The poetical works (1829)

Southey, Robert (1774-1843)

Suppressed Poems.

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698

Suppressed Poems.

TO THE EXILED PATRIOTS MUIR AND PALMER.

Martyrs of Freedom! ye who firmly good,
Stept forth the champions in her glorious cause;
Ye, who against Corruption nobly stood
For Justice, Liberty, and equal laws;

Ye, who have urged the cause of man so well,
Firm when Corruption's torrent swept along;
Ye, who so firmly stood, so nobly fell,
Accept one honest Briton's grateful song.

Take from one honest heart the meed of praise;
Let Justice strike her high-toned harp for you;
Take from the minstrel's hand the garland bays
Who feels your energy and sorrows too.

But be it yours to triumph in disgrace,
Above the storms of Fate be yours to tower
Unchanged in Virtue or by Time or Place,
Unscared is Justice by the throue of Power.

No, by the tyrant's heart let fear be known,
Let the Judge tremble who perverts his trust,
Let proud Oppression totter on his throne;
Fear is a stranger to the good and just.

And is there aught amid the tyrant's state,
Or aught in mighty Nature's ample reign,
So excellently good, so grandly great,
As Freedom struggling with Oppression's chain?

Swells not the soul with ardour at the view?
Bounds not the breast at Freedom's sacred call?
Ye, noble Martyrs, then she feels for you,
Glows in your cause, and crimsons at your fall.

And shall Oppression vainly think by Fear
To quench the fearless energy of Mind,
And glorying in your fall, exult it here,
As though no free-born soul was left behind?

Thinks the proud tyrant, by the pliant law,
The hireling Jury and the Judge unjust,
To strike the soul of Liberty with awe,
And scare the friends of Freedom from their trust?

As easy might the Despot's empty pride
The onward course of rushing Ocean stay:
As easy might his jealous caution hide
From mortal eyes the Orb of general day.

For like that general Orb's eternal flame
Glows the mild force of Virtue's constant light;
Though clouded by Misfortune, still the same,
For ever constant and for ever bright.

Not till eternal Chaos shall that light
Before Oppression's fury fade away;
Not till the Sun himself be quenched in night,
Not till the frame of Nature shall decay.

Go then—secure in steady Virtue—go,
Nor heed the peril of the stormy seas;
Nor heed the fclon's name—the felon's woe,
Contempt and pain and sorrow and disease.

Though cankering cares corrode the sinking frame,
Though Sickness rankle in the sallow breast,
Though Death himself should quench the vital flame,
Think but for what ye suffer, and be blest.

So shall your great examples fire each soul,
So in each free-born breast for ever dwell,
Till MAN shall rise above the unjust control,
Stand where ye stood, and triumph where ye fell.

Ages unborn shall glory in your shame,
And curse the ignoble spirit of the time,
And teach their lisping infants to exclaim—
He who ailows Oppression, shares the crime.

The sixth day of the first decade of the fourth month of the third year of the French Republic, One and Indivisible.

THE KNELL.

In days of yore, when Superstition's sway
Bound blinded Europe in her sacred spell,
The wizard priest enjoined the parting knell,
To fright the hovering Devil from his prey.
If some poor rustic died who could not pay,
Still slept the priest and silent hung the bell.
Then if a yeoman died, his children paid
One bell, to save his parting soul from hell;
And if a Bishop Death's dread call obeyed,
Through all the diocese was heard the toll,
For much his pious brethren were afraid
Lest Satan should receive the good man's soul.
But when Death's levelling hand laid low the King,
Since Kings in both worlds very well are known,
Through all his kingdoms every bell must ring,
For Satan comes with legions for his own.

699

MUSINGS

ON THE WIG OF A SCARE-CROW.

Alas for this world's changes and the lot
Of sublunary things! Yon Wig that there
Moves with each motion of the inconstant air,
Invites my pensive mind to serious thought.
Was it for this its curious cawl was wrought,
Close as the tender tendrils of the vine,
With clustered curls? Perhaps the artist's care
Its borrowed beauties for some lady fair
Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine;
Or for the forehead framed of some Divine
Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey;
Or whether on some stern schoolmaster's brow
Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now?
On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day
Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains,
And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow,
Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow,
Till of its former form no trace remains,
None of its ancient honours! I survey
Its alter'd state with moralizing eye,
And journey sorrowing on my lonely way,
And muse on Fortune's mutability.

THE IVY.

I stood beneath the castle wall,
And mark'd the ivy bower
That, fragrant in its autumn bloom,
Wreathed round the mouldering tower.

The plant insinuates its roots
To rend the ruined wall,
And yet with close and treacherous arms
Suspends awhile its fall

I mus'd upon its ancient strength,
Its hastening dissolution,
And thought upon the ivy friends
Who prop our Constitution.

TO THE RAINBOW.

Loveliest of the meteor-train,
Girdle of the summer rain,
Finger of the dews of air,
Glowing vision fleet as fair,
While the evening shower retires
Kindle thy unhurting fires,
And among the meadows near
Thy refulgent pillar rear:
Or amid the dark-blue cloud
High thine orbed glories shroud,
Or the moisten'd hills between
Bent in mighty arch be seen,
Through whose sparkling portals wide
Fiends of storm and darkness ride.

Like Cheerfulness, thou art wont to gaze
Always on the brightest blaze;
Canst from setting suns deduce
Varied gleams and sprightly hues;
And on louring gloom imprint
Smiling streaks of gayest tint.

THE MORNING MIST.

Look, William, how the morning mists
Have covered all the scene,
Nor house nor hill canst thou behold,
Grey wood, or meadow green.

The distant spire across the vale
These floating vapours shroud,
Scarce are the neighbouring poplars seen,
Pale shadowed in the cloud.

But seest thou, William, where the mists
Sweep o'er the southern sky,
The dim effulgence of the Sun
That lights them as they fly?

Soon shall that glorious orb of day
In all his strength arise,
And roll along his azure way,
Through clear and cloudless skies.

Then shall we see across the vale
The village spire so white,
And the grey wood and meadow green
Shall live again in light.

So, William, from the moral world
The clouds shall pass away;
The light that struggles through them now
Shall beam eternal day.

SONNET. TO MR UNDERWOOD, ON HIS SETTING OUT FOR A GEOLOGICAL EXCURSION IN CORNWALL, JULY 1795.

Searcher of Wisdom! in the earth's dark womb
Thou those drear caves shalt visit, where the day
Has never glimmer'd through the eternal gloom:
Go there,—and journeying in thy distant way,
Sometimes remember me. I too would share
Thy lot, and haply might beguile the road
With converse, tedious else; but me the load
Wearying, and hard weighs down of anxious care.
Hence dark of mind, and hence my furrow'd brow
Lowers stern and sullen. There was once a day
When thou hast heard me pour a happier lay:
This boots not to remember; and know thou
That not without a sinking of the heart,
My Friend, I shall behold thee hence depart.

SONNET.

[That gooseberry-bush attracts my wandering eyes]

That gooseberry-bush attracts my wandering eyes,
Whose vivid leaves, so beautifully green,
First opening in the early spring are seen:
I sit and gaze, and cheerful thoughts arise
Of that delightful season drawing near,
When those grey woods shall don their summer dress,
And ring with warbled love and happiness.
I sit and think that soon the advancing year
With golden flowers shall star the verdant vale:

700

Then may the enthusiast youth at eve's lone hour,
Led by mild Melancholy's placid power,
Go listen to the soothing nightingale,
And feed on meditation; while that I
Remain at home, and feed on gooseberry-pie.

SONNET.

[What though no sculptured monument proclaim]

What though no sculptured monument proclaim
Thy fate—yet, Albert, in my breast I bear
Inshrined the sad remembrance: yet thy name
Will fill my throbbing bosom. When Despair,
The child of murdered Hope, fed on thy heart,
Loved honoured 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.

[Hard by the road, where on that little mound]

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. TO ARISTE.

Ariste! soon to sojourn with the crowd,
In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go;
Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show,
Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud.
I go: but still my soul remains with thee,
Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms,
Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see,
And every pulse will vibrate with alarms.
When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale,
When envy at a rival's beauty sighs,
When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail,
And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes,
I turn my wearied soul to her for case,
Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.

SONNET.

[Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast]

Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast
The glow of genius never could inspire;
Who never, by the future song possest,
Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre.
Let him invoke the Muses from their grove,
Who never felt the inspiring touch of love.
If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze
Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view,
Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise,
Where only from the minstrel praise is due,
I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays,
My Muse, Ariste, would be found in you!
And need I court the goddess when I move
The warbling lute to sound the soul of love?

SONNET.

[Let ancient stories sound the painter's art]

Let ancient stories sound the painter's art,
Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms,
Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart,
And every bosom bounded with alarms.
He cull'd the beauties of his native isle,
From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes,
From some the lovely look, the winning smile,
From some the languid lustre of the eyes.
Low to the finish'd form the nations round
In adoration bent the pious knee;
With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd,
Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee.
Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek
The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!

SONNET.

[I praise thee not, Ariste, that thine eye]

I praise thee not, Ariste, that thine eye
Knows each emotion of the soul to speak;
That lilies with thy face might fear to vie,
And roses can but emulate thy cheek.
I praise thee not because thine auburn hair
In native tresses wantons on the wind;
Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair,
Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind:
'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won,
That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest;
Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast,
As the soft radiance of the setting sun,
When varying through the purple hues of light,
The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.

