried in the sand.
And he a learned youth, a hopeful son;
His lyre he tuned, and love was in its sounds,
And he sole master of three thousand pounds.
As when the rider, on the grassy plain,
The useless bridle thrown upon the mane,
The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throw,
Resolved all passions of mankind to know.
A sable velvet coat he first had made,
And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed;
With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo ranged,
As fancy led, so his amusements changed;
Each night at parties, at the course next day,
And thus the hours of Philo passed away:
Or when the horn proclaimed the cheerful chase,
Philo was there, with pleasure on his face.
At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball,
With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all,
151
His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise.
His gay companions now with him would go,
And view the far-famed field of Waterloo;
Provided well with gold, they bade farewell
Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell.
When in the strongest gale, upon the prow
Young Philo stood, and watched the waves below,
Whose foaming tops were whitened o'er with spray,
And tossed the vessel as she ploughed her way;
With heart undaunted he beheld the tide—
His mind rejoiced to see the vessel ride,
Her head amid the waves, her stern on high,
And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky;
One hand was firmly grasped around the line,
The other held a quart of purple wine.
Serene, he viewed the waves in every form,
And vowed 'twas wine inspired him in the storm:
For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plough
Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below.
The tempest ceased, the winds retired to rest,
The bark skimmed smoothly o'er the ocean's breast.
On deck the sea-sick passengers appeared,
By Philo and the sailors loudly cheered.
The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll,
The sight had warmed his genius, fired his soul;
The lightning's flash, the thunder, and the sea
Had raised his mind to noblest ecstasy.
152
Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide,
And soon the land is seen in distance blue—
The level shores of Belgium they view.
The music sounds, the wines like water run,
When mirth upon the vessel is begun,
The captain joins, and there the spirits shine,
The choicest brandy, and the best of wine,
And soon they hailed a vessel which they knew,—
The captain from the steerage quickly threw
A cask of Hollands—with the best 'twas stored—
The sailors shouted when 'twas heaved on board.
Then discord rose, and every sailor drunk—
Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk.
The boat was lowered, but mirth and joy were o'er,
They fell-but from that fall they rose no more,
Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land,
And left them nearly buried in the sand.
Arrived upon the hill where armies fought,
Young Philo's soul was all absorbed in thought;
The place where thousands lay interred was seen,
And there the grass waved with a deeper green.
He thus reflected: “What a stillness here!
Low the Hussar, and cold the Cuirassier;
The meeting armies shout not on the field,
Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield;
The close-wedged squares of British troops are gone,
Now still the place where Europe's peace was won;
Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls,
Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls,
And here the spade shall turn up many a scull,
And broken arms, of which the fields are full.”
In thoughtful contemplation Philo gazed,
And saw the spot where Hugomont had blazed;
He thought what thousands fell when that was fired,
Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retired.
At Belle Alliance, at the close of day,
The blithe companions drove their cares away;
Inspired with brandy, Philo's muse awoke,
And in extempore verses thus he spoke:
Young Philo's soul was all absorbed in thought;
The place where thousands lay interred was seen,
And there the grass waved with a deeper green.
He thus reflected: “What a stillness here!
Low the Hussar, and cold the Cuirassier;
The meeting armies shout not on the field,
Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield;
153
Now still the place where Europe's peace was won;
Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls,
Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls,
And here the spade shall turn up many a scull,
And broken arms, of which the fields are full.”
In thoughtful contemplation Philo gazed,
And saw the spot where Hugomont had blazed;
He thought what thousands fell when that was fired,
Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retired.
At Belle Alliance, at the close of day,
The blithe companions drove their cares away;
Inspired with brandy, Philo's muse awoke,
And in extempore verses thus he spoke:
“Low laid in yon mountain the hero, the brave,
The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot,
And the young British warrior's no more than a slave,
He now as a slave is forgot.
The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot,
And the young British warrior's no more than a slave,
He now as a slave is forgot.