SONNET. DUNNINGTON CASTLE.

Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile,
Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre
First breath'd the voice of music on our isle;
Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire,
Old Chaucer slowly sunk at last to night;
Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain,
A firmer, nobler monument remain,
When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site.
And yet the cankering tooth of envious age
Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme;
Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page,
And piercing through the shadowy mist of time,
The festive Bard of Edward's court recall,
As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall.

701

SONNET.

As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell
Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom,
Alone and pensive, in my silent room,
On man and on mortality I dwell.
And as the harbinger of death I hear
Frequent and full, much do I love to muse
On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear;
And passion varying her camelion hues,
And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade,
Till death dissolves the vision. So the child
In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd,
As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd;
Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play,
Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.

SONNET. TO THE FIRE.

My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,
Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;
Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,
Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame.
I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,
I love to pause in meditation's sway;
And whilst each object gives reflection birth,
Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:
And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,
Like thce, within mine influence, all to cheer;
And wish at last, in life's declining scene,
As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear:
So might my children ponder o'er my shrine,
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.

SONNET. THE FADED FLOWER.

Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way,
Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk,
Then past along, and left thee to decay.
Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen
Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem,
I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem,
But left thy blossom still to grace the green,
And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Emma's tomb;
“Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride!
O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy.”

SONNET. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear
Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear,
As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;
Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay?
For faintly fades the sinking orb of day,
And yet thy music charms no more the grove.
The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower
The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;
Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along,
The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood
No longer need thy care to cull their food,
And nothing now remains to prompt the song:
But drear and sullen seems the silent grove,
No more responsive to the lay of love.

SONNET. TO REFLECTION.

Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye
Revert again to many a sorrow past?
Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly,
Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast
By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam,
Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam,
As the last splendour of the summer sky.
Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know
To mourn its absence; let them contemplate
The thorny windings of our mortal state,
Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe;
Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow,
Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom,
In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.

THE MAD WOMAN.

[_]

The circumstance on which the following Ballad is founded, happened not many years ago in Bristol.

The Traveller's hands were white with cold,
The Traveller's lips were blue,
Oh! glad was he when the village church
So near was seen in view!

He hasten'd to the village Inn,
That stood the church-door nigh,—
There sat a woman on a grave,
And he could not pass her by.

Her feet were bare, and on her breast
Through rags did the winter blow,
She sate with her face towards the wind,
And the grave was cover'd with snow.

Is there never a Christian in the place,
To her the Traveller cried,
Who will let thee, this cold winter time,
Sit by his fire-side?

I have fire in my head, she answered him,
I have fire in my heart also;
And there will be no winter time
In the place where I must go!

A curse upon thee, man,
For mocking me! she said;
And he saw the woman's eyes, like one
In a fever-fit, were red.

And when he to the inn-door came,
And the host his greeting gave,
He ask'd who that mad woman was
Who sate upon the grave.

702

God in his mercy, quoth the host,
Forgive her for her sin;
For heavy is her crime, and strange
Her punishment hath been.

She was so pale and meagre-ey'd,
As scarcely to be known,
When to her mother she return'd
From service in the town.

She seldom spoke, she never smil'd,
What ail'd her no one knew,
But every day more meagre-pale
And sullen sad she grew.

It was upon last Christmas eve,
As we sat round the hearth,
And every soul but Martha's
Was full of Christmas mirth.

She sat, and look'd upon the fire
That then so fiercely shone,
She look'd into it carnestly,
And we heard a stifled groan.

And she shook like a dying wretch
In a convulsive fit;
And up she rose, and in the snows,
Went out on a grave to sit.

We follow'd her, and to the room
Besought her to return;
She groan'd and said, that in the fire,
She saw her Baby burn.

And in her dreadful madness then
To light her murder came,
How secretly from every eye
Nine months she hid her shame;

And how she slew the wretched babe
Just as he sprung to light,
And in the midnight fire consum'd
His little body quite.

Would I could feel the winter wind,
Would I could feel the snow!
I have fire in my head, poor Martha cried,
I have fire in my heart also.

So there from morn till night she sits—
Now God forgive her sin!
For heavy is her crime, and strange
Her punishment hath been.

ODE TO A PIG WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED.

Hark! hark! that Pig—that Pig! the hideous note,
More loud, more dissonant, each moment grows—
Would one not think the knife was in his throat?
And yet they are only boring through his nose.

You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand
Your master's will, to feel such idle fears!
Why, Pig, there's not a Lady in the land
Who has not also bor'd and ring'd her ears.

Pig! 'tis your master's pleasure—then be still,
And hold your nose to let the iron through!
Dare you resist your lawful Sovereign's will?
Rebellious Swine! you know not what you do!

To man o'er beast the power was given;
Pig, hear the truth, and never murmur more!
Would you rebel against the will of Heaven?
You impious beast, be still, and let them bore!

The social Pig resigns his natural rights
When first with man he covenants to live;
He barters them for safer stye delights,
For grains and wash, which man alone can give.

Sure is provision on the social plan,
Secure the comforts that to each belong:
Oh, happy Swine! the impartial sway of man
Alike protects the weak Pig and the strong.

And you resist! you struggle now because
Your master has thought fit to bore your nose!
You grunt in flat rebellion to the laws
Society finds needful to impose!

Go to the forest, Piggy, and deplore
The miserable lot of savage Swine!
See how the young Pigs fly from the great Boar,
And see how coarse and scantily they dine!

Behold their hourly danger, when who will
May hunt or snare or seize them for his food!
Oh, happy Pig! whom none presumes to kill
Till your protecting master thinks it good!

And when, at last, the closing hour of life
Arrives (for Pigs must die as well as Man),
When in your throat you feel the long sharp knife,
And the blood trickles to the pudding-pan;

And when, at last, the death wound yawning wide,
Fainter and fainter grows the expiring cry,
Is there no grateful joy, no loyal pride,
To think that for your master's good you die?

TO A COLLEGE CAT.

WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE INSTALLATION AT OXFORD, 1793.

Toll on, toll on, old Bell! I'll neither pray
Nor sleep away the hour. The fire burns bright,
And, bless the maker of this great-arm'd chair,
This is the throne of comfort! I will sit
And study most devoutly: not my Euclid,
For God forbid that I should discompose
That spider's excellent geometry!
I'll study thee, Puss: not to make a picture—
I hate your canvas cats and dogs and fools,
Themes that pollute the pencil! let me see
The Patriot's actions start again to life,
And I will bless the artist who awakes
The throb of emulation. Thou shalt give,
A better lesson Puss! come look at me.
Lift up thine emerald eyes! aye, purr away,
For I am praising thee, I tell thee, Puss,

703

And Cats as well as Kings love flattery.
For three whole days I heard an old Fur Gown
Beprais'd, that made a Duke a Chancellor:
Trust me, though I can sing most pleasantly
Upon thy well-streak'd coat, to that said Fur
I was not guilty of a single rhyme!
'Twas an old turncoat Fur, that would sit easy
And wrap round any man, so it were tied
With a blue riband.

What a magic lies
In beauty! thou on this forbidden ground
Mayest range, and when the Fellow looks at thee
Straight he forgets the statute. Swell thy tail
And stretch thy claws, most Democratic beast,
I like thine independence! Treat thee well,
Thou art as playful as young Innocence;
But if we play the Governor, and break
The social compact, God has given thee claws,
And thou hast sense to use them. Oh! that Man
Would copy this thy wisdom! spaniel fool,
He crouches down and licks his tyrant's hand,
And courts oppression. Wiser animal,
I gaze on thee, familiar not enslaved,
And thinking how affection's gentle hand
Leads by a hair the large limb'd Elephant,
With mingled pity and contempt behold
His drivers goad the patient biped beast.

The statute that excludes cats, dogs, and all other singing-birds, from the college precincts.

Always encounter petulance with gentleness. And perverseness with kindness: a gentl, hand will lead the elephant itself by a hair.” — From the Persian Rosary, by Eddin Sadi. Enfield's History of Philosophy.

ROMANCE.

What wildly-beauteous form,
High on the summit of you bicrown'd hill,
Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand?
Though speeds the thunder there its deep'ning way,
Though round her head the lightnings play,
Undaunted she abides the storm;
She waves her magic wand,
The clouds retire, the storm is still;
Bright beams the sun unwonted light around,
And many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground.

Romance! I know thee now,
I know the terrors of thy brow;
I know thine aweful mien, thy beaming eye;
And lo! whilst mists arise around
Yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground,
Two fiery dragons whirl her through the sky.
Her milder sister loves to rove
Amid Parnassus' laurell'd grove,
On Helicon's harmouious side,
To mark the gurgling streamlet glide;
Meantime, through wilder scenes and sterner skies,
From clime to clime the ardent genius flies.

She speeds to yonder shore,
Where ruthless tempests roar,
Where sturdy winter holds his northern reign,
Nor vernal suns relax the ice-pil'd plain:
Dim shadows circle round her secret seat,
Where wandering, who approach shall hear
The wild wolf rend the air;
Through the cloudy-mantled sky
Shall see the imps of darkness fly,
And hear the sad scream from the grim retreat:
Around her throne
Ten thousand dangers lurk, most fearful, most unknown.

Yet lovelier oft in milder sway,
She wends abroad her magic way;
The holy prelate owns her power;
In soft'ning tale relates
The snowy Ethiop's matchless charms,
The outlaw's den, the clang of arms,
And love's too-varying fates;
The storms of persecution lower,
Austere devotion gives the stern command,
“Commit yon impious legend to the fires;”—
Calm in his conscious worth, the sage retires,
And saves the invalu'd work, and quits the thankless land;
High tow'rs his name the sacred list above,
And ev'n the priest is prais'd who wrote of blameless love.

Around the tower, whose wall infolds
Young Thora's blooming charms,
Romance's serpent winds his glittering folds;
The warrior clasps his shaggy arms,
The monster falls, the damsel is the spoil,
Matchless reward of Regner's matchless toil.

Around the patriot board,
The knights attend their lord;
The martial sieges hov'ring o'er,
Enrapt the genius views the dauntless band;
Still prompt for innocence to fight,
Or quell the pride of pround oppression's might,
They rush intrepid o'er the land;
She gives them to the minstrel lore,
Hands down her Launcelot's peerless name,
Repays her Tristram's woes with fame;
Borne on the breath of song,
To future times descends the memory of the throng.

Foremost mid the peers of France
Orlando hurls the death-fraught lance;
Where Durlindana aims the blow,
To darkness sinks the faithless foe;
The horn with magic sound
Spreads deep dismay around;
Unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes,
And scatters wide his Paynim foes;
The genius hovers o'er the purple plain
Where Olivero tramples on the slain;
Bayardo speeds his furious course,
High towers Rogero in his matchless force.

Romance the heighten'd tale has caught,
Forth from the sad monastic cell,

704

Where fiction with devotion loves to dwell,
The sacred legend flies with many a wonder fraught;
Deep roll the papal thunders round,
And everlasting wrath to rebel reason sound.

Hark! Superstition sounds to war's alarms,
War stalks o'er Palestine with scorching breath,
And triumphs in the feast of death;
All Europe flies to arms:
Enthusiast courage spreads her piercing sound,
Devotion caught the cry, and woke the echo around.
Romance before the army flies,
New scenes await her wondering eyes;
Awhile she firms her Godfrey's throne,
And makes Arabia's magic lore her own.

And hark! resound, in mingled sound,
The clang of arms, the shriek of death;
Each streaming gash bedews the ground,
And deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breath:
Wide through the air the arrows fly,
Darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear;
Deep is the cry, when thousands die,
When Coeur de Lion's arm constrains to fear:
Aloft the battle-axe in air
Whirls around confus'd despair;
Nor Acre's walls can check his course;
Nor Sarzin millions stay his force.

Indignant, firm the warrior stood,
The hungry lion gapes for food;
His fearless eye beheld him nigh,
Unarm'd, undaunted, saw the beast proceed:
Romance, o'erhovering, saw the monster die,
And scarce herself believ'd the more than wond'rousdeed

And now, with more terrific mien,
She quits the sad degenerate scene;
With many a talisman of mightiest pow'r,
Borne in a rubied car, sublime she flies,
Fire-breathing griffins waft her through the skies;
Around her head the innocuous tempest lowers,
To Gallia's favour'd realm she goes,
And quits her magic state, and plucks her lovely rose.

Imagination waves her wizard wand,
Dark shadows mantle o'er the land;
The lightnings flash, the thunders sound,
Convulsive throbs the labouring ground;
What fiends, what monsters, circling round, arise!
High towers of fire aloft aspire,
Deep yells resound amid the skies,
Yclad in arms, to Fame's alarms
Her magic warrior flies.

By Fiction's shield secure, for many a year
O'er cooler reason held the genius rule;
But lo! Cervantes waves his pointed spear,
Nor Fiction's shield can stay the spear of ridicule.
The blameless warrior comes; he first to wield
His fateful weapon in the martial field;
By him created on the view,
Arcadia's valleys bloom anew,
And many a flock o'erspreads the plain,
And love, with innocence, assumes his reign:
Protected by a warrior's name,
The kindred warriors live to fame:
Sad is the scene, where oft from Pity's eye
Descends the sorrowing tear,
As high the unheeding chieftain lifts the spear,
And gives the deadly blow, and sees Parthenia die!
Where, where such virtues can we see,
Or where such valour, Sidney, but in thee?
O, cold of heart, shall pride assail thy shade,
Whom all Romance could fancy nature made?

Sound, Fame, thy loudest blast,
For Spenser pours the tender strain,
And shapes to glowing forms the motley train;
The elfin tribes around
Await his potent sound,
And o'er his head Romance her brightest splendours cast.
Deep through the air let sorrow's banner wave!
For penury o'er Spenser's friendless head
Her chilling mantle spread;
For Genius cannot save!
Virtue bedews the blameless poet's dust;
But fame, exulting, clasps her favourite's laurel'd bust.

Fain would the grateful Muse, to thee, Rousseau,
Pour forth the energic thanks of gratitude;
Fain would the raptur'd lyre ecstatic glow,
To whom Romance and Nature form'd all good:
Guide of my life, too weak these lays,
To pour the unutterable praise;
Thine aid divine for ever lend,
Still as my guardian sprite attend;
Unmov'd by Fashion's flaunting throng,
Let my calm stream of life smooth its meek course along;
Let no weak vanity dispense
Her vapours o'er my better sense;
But let my bosom glow with fire,
Let me strike the soothing lyre,
Although by all unheard the melodies expire.

Fictions of Romance, popular in Scandinavia at an early pedrio.

Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see than burn his Ethiopics. The bishop's name would have slept with his fathers, the romancer is rememhered.

First exploit of the celebrated Regner Lodbrog.

Knights of the round table.

The Paladines of France.

Instead of forging the life of a saint, Archbishop Turpin was better employed in falsif ing the history of Charlemagne.

A bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to believe Ariosto's poem, founded upon Turpin's history.

Arabian fictions ingrafted on the Gothic romance.

Romance of the Rose, written soon after the Crusades.

Early prose Romances, originally Spanish.

Fictions of Romance, allegorized by Spenser.

TO URBAN.

Lo! where the livid lightning flies
With transient furious force,
A moment's splendour streaks the skies,
Where ruin marks its course:
Then see how mild the fout of day
Expands the stream of light,
Whilst living by the genial ray,
All nature smiles delight.

So boisterous riot, on his course
Uncurb'd by reason, flies;
And lightning, like its fatal force,
Soon lightning-like it dies:
Whilst sober Temperance, still the same,
Shall shun the scene of strife;
And, like the sun's enlivening flame,
Shall beam the lamp of life.

705

Let noise and folly seek the reign
Where senseless riot rules;
Let them enjoy the pleasures vain
Enjoy'd alone by fools.
Urban! those better joys be ours,
Which virtuous science knows,
To pass in milder bliss the hours,
Nor fear the future woes.

So when stern time their frames shall seize,
When sorrow pays for sin;
When every nerve shall feel disease,
And conscience shrink within;
Shall health's best blessings all be ours,
The soul serene at ease,
Whilst science gilds the passing hours,
And every hour shall please.

Even now from solitude they fly,
To drown each thought in noise;
Even now they shun Reflection's eye,
Depriv'd of man's best joys.
So, when Time's unrelenting doom
Shall bring the seasons' course,
The busy monitor shall come
With aggravated force.

Friendship is ours: best friend, who knows
Each varied hour to employ;
To share the lighted load of woes,
And double every joy:
And Science too shall lend her aid,
The friend that never flies,
But shines amid misfortune's shade
As stars in midnight skies.

Each joy domestic bliss can know
Shall deck the future hour;
Or if we taste the cup of woe,
The cup has lost its power.
Thus may we live, till death's keen spear,
Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come;
Then sink, without one guilty fear,
To slumber in the tomb.

THE MISER'S MANSION.

Thou, mouldering mansion, whose embattled side
Shakes as about to fall at every blast;
Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride,
But now the monument of grandeur past.

Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls,
Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state,
Each object, to the musing mind, recalls
The sad vicissitudes of varying fate.

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time,
The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts;
Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime,
Where battening, undisturb'd, the foul toad sports.

Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl,
The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat;
And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl,
Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat.

'Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told
His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy;
Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold,
And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.

In vain to him benignant Heaven bestow'd
The golden heaps to render thousands blest;
Smooth aged penury's laborious road,
And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast.

For, like the serpent of romance, he lay
Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight;
With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day,
With causeless fears he agoniz'd by night.

Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil
Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest;
Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil,
With all his riches, was Avaro blest?

Rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear,
His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?
Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,
As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?

Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul,
What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave?
What boots thy wealth above the world's control,
If riches doom their churlish lord a slave?

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls,
Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth;
The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls,
Nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth.

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more,
Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet;
Nor when the accustom'd guest draws near the door,
Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.

Sullen and stern Avaro sat alone
In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall,
Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown,
Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall.

For desolation o'er the fabric dwells,
And time, on restless pinion, hurried by;
Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,
And through the shatter'd roof descends the sky.

Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye
Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom,
And mark the daw from yonder turret fly,
And muse how man himself creates his doom.

For here had Justice reign'd, had Pity known
With genial power to sway Avaro's breast,
These treasur'd heaps which Fortune made his own,
By aiding misery might himself have blest.

And Charity had oped her golden store
To work the gracious will of Heaven intent,
Fed from her superflux the craving poor,
And paid adversity what heaven had lent.

Then had thy turrets stood in all their state,
Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall,
Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate,
And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall.

706

Then had the village youth at vernal hour
Hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate,
And blest in gratitude that sovereign power
That made the man of mercy good as great.

The traveller then to view thy towers had stood,
Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name,
And call'd on heaven to give thee every good,
And told abroad thy hospitable fame.

In every joy of life the hours had fled,
Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by,
Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head,
Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die.

And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around
The ample wealth by lavish fortune given,
Thy parted spirit had that justice found,
And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven.

HOSPITALITY.

“Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground,
Bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head,
Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:”
Thus from his firm-establish'd throne,
Replete with vengeful fury,Henry said.
High Reformation lifts her iron rod,
But lo! with stern and threatful mien,
Fury and rancour desolate the scene,
Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod.
Ah! hold awhile your angry hands;
Ah! here delay your king's commands;
For Hospitality will feel the wound!
In vain the voice of reason cries,
Whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies.

Thou, Avalon! in whose polluted womb
The patriot monarch found his narrow tomb;
Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head
With niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread,
Stood the memorial of the pious age?
Where wont the hospitable fire
In cheering volumes to aspire,
And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage.
Low lie thy turrets now,
The desert ivy clasps the joyless hearth;
The dome which luxury yrear'd,
Though Hospitality was there rever'd,
Now, from its shatter'd brow,
With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth.

Ye minstrel throng,
In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire,
No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre:
The walls, whose trophied sides along
Once rung the harp's energic sound,
Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground;
No more the bold romantic lore
Shall spread from Thule's distant shore;
No more intrepid Cambria's hills among,
In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song.
Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child,
Where shall we seek thee now?
Genius! no more thy influence mild
Shall gild Affliction's clouded brow;
No more thy cheering smiles impart
One ray of joy to Sorrow's heart;
No more within the lordly pile
Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.

Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays,
Where hangs the row in sullen show
Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days,
The gaudy toil of Turkish loom
Shall decorate the stately room;
Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye,
Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by.

Not so where o'er the desert waste of sand
Speeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way;
Leads on to rapine his intrepid band,
And claims the wealth of India for his prey;
There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest
Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand,
The generous Arab gives the tent of rest,
Guards him as the fond mother guards her child,
Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild.

Not so amid those climes where rolls along
The Oroonoko deep his mighty flood;
Where rove amid their woods the savage throng,
Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood;
Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake
That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake,
Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear;
Patient of hunger, and of pain,
Close in their haunts the chiefs remain,
And lift in secret stand the deadly spear.
Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near,
And proffering forth the friendly hand,
Claim their protection from the warrior band,
The savage Indians bid their anger cease,
Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace.

Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws
To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws,
How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast!
Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe!
Forbids the pitying tear to flow,
And steels the soul of apathy to rest;
Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne,
And deems of other bosoms by her own.

INSCRIPTION

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
Echo'd 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 through yon high bars it pour'd a sad

707

And broken splendour. 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 loved; 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

FOR THE BANKS OF THE HAMPSHIRE AVON.

A little while, O traveller, linger here,
And let thy leisure eye behold and feel
The beauties of the place; yon heathy hill
That rises sudden from the vale so green,
The vale far stretching as the view can reach
Under its long dark ridge; the river here,
That, like a serpent, through the grassy mead
Winds on, now hidden, glittering now in light.
Nor fraught with merchant wealth, nor famed in song,
This river rolls; an unobtrusive tide,
Its gentle charms may soothe and satisfy
Thy feelings. Look! how bright its pebbled bed
Gleams through the ruffled current; and that bank
With flag leaves border'd, as with two-edged swords!
See where the water wrinkles round the stem
Of yonder water-lily, whose broad leaf
Lies on the wave.—And art thou not refresh'd
By the fresh odour of the running stream?
Soon, traveller! does the river reach the end
Of all its windings: from the near ascent
Thou wilt behold the ocean where it pours
Its waters and is lost. Remember thou,
Traveller! that even so thy restless years
Flow to the ocean of eternity.

INSCRIPTION

UNDER AN OAK.

Here, Traveller! pause awhile. This ancient Oak
Will parasol thee if the sun ride high,
Or should the sudden shower be falling fast,
Here mayst thou rest umbrella'd. All around
Is good and lovely: hard by yonder wall
The kennel stands; the horse-flesh hanging near
Perchance with scent unsavoury may offend
Thy delicate nostrils, but remember thou
How sweet a perfume to the hound it yields.
And sure its useful odours will regale
More gratefully thy philosophic nose,
Than what the unprofitable violet
Wastes on the wandering wind. Nor wilt thou want
Such music as benevolence will love,
For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall
Abundant, and the swine that grub around,
Shaking with restless pleasure their brief tails
That like the tendrils of the vine curl up,
Will grunt their greedy joy. Dost thou not love
The sounds that speak enjoyment? Oh! if not,
If thou wouldst rather with inhuman car
Hark to the warblings of some wretched bird
Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is dead
To each good feeling, and thy spirit void
Of all that softens or ennobles man.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A MONUMENT AT OLD SARUM

Reader, if thou canst boast the noble name
Of Englishman, it is enough to know
Thou standest in Old Sarum. But if, chance,
'Twas thy misfortune in some other land,
Inheritor of slavery, to be born,
Read and be envious! dost thou see yon hut,
Its old mud mossy walls with many a patch
Spotted? Know, foreigner! so wisely well
In England it is order'd, that the laws
Which bind the people, from themselves should spring;
Know that the dweller in that little hut,
That wretched hovel, to the senate sends
Two delegates. Think, foreigner, where such
An individual's rights, how happy all!

TO LYCON.

On yon wild waste of ruin throu'd, what form
Beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair?
Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm?
Why glare her full-fix'd eyes in stern despair?
The deep dull groan I hear,
I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear.

Ah! fly her dreadful reign,
For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain;
For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower;
For oft the ill-omen'd owl
Yells loud the dreadful howl,
And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour.

Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know,
I know the horrors of thy barren plain,
I know the dreadful force of woe,
I know the weight of thy soul binding chain;

708

But I have fled thy drear domains,
Have broke thy agonizing chains,
Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl,
Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my soul.

Fair smiles the morn along the azure sky,
Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by,
And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain;
As down the dale, with perfumes sweet,
The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet,
His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain;
And every bird that loves to sing
The choral song to coming spring,
Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove,
Heaven, earth, and nature, all incite to love.

Ah, pilgrim! stay thy heedless feet,
Distrust each soul-subduing sweet,
Dash down alluring Pleasure's deadly bowl,
For thro' thy frame the venom'd juice will creep,
Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep,
And stain with sable hue the spotless soul;
For soon the valley's charms decay,
In haggard Grief's ill-omen'd sway,
And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day:
Then reason strives in vain,
Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye,
And virtue sinks beneath the galling chain,
And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl,
And sullen fix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul.

Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep
Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light;
She bids the wretch no more despondent weep,
Or linger in the loathly realms of night;
And Science comes, celestial maid!
As mild as good she comes to aid,
To smooth the rugged steep with magic power,
And fill with many a wile the longly-lingering hour.

Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day
Array'd, the wide horizon streams with light;
Anon the dull mists blot the living ray,
And darksome clouds presage the stormy night:
Yet may the sun anew extend his ray,
Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright;
Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain,
And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain.

And what, my friend, is life?
What but the many weather'd April day!
Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife,
Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray;
Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form,
For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm.

If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam
O'er distant hill or plain,
Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home,
Whilst heaven drops down the rain?
Or will thy hope expect the coming day,
When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray?

Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time,
In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore,
Or shake off grief, and “build the lofty rhyme,”
And live till Time himself shall be no more?
If thy light bark have met the storm,
If threatening clouds the sky deform,
Let honest truth be vain; look back on me,
Have I been “sailing on a summer's sea?”
Have only zephyrs fill'd my swelling sails,
As smooth the gentle vessel glides along?
Lycon, I met unscar'd the wintry gales,
And sooth'd the dangers with the song:
So shall the vessel sail sublime,
And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time.

TO LYCON.

And does my friend again demand the strain,
Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay?
Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain,
When melancholy loads the lingering day?
Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye
No fault behold, but every charm descry;
And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny?

“No single pleasure shall your pen bestow;”
Ah, Lycon! 'tis that thought affords delight;
'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe,
When memory reigns amid the gloom of night
For fancy loves the distant scene to see,
Far from the gloom of solitude to flee,
And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me.

Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade,
What time the pale moon glimmering on the plain
Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade,
Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain:
Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow,
Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow,
Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe.

Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay,
The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear,
When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day,
And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear;
For staid reflection loves the deubtful light,
When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night,
And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight.

Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar,
And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain,
When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore,
The exil'd Ovid pour'd his plaintive strain;
He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome,
He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home,
And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom.

Oh! could my lays, like Sulmo's minstrel, flow,
Eternity might love her Bion's name;
The muse might give a dignity to woe,
And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame:
But I have pluck'd no bays from Phoebus' bower,
My fading garland, form'd of many a flower,
May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour.

To please that little hour is all I crave:
Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame;
High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave,
Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name:

709

There never may the pensive pilgrim go,
Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe,
For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below.

Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along
O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go,
To hail the hour of pleasure with the song,
Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe;
The song each passing moment shall beguile;
Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile:
Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while.

Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life,
Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away,
And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife,
And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway:
Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see
The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee,
And train the future race to live and act like me.

Then, when the inexorable hour shall come
To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll,
No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb,
Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul;
But let my children, near their little cot,
Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot:
So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot.

ROSAMUND TO HENRY.

WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL.

Henry, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er,
Thy love, thy Rosamund, exists no more:
She lives, but lives no longer now for you;
She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu.

Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye?
Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh?
Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer;
Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair:
Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see,
My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee.
Yes, Henry! through the vestal's guilty veins,
With burning sway the furious passion reigns;
For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall,
And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall.

Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes,
Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes.
Ah, Henry! fled are all those fatal charms
That led their victim to the monarch's arms;
No more responsive to the evening air
In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair;
No more amid the dance my footsteps move,
No more the languid eye dissolves with love;
Fades on the cheek of Rosamund the rose,
And penitence awakes from sin's repose.

Harlot! adultress! Henry! can I bear
Such aggravated guilt, such full despair!
By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me
The laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee!
Dishonour fix'd on Clifford's ancient name,
A father sinking to the grave with shame;
These are the crimes that harrow up my heart,
These are the crimes that poison memory's dart;
For these each pang of penitence I prove,
Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love.

Yes, even here amid the sacred pile,
The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle;
Even here, when pausing on the silent air,
The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer;
As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee,
Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee:
All day the penitent but wakes to weep,
Till nature and the woman sink in sleep;
Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair,
And morning wakes to sorrow and despair!
Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease,
Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace;
Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath,
And sink to slumber in the arms of death.

To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there!
Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair!
That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame,
And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame!
Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow,
Then rush to mingle with the dead below.
Oh, agonizing hour! when round my head
Dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread;
When conscience from herself shall seek to fly,
And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die!
Already vengeance lifts his iron rod,
Already conscience sees an angry God!
No virtue now to shield my soul I boast,
No hope protects, for innocence is lost!

Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay
Trills through the ether, and awakes the day!
Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light
Shot through the fading curtain of the night;
Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye
That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why.
At evening hour I struck the melting lyre,
Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire,
Till he would press me to his aged breast,
And cry, “My child, in thee my age is blest!
Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life
To see my lovely Rosamund a wife;
To view her children climb their grandsire's knee,
To see her husband love, and love like me!
Then, gracious heaven, decree old Clifford's end,
Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend.”

The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view,
The buds of hope are blasted all by you;
Thy child, O Clifford! bears a mother's name,
A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame;
Even when her darling children climb her knee,
Feels the full force of guilt and infamy!
Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know,
Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe—
Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charms
That buried virtue in seduction's arms;
Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour,
When Henry first beheld and felt their power;
When my too partial brother's doating tongue
On each perfection of a sister hung;

710

Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek,
The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak,
The golden locks, that shadowing half the face
Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace:
'Twas at that hour when night's englooming sway
Steals on the fiercer glories of the day;
Sad all around, as silence stills the whole,
And pensive fancy melts the softening soul;
These hands upon the pictur'd arras wove
The mournful tale of Edwy's hapless love;
When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride,
From the young monarch tore his blushing bride:
Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers feet,
My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet;
But when my sovereign met my wandering eye,
I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why;
O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran,
Nor knew the monarch, till I lov'd the man:
Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I saw
Each look obey'd, and every word a law;
Too soon I felt the secret flame advance,
Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance;
And still I plied my pleasing task, nor knew
In shadowing Edwy I had portray'd you.

Thine, Henry, is the crime! 'tis mine to bear
The aggravated weight of full despair;
To wear the day in woe, the night in tears,
And pass in penitence the joyless years:
Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes
Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise;
Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came
To blast his faithful subject's spotless name;
To pay each service of old Clifford's race
With all the keenest anguish of disgrace!
Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye
Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly;
Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art
Told not his rank till victor o'er my heart:
Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove,
Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love.

How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh?
How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye?
When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue
Talk'd of its truth, and Clifford was undone.
Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway,
Guilt which a life of tears must wash away!
Gay as the morning lark no more I rose,
No more each evening sunk to calm repose;
No more in fearless innocence mine eye
Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why;
No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre,
No more I ran with joy to meet my sire;
But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein,
But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign;
Still vainly seeking from myself to fly,
In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye;
A thousand torments still my steps pursue,
And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you.
Harlot, adultress, each detested name,
Stamps everlasting blots on Clifford's fame!
How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven?
How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven?

And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art,
Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart;
Paints thee most wretched in domestic strife,
Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife;
And vainly whispers comfort to my breast—
“I curst myself that Henry might be blest.”
Too fond deluder! impotent thy power
To whisper comfort in the mournful hour;
Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breath
To soothe Reflection on the bed of death;
To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care,
Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair.

Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face?
Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace?
Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move?
Why form the melting soul too apt for love?
Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast,
Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest:
Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains,
Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!

Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl Clifford's hall
Of menial vassals, me most mean of all;
Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face,
Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place;
How happy, Rosamund, had been thy lot,
In peace to live unknown, and die forgot!
Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting,
Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king;
Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame,
Nor infamy debas'd a Clifford's name.

Oh, Clifford! oh! my sire! thy honours now
Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow;
Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name,
And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame?
Still busy fancy bids the scene arise,
Still paints the father to these wretched eyes.
Methinks I see him now, with folded arms,
Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms;
Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days,
With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise:
Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low
In all the silent energy of woe;
Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild,
He prays forgiveness for his sinful child.
And yet I live! if this be life, to know
The agonizing weight of hopeless woe:
Thus far, remote from every friendly eye,
To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh,
Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove,
To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love:
Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome,
A living victim in the cloister'd tomb,
To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive,
Scorn'd by myself:—if this be life—I live!

Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour,
Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower;
Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view,
And give the soul again to guilt and you.
Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around,
And heard the forest echo Rosamund;
Have seen thy frantic looks, thy wildering eye,
Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh!

711

Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,
I live—but live to penitence alone;
Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,
Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.

Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known,
Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own!
Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life,
The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife;
One who, with every virtue, only knew
The fault, if fault it be, of loving you;
One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share
Thine every joy, and solace every care;
For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know
The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.

Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee,
Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me!
Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know,
Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe:
Henry! by all the love my life has shown,
By all the sinful raptures we have known,
By all the parting pangs that rend my breast,
Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request;
And, when the last tremendous hour shall come,
When all my woes are buried in the tomb,
Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave—
Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave;
Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe,
And think who lies so cold-and pale below!
Think from the grave she speaks the last decree,
“What I am now—soon, Henry, thou must be!”
Then be this voice of wonted power possest,
To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast:
So should my prayers with just success be crown'd,
Should Henry learn remorse from Rosamund;
Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove,
That even death was weak to end our love.

THE RACE OF ODIN.

Loud was the hostile clang of arms,
And hoarse the hollow sound,
When Pompey scatter'd wild alarms
The ravag'd East around.
The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground:
An iron forest of destructive spears
Rear'd their stern stems, where late
The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears:
Rome, through the swarming gate,
Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth:
Such was the will of fate!
From the cold regions of the North,
At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come,
And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.

“Roman!” 'twas thus the chief of Asgard cried,
“Ambitious Roman! triumph for a while;
Trample on freedom in thy victor pride;
Yet, though now thy fortune smile,
Though Mithridates fly forlorn,
Once thy dread, but now thy scorn,
Odin will never live a shameful slave;
Some region will he yet explore,
Beyond the reach of Rome;
Where, upon some colder shore,
Freedom yet thy force shall brave,
Freedom yet shall find a home:
There, where the Eagle dares not soar,
Soon shall the Raven find a safe retreat.
Asgard, farewell! farewell my native seat!
Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll
Her warm tide through thine injur'd chieftain's breast,
Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear:
Never more shall Odin rest,
Never quaff the sportive bowl,
Or soothe in peace his slothful soul,
Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here.
Triumph in thy victor might,
Mock the chief of Asgard's flight;
But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown,
And Odin's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne.”

Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil,
Strong grew the vigorous plant;
Danger could ne'er the nation daunt,
For war, to other realms a toil,
Was but the pastime here;
Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear,
To wield the falchion, to direct the dart,
Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart.

Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race,
And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire;
Nor vice, nor luxury, debase
The free-born offspring of the free-born sire;
There genuine Poesy, in freedom bright,
Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light.

From Helicon's meandering rills
The inspiring goddess fled;
Amid the Scandinavian hills
In clouds she hid her head;
There the bold, the daring muse,
Every daring warrior woos;
The sacred lust of deathless fame
Burnt in every warrior's soul:
“Whilst future ages hymn my name,”
The son of Odin cries,
“I shall quaff the foaming bowl
With my forefathers in yon azure skies;
Methinks I see my foeman's skull
With the mantling beverage full;
I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound
To martial music's echoing sound;
I see the virgins, valour's meed,—
Death is bliss—I rush to bleed.”

See where the murderer Egill stands,
He grasps the harp with skilful hands,
And pours the soul-emoving tide of song;
Mute admiration holds the listening throng:
The royal sire forgets his murder'd son;
Eric forgives; a thousand years
Their swift revolving course have run,
Since thus the bard could check the father's tears,
Could soothe his soul to peace,
And never shall the fame of Egill cease.

Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground,
Beneath the reach of cheering day,

712

Where Regner dying lay;
Poisonous adders all around
On the expiring warrior hung,
Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue:
“We fought with swords,” the warrior cry'd,
“We fought with swords,” he said—he died.

Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls,
Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore;
Undismay'd each hero falls,
And scorns his death in terror to deplore.
“Strike, Thorchill, strike! drive deep the blow,
Jomsburg's sons shall not complain,
Never shall the brave appear
Bound in slavery's shameful chain:
Freedom ev'n in death is dear.
Strike, Thorchill, strike! drive deep the blow,
We joy to quit this world of woe;
We rush to seize the seats above,
And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love.”

The destin'd hour at length is come,
And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom;
No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow
From those proud domes whence Brutus fled;
Where just Cherea bow'd his head,
And proud oppression laid the Gracchi low:
In vain the timid slaves oppose,
For freedom led their sinewy foes,
For valour fled with liberty:
Rome bows her lofty walls,
The imperial city falls,
“She falls—and lo, the world again is free!”

THE DEATH OF ODIN.

Soul of my much-lov'd Freya! yes, I come!
No pale disease's slow-consuming power
Has hasten'd on thy husband's hour;
Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand
Has Odin's life bedew'd the land:
I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom.
No more my clattering iron car
Shall rush amid the throng of war;
No more, obedient to my heavenly cause,
Shall crimson conquest stamp his Odin's laws.
I go—I go;
Yet shall the nations own my sway
Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray:
Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe
That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall,
For Odin shall avenge his Asgard's fall.
Thus burst from Odin's lips the fated sound,
As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade;
His faithful friends around
In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd:
He, unappall'd, towards the skies
Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes;
“Ope wide Valhalla's shield-roof'd hall,
Virgins of bliss! obey your master's call;
From these injurious realms below
The sire of nations hastes to go.”

Say, faulters now your chieftain's breath?
Or chills pale terror now his death-like face?
Then weep not, Thor, thy friend's approaching death,
Let no unmanly tears disgrace
The first of mortal's valiant race:
Dauntless Heimdal, mourn not now,
Balder! clear thy cloudy brow;
I go to happier realms above,
To realms of friendship and of love.

This unmanly grief dispelling,
List to glory's rapturous call;
So with Odin ever dwelling,
Meet him in the shield-roof'd hall:
Still shall Odin's fateful lance
Before his daring friends advance;
When the bloody fight beginning,
Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing,
Streaming life each fatal wound
Pours its current on the ground;
Still in clouds portentous riding
O'er his comrade host presiding,
Odin, from the stormy air,
O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair.

'Mid the mighty din of battle,
Whilst conflicting chariots rattle,
Floods of purple slaughter streaming,
Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming;
When Mista marks her destin'd prey,
When dread and death deform the day;
Happy he amid the strife,
Who pours the current of his life;
Every toil and trouble ending,
Odin from his hall descending,
Shall bear him to his blest retreat,
Shall place him in the warrior's seat.

Not such the destin'd joys that wait
The wretched dastard's future fate:
Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath,—
The agonizing shrieks of death.
Adown his wan and livid face
Big drops their painful way shall trace;
Each limb in that tremendous hour
Shall quiver in disease's power.
Grim Hela o'er his couch shall hang,
Scoff at his groans, and point each pang;
No Virgin Goddess him shall call
To join you in the shield-roof'd hall;
No Valkery for him prepare
The smiling mead with lovely care:
Sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie,
Despairing shriek—despairing die!
No Scald in never-dying lays
Shall rear the temple of his praise;
No Virgin in her vernal bloom
Bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb;
No Soldier sound his honour'd name;
No song shall hand him down to fame;
But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave
Shall to the blast their high heads wave;
And swept by time's strong stream away,
He soon shall sink—oblivion's prey;
And deep in Nitlehim—dreary cell,
Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell,

713

Where grim Remorse for ever wakes,
Where Anguish feeds her torturing snakes,
Where Disappointment and Delay
For ever guard the doleful way;
Amid the joyless land of woe
Keen and bleak the chill blasts blow;
Drives the tempest, pours the rain,
Showers the hail with force amain;
Yell the night-birds as they fly
Flitting in the misty sky;
Glows the adder, swells the toad,
For sad is Hela's cold abode.

Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky,
Lift your sable banners high;
Yoke your coursers to the car,
Strike the sounding shield of war;
Go, my lov'd companions, go,
Trample on the opposing foe;
Be like the raging torrent's force,
That, rushing from the hills, speeds on its foaming course.

Haste, my sons, to war's alarms,
Triumph in the clang of arms;
Joy amid the warlike toil,
Feed the raven with your spoil;
Go, prepare the eagle's food,
Go, and drench the wolf with blood,
Till ye shall hear dark Hela's call,
And virgins waft ye to my hall;
There, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng
To airy combat glide along;
'Till wearied with the friendly fight,
Serimner's flesh recruits their might;
There, whilst I grasp the Roman skull,
With hydromel sweet-smiling full,
The festive song shall echo round,
The Scald repeat the deathless sound:
Then, Thor, when thou from fight shall cease,
When death shall lay that arm in peace,
Still shall the nations fear thy nod,
The first of warriors now, and then their god;
But be each heart with rage possest,
Let vengeance glow in every breast;
Let conquest fell the Roman wall,
Revenge on Rome my Asgard's fall.

The Druid throng shall fall away,
And sink beneath your victor sway;
No more shall nations bow the knee,
Vanquish'd Taranis, to thee;
No more upon the sacred stone,
Tentates, shall thy victims groan;
The vanquish'd Odin, Rome, shall cause thy fall,
And his destruction shake thy proud imperial wall.

Yet, my faithful friends, beware
Luxury's enerving snare;
'T was this that shook our Asgard's dome,
That drove us from our native home;
'Twas this that smooth'd the way for victor Rome:
Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway,
Conquest points the destin'd way;
Conquest shall attend your call,
And your success shall gild still more Valhalla's hall.
So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast,
Then rush'd to seize the seat of endless rest.

TO INDOLENCE.

I no not woo thy presence, Indolence!
Goddess, I would not rank
A votary in thy train.

I will not ask to wear thy fett'ring flowers,
O thou on whose cold lips
Faint plays the heartless smile!

Pale, sickly as the unkindly shaded fruit,
Thy languid cheek displays
No sunny hues of health;

There is no radiance in thy listless eye,
No active joy that fires
Its sudden glances with life.

I do not wish upon thy downy couch,
As in a conscious dream
To doze away the hours,

Dead to all noble purposes of man,
Useless among mankind,
To live, unworthy life.

But to thy sister Leisure I would pour
The supplicating prayer,
And woo her aid benign:

Nymph, on whose sunny cheek the hue of health
Blooms like the ruddy fruit
Matur'd by southern rays,

Whose eye beam sparkles to the speaking heart,
Like the reflected noon
Quick glancing on the waves.

Her would I pray that not for ever thus
The ungentle voice of toil
Might claim my daily task,

So should my hand a votive temple rear,
Through many a distant age
That undestroy'd should stand.

Long should the stately monument proclaim
That no ungrateful heart
Goddess! received thy boon.

OLD CHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE,

AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT.

Recibio un Cavallero, paraque cultivasse sus tierras, a un Quintero, y para pagarle algo adelantado le pidio fiador, y no teniendo quien le fiasse, le prometio delante del sepulcro de San Isidro, que cumpliria su palabra, y si no, que el santo le castigasse: con lo qual el Cavallero le pago toda su soldada, ye le fió. Mas desegradecido aquel hombre, no baciendo caso de su promessa, se huyo, sin acabar de servir el tiempo concertado. Passo de noche sin reparar en ella, por la Iglesia de San Andres, donde estaba el cuerpo del siervo de Dios. Fue cosa maravéillosa, que andando corriendo toda la noche, no se aparto de la Iglesia, sino que toda se le fue en dar mil bueltas al rededor de ella, hasta que por la manana, yendo el amo a quexarse de San Isidro, y pedirle cumpliesse su fianza,

714

halló à su Quintero alli, dando mas y mas bueltas, sin poderse haver apartado de aquel sitio. Pidio perdon al santo, y a su amo, al qual satisfizo despues enteramente poc sù trabajo.—Flos Sanctorum, por Alonzo de Villegas.

If thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried,
Exact not too hardly thy due,
For he who preserves a poor man from want
May preserve him from wickedness too.

If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried,
Never never unmerciful be!
For remember it is by the mercy of God
That thou art not as wicked as he.

At sixty and seven the hope of heaven
Is my comfort, Old Christoval cried,
But if God had cut me off in my youth
I might not have gone there when I died.

You shall have the farm, young Christoval,
My good master Henrique said;
But a surety provide, in whom I can confide,
That duly the rent shall be paid.

I was poor and I had not a friend on earth,
And I knew not what to say,
We stood by the porch of St Andres' church,
And it was on St Isidro's day.

Accept for my surety St Isidro,
I ventured to make reply,
The Saint in Heaven may perhaps be my friend,
But friendless on earth am I.

We enter'd the church and came to his grave,
And I fell on my bended knee;
I am friendless, holy St Isidro,
And I venture to call upon thee.

I call upon thee my surety to be,
Thou knowest my honest intent,
And if ever I break my plighted word,
Let thy vengeance make me repent!

I was idle, the day of payment came on,
And I had not the money in store,
I fear'd the wrath of St Isidro
But I fear'd Henrique more.

On a dark night I took my flight
And hastily fled away,
It chanced by St Andres' church
The road I had chosen lay.

As I pass'd the door I thought what I had swore
Upon St Isidro's day,
And I seem'd to fear because he was near,
And faster I hasten'd away.

So all night long I hurried on,
Pacing full many a mile,
I knew not his avenging hand
Was on me all the while.

Weary I was, and safe I thought,
But when it was day-light,
I had, I found, been running round
And round the church all night.

I shook like a palsy and fell on my knees,
And for pardon devoutly I pray'd:
When my master came up—what! Christoval,
You are here betimes, he said.

I have been idle good master! I cried,
Good master and I have been wrong,
And I have been running round the church
In penance all night long.

If thou hast been idle, Henrique said,
Go home and thy fault amend;
I will not oppress thee, Christoval,
May the Saint thy labour befriend.

Homeward I went a penitent,
And I never was idle more;
St Isidro blest my industry,
As he punish'd my fault before.

When my debtor was poor, Old Christoval said,
I have never exacted my due,
I remembered Henrique was good to me
And copied his goodness too.

When my neighbour has sinn'd, Old Christoval said,
I have ever forgiven his sin,
For I thought of the night by St Andres' church,
And remember'd what I might have been.

VERSES

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF PORTLAND, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY, ETC. ON HIS INSTALLATION, 1793.

In evil hour, and with unhallowed voice
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, he first who sung
Of arms, and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on the embattled plain, and rais'd
The aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence. For since that time
The imperious victor, oft, unsatisfied
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The Poet bending low to lawless power
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams, clearest of the Aonian fount, to wash
Blood-stain'd ambition. If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste the effect,
And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the Bard (though child of Peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow,
Or haply strike his high-toned harp to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on,
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on the exposed innocent;
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding. Ah, who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And famine, and the ghastly train of war?
That follow at the dogged heels of war?
They in the pomp and pride of victory

715

Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph, hymns to God
O'er the destruction of his gracious works,
Hymns to the Father o'er his slaughter'd sons.
Detested be their sword, abhorr'd their name,
And scorn'd the tongues that praise them! Happier, Thou,
Of Peace and Science friend, hast held thy course
Blameless and pure, and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee; then shall those high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard, be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well-pleas'd. For Fame can enter heaven,
If Truth and Virtue lead her; else forbid,
She rises not above this earthly spot;
And then her voice, transient and valueless,
Speaks only to the herd. With other praise,
And worthier duty may she tend on thee;
Follow thee still with honour, such as Time
Shall never violate, and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.

THE KILLCROP.

A SCENE BETWEEN BENEDICT, A GERMAN PEASANT, AND FATHER KARL, AN OLD NEIGHBOUR.

Eight years since (said Luther), at Dessaw, I did see and touch a changed childe, which was twelv years of age; Hee had his eies and all his members like another childe: Hee did nothing but feed, and would eat as much as two clowns, or threshers, were able to eat.— When one touched it, then it cried out: When any evil happened in the Hous, then it laughed and was joiful; but when all went well, then it cried, and was very sad. I told the Prince of Anhalt, if I were Prince of that countrie, so would I venture Homicidium thereon, and would throw it into the River Moldaw. I admonished the people dwelling in that place devoutly to praie to God to take away the Divel; the same was done accordingly, and the second year after the Changeling died.

In Saxonia, near unto Halberstad, was a man that also had a Killcrop, who sucked the mother and five other women drie: and besides, devoured very much. This man was advised that hee should in his pilgrimage at Halberstad make a promiss of the Killcrop to the Virgin Marie, and should caus him there to bee rocked. This advice the man followed, and carried the changeling thither in a basket. But going over a river, beeing upon the bridg, another Divel that was below in the river called and said Killcrop, Killcrop! Then the childe in the basket (which never before spake one word) answered, Ho, Ho. The Divel in the water asked further, Whither art thou going? The childe in the basket said, I am going towards Hocklestad to our loving Mother to be rocked.

The man being much affrighed thereat, threw the childe, with the basket, over the bridg into the water. Whereupon the two Divels flew away together, and cried, Ho, Ho, Ho, tumbling themselvs one over another, and so vanished.

Such Changelings and Killcrops (said Luther) supponit Satan in locum verorum filiorum; for the Devil hath this power, that hee changeth children, and instead thereof laieth Divels in the cradles, which prosper not, onely they feed and suck: but such Changelings live not above eighteen or nineteen years. It oftentimes falleth out, that the children of women in childe-bed are changed, and Divels are laid in their stead, the mothers in such sort are sucked out, that afterwards they are able to give suck no more. Such Changelings (said Luther) are also baptized, in regard that they cannot be known the first year; but are known only by sucking the mothers drie.—Luther's Divine Discourses, folio, p. 387.

In justice however to Luther, it should be remembered, that this superstition was common to the age in which he lived.

BENEDICT.
You squalling imp, lie still! Is n't it enough
To eat two pounds for a breakfast, but again,
Before the Sun's half risen, I must hear
This cry?—as though your stomach was as empty
As old Karl's head, that yonder limps along
Mouthing his crust. I'll haste to Hocklestad!
A short mile only.

Enter Father Karl.
KARL.
Benedict, how now!
Earnest and out of breath, why in this haste?
What have you in your basket?

BENEDICT.
Stand aside!
No moment this for converse. Ask to-morrow,
And I will answer you, but I am now
About to punish Belzebub. Take care!
My business is important.

KARL.
What! about
To punish the Arch-Fiend old Belzebub?
A thing most rare.—But can't I lend a hand
On this occasion?

BENEDICT.
Father, stand aside!
I hate this parley. Stand aside, I say!

KARL.
Good Benedict, be not o'ercome by rage,
But listen to an old man.—What is't there
Within your basket?

BENEDICT.

'Tis the Devil's changeling:
A thumping Killcrop!

[Uncovers the basket.
Yes, 'tween you and I,
[Whispering.
Our neighbour Balderic's changed for his son Will.

KARL.
An idle thought! I say it is a child,—
A fine one too.

BENEDICT.
A child! you dreaming grey-beard!
Nothing will you believe like other people.
Did ever mortal man see child like this?
Why, 'tis a Killcrop, certain, manifest;
Look there! I'd rather see a dead pig snap
At the butcher's knife, than call this thing a child.
View how he stares! I'm no young cub, d' ye see.

KARL.

Why, Benedict, this is most wonderful
To my plain mind. I've often heard of Killcrops,
And laugh'd at the tale most heartily; but now
I'll mark him well, and see if there's any truth
In these said creatures.

[Looks at the basket.

A finer child ne'er breath'd!
Thou art mistaken, Benedict! thine eyes
See things confused! But let me hear thee say
What are the signs by which thou know'st the difference
Twixt Crop and Child.

BENEDICT.
The diff'rence! mercy on us!
That I should talk to such a Heretic—
D ye know the difference 'twixt the Moon and Stars?

716

KARL.
Most certainly.

BENEDICT.
Then these are things so near,
That I might pardon one who hesitates,
Doubting between them. But the Crop and Child!
They are so opposite, that I should look
Sooner to hear the Frog teach harmony,
Than meet a man, with hairs so grey as thine,
Who did not know the difference.

KARL.
Benedict!
The oldest, ere he die, something might learn;
And I shall hear, gladly, the certain marks
That show the Killcrop.

BENEDICT.
Father, listen then—
The Killcrop, mark me, for a true man's child
At first might be mistaken—has two eyes
And nose and mouth, but these are semblances
Deceitful, and, as Father Luther says,
There's something underneath.

KARL.
Good Benedict!
If Killcrops look like children, by what power
Know you they are not?

BENEDICT.
This from you, old Father!
Why when they are pinch'd they squeak.

KARL.
This is not strange;
All children cry when pinch'd.

BENEDICT.
But then their maws!
The veriest company of threshing clowns
Would think they had no appetite, compared
With this and the rest of 'em.—Gormandizing beast!
See how he yawns for food!

KARL.
But, Benedict!
When hunger stings you, don't you ope your mouth?
What other evidence?

BENEDICT.
Why, Devil-like,
When any evil happens, by his grin
'Twill always tell ye, and when tidings good
Come near, the beasts of twins delivered, or
Corn sold at market, or the harvest in,
The raven never croak'd more dismally
Before the sick man's window, than this Crop,
With disappointment howls. And then, a mark
Infallible, that shows the Killcrop true,
Is this, old man, he sucks his mother dry!
'Twas but the other day, in our village,
A Killcrop suck'd his mother and five more
Dry as a whet-stone. Do you now believe?

KARL.
Good Benedict, all children laugh and cry!
I have my doubts.

BENEDICT.
Doubts have you? Well-a-day!
In t'other world you'll sink ten fathoms deeper,
I promise you, for this foul heresy.
But nothing will move you,—you won't be moved.
I'll tell ye as true a story as ever man
Told to another. I had a Changeling once
Laid in my cradle, but I spied him out;
Thou'st never seen a creature so foul-mouth'd
And body'd too. But, knowing Satan's drift,
I balk'd him: to the lofty Church that stands
Over yon river, I the Killcrop took,
To ask advice, how to dispose of him,
Of th'holy Pastor. When, by the moon on high,
('Tis true I fear'd him,) as I pass'd the bridge,
Bearing him in my arms, he gave a leap,
And over the rails jump'd headlong, laughing loud
With a fellow-fiend, that, from the waves beneath,
Bawl'd—Killcrop! Killcrop!

KARL.
Are you sure he laugh'd,
Might it not be a cry?

BENEDICT.
Why! that it might;
I won't be certain, but that he jump'd over
And splash'd and dash'd into the water beneath,
Making fierce gestures and loud bellowings:
I could as soon a witch's innoceuce
Believe, as doubt it.

KARL.
Benedict, now say,
Didst thou not throw him over?

BENEDICT.
Throw him over!
Why, man, I could as easily have held
A struggling whale. It needed iron arms
To hold the monster. Doubt whate'er you will,
He surely laugh'd. And when he reach'd the water,
Grasping the fiend, I never shall forget
The cries, the yells, the shouts; it seem'd to me
That thunder was doves' cooing to the noise
These Killcrops made, as, splashing, roaring, laughing,
With their ha, ha, ha, so ominous! they rush'd
Down the broad stream.—That very night our cow
Sicken'd and died. Saints aid us! Whilst these Crops
Poison the air, they'll have enough to do
To stay the pestilence.

KARL.
But, Benedict,
Be not outrageous! I am old, d'ye see;
Trust me, thou art mistaken; 'tis no Killcrop:
See how he smiles! Poor infant: give him me.

BENEDICT.
Stand off! The Devil lent him, and again
I will return him honestly, and rid
Earth of one bane.

KARL.
Thou dost not mean to kill!
Poor infant, spare him! I have young and old,
The poor, a houseful, yet I'll not refuse
To take one more, if thou wilt give him me.
Let me persuade.

BENEDICT.
Away! I say, away!
Even if an Angel came to beg him of me,
I should suspect imposture, for I know
He could not ask a Killcrop. 'Tis a thing
Heaven hath no need of. Ere an hour be past,
From yon tall rock I'll hurl him to perdition.

KARL.
Repeat it not! Oh, spare the infant! Spare
His innocent laughter! My cold creeping blood

717

Doth boil with indignation, at the thought
Most horrible. Thou must not do the deed!

BENEDICT.
Not punish Satan! I have learnt too well
From Father Luther. Once again, stand off!
I'll rocket him.

[Exeunt.

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

Scene.—Holland. Time, during the Government of the Duke of Alva.
ELLIS.
Not complain!
Endure in silence! suffer with beast patience
Oppressions such as these!

KLAUS.
Nay—an it please you,
Rail on, rail on! and when the rod of power
Falls heavy, why, no doubt 'twill comfort you
Amid your dungeon miseries, to reflect
How valiantly you talk'd! you know Count Roderick;—
He would be railing, too!

ELLIS.
And what has followed?

KLAUS.
I saw him in his dungeon: 'tis a place
Where the hell-haunted Murderer might almost
Rejoice to hear the hangman summon him.
By day he may divert his solitude
With watching through the grate the snow-flakes fall,
Or counting the long icicles above him;
Or he may trace upon the ice-glazed wall
Lines of most brave sedition! and at night
The frosty moon-beam for his meditation
Lends light enough. He told me that his feet
Were ulcered with the biting cold.—I would
Thou hadst been with me, Ellis.

ELLIS.
But does Philip
Command these things, or knowingly permit
The punishment to go before the judgment?

KLAUS.
Knowest thou not with what confidence the King
Reposes upon Alva? we believe
That 'tis with Philip a twin act to know
Injustice, and redress; this article
Of our state-creed, 'twere heresy to doubt.
But the dead echo of the dungeon groan,
How should it pierce the palace? how intrude
Upon the delicate ear of royalty?

ELLIS.
But sure Count Roderick's service—

KLAUS.
Powerful plea!
He served his country, and his country paid him
The wages of his service. Why but late
A man that in ten several fields had fought
His country's battles, by the hangman's hand
Died like a dog; and for a venial crime—
A deed that could not trouble with one doubt
A dying man! At Lepanto he had shared
The danger of that day whose triumph broke
The Ottoman's power, and this was pleaded for him:
Six months they stretch'd him on the rack of hope,
Then took his life.

ELLIS.
I would I were in England!

KLAUS.
Aye, get thee home again! you islanders
Live uhder such good laws, so mild a sway,
That you are no more fit to dwell abroad
Than a doting mother's favourite to endure
His first school hardships. We in Holland here
Know 'tis as idle to exclaim against
These state oppressions, as with childish tears
To weep in the stone, or any other curse
Wherewith God's wrath afflicts us. And for struggling,
Why 'twould be like an idiot in the gout
Stamping for pain!

FUNERAL SONG

FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.

In its summer pride arrayed,
Low our Tree of Hope is laid!
Low it lies:—in evil hour,
Visiting the bridal bower,
Death hath levelled root and flower.
Windsor, in thy sacred shade,
(This the end of pomp and power!)
Have the rites of death been paid:
Windsor, in thy sacred shade
Is the Flower of Brunswick laid!

Ye whose relics rest around,
Tenants of this funeral ground!
Know ye, Spirits, who is come,
By immitigable doom
Summoned to the untimely tomb?
Late with youth and splendour crown'd,
Late in beauty's vernal bloom,
Late with love and joyaunce blest;
Never more lamented guest
Was in Windsor laid to rest.

Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Thou, to whom thy Windsor gave
Nativity, and name, and grave;
Thou art in this hallowed earth
Cradled for the immortal birth.
Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited.
He, in spirit like a child,
Meek of heart and undefiled,
Patiently his crown resigned,
And fixed on heaven his heavenly mind,
Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod,
His Redeemer and his God.
Now may he in realms of bliss
Greet a soul as pure as his.

Passive as that humble spirit,
Lies his bold dethroner too;
A dreadful debt did he inherit
To his injured lineage due;
Ill-starred Prince, whose martial merit
His own England long might rue!

718

Mournful was that Edward's fame,
Won in fields contested well,
While he sought his rightful claim:
Witness Aire's unhappy water,
Where the ruthless Clifford fell;
And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter,
On the day of Towcester's field,
Gathering, in its guilty flood,
The carnage and the ill-spilt blood,
That forty thousand lives could yield.
Cressy was to this but sport,
Poictiers but a pageant vain,
And the victory of Spain
Seem'd a strife for pastime meant,
And the work of Agincourt
Only like a tournament;
Half the blood which there was spent,
Had sufficed again to gain
Anjou and ill-yielded Maine:
Normandy and Aquitaine,
And our Lady's ancient towers,
Maugre all the Valois' powers,
Had a second time been ours.
A gentle daughter of thy line,
Edward, lays her dust with thine.

Thou, Elizabeth, art here:
Thou to whom all griefs were known:
Thou wert placed upon the bier
In happier hour than on the throne.
Fatal Daughter, fatal Mother,
Raised to that ill-omen'd station,
Father, uncle, sons, and brother,
Mourn'd in blood her elevation;
Woodville, in the realms of bliss,
To thine offspring thou mayst say,
Early death is happiness;
And favour'd in their lot are they
Who are not left to learn below
That length of life is length of woe.
Lightly let this ground be prest;
A broken heart is here at rest.

But thou, Seymour, with a greeting,
Such as sisters use at meeting;
Joy, and Sympathy, and love,
Wilt hail her in the seats above.
Like in loveliness were ye,
By a like lamented doom,
Hurried to an early tomb;
While together spirits blest,
Here your earthly relics rest.
Fellow angels shall ye be
In the angelic company.

Henry, too, hath here his part;
At the gentle Seymour's side,
With his best beloved bride,
Cold and quiet, here are laid
The ashes of that fiery heart.
Not with his tyrannic spirit,
Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit;
No, by Fisher's hoary head,
By More, the learned and the good,
By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood,
By the life so basely shed
Of the pride of Norfolk's line,
By the axe so often red,
By the fire with martyrs fed,
Hateful Henry, not with thee
May her happy spirit be!

And here lies one, whose tragic name
A reverential thought may claim;
The murdered monarch, whom the grave,
Revealing its long secret, gave
Again to sight, that we might spy
His comely face, and waking eye;
There, thrice fifty years, it lay,
Exempt from natural decay,
Unclosed and bright, as if to say,
A plague, of bloodier, baser birth
Than that beneath whose rage he bled,
Was loose upon our guilty earth;
Such awful warning from the dead
Was given by that portentous eye;
Then it closed eternally.

Ye, whose relics rest around,
Tenants of this funeral ground;
Even in your immortal spheres,
What fresh yearnings will ye feel,
When this earthly guest appears!
Us she leaves in grief and tears;
But to you will she reveal
Tidings of old England's weal;
Of a righteous war pursued,
Long, through evil and through good,
With unshaken fortitude;
Of peace, in battle twice achiev'd;
Of her fiercest foe subdued,
And Europe from the yoke relieved,
Upon that Brabantine plain:
Such the proud, the virtuous