The pride of the battle to ashes are turned,
And dim their once war-beaming eyes;
The boldest, that rushed where the hot battle burned,
Fell quickly, but never to rise.
And dim their once war-beaming eyes;
The boldest, that rushed where the hot battle burned,
Fell quickly, but never to rise.
And this is their glory—they stand as a mark,
Firm, braving the bullets, for fame;
They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark—
To them all the blaze of a name.”
Firm, braving the bullets, for fame;
They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark—
To them all the blaze of a name.”
154
With thirst of knowledge Philo's bosom burns,
And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns;
But the young muse had formed her thorny nest,
Sweetly perfumed, within his youthful breast.
Here he resolved to make remarks as true
As life itself, on every passing view.
His books he spurned, and open threw his mind
To read the spacious volumes of mankind;
He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools,
Full of the modern jargon of the schools;
But he resolved the varied scenes to see,
From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty.
First at Brussels he told his tale of woe,
As though his arm was lost at Waterloo;
His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side—
In Anglo-French he told how comrades died.
At night, what varied scenes were in his view,
Mixed with the beggars and the gipsies' crew!
Their mournful tales were changed to mirth and glee,
And mendicants all joined in harmony.
When Philo saw their mirth and fun begin,
A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin.
All instruments were tuned that then were there,
And punch and music drowned all their care;
Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see,
And good box organs grinded melody.
Philo without its mask deception saw,
Amid the motley group, that laughed at law.
Escaped from prison, one, disguised, was there,
Another was a wounded privateer;
And there was one her infant's blood had spilt,
That Hollands deeply drank, to drown her guilt.
Mirth still prevailed, and tuned the viols' strings—
Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsy wings,
And flew away—such sportive glee and fun
As few behold, by gipsies were begun.
Then young and old could sit not on the bench,
But danced—Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French.
Upon the earthen floor the wooden peg
Kept as true time as many a better leg.
To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene,
Up rose three youthful gipsies, scarce eighteen;
One touched the sweet guitar, and with a smile
The other danced, in true Italian style;
Chords from the tambourine the third awoke—
Philo stood charmed, their feet the music spoke.
These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain,
With these he never wished to meet again;
Then were Deception's masks all torn away—
In higher spheres he spent each future day.
And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns;
But the young muse had formed her thorny nest,
Sweetly perfumed, within his youthful breast.
Here he resolved to make remarks as true
As life itself, on every passing view.
His books he spurned, and open threw his mind
To read the spacious volumes of mankind;
He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools,
Full of the modern jargon of the schools;
But he resolved the varied scenes to see,
From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty.
First at Brussels he told his tale of woe,
As though his arm was lost at Waterloo;
His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side—
In Anglo-French he told how comrades died.
At night, what varied scenes were in his view,
Mixed with the beggars and the gipsies' crew!
Their mournful tales were changed to mirth and glee,
And mendicants all joined in harmony.
When Philo saw their mirth and fun begin,
A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin.
All instruments were tuned that then were there,
And punch and music drowned all their care;
Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see,
And good box organs grinded melody.
Philo without its mask deception saw,
Amid the motley group, that laughed at law.
155
Another was a wounded privateer;
And there was one her infant's blood had spilt,
That Hollands deeply drank, to drown her guilt.
Mirth still prevailed, and tuned the viols' strings—
Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsy wings,
And flew away—such sportive glee and fun
As few behold, by gipsies were begun.
Then young and old could sit not on the bench,
But danced—Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French.
Upon the earthen floor the wooden peg
Kept as true time as many a better leg.
To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene,
Up rose three youthful gipsies, scarce eighteen;
One touched the sweet guitar, and with a smile
The other danced, in true Italian style;
Chords from the tambourine the third awoke—
Philo stood charmed, their feet the music spoke.
These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain,
With these he never wished to meet again;
Then were Deception's masks all torn away—
In higher spheres he spent each future day.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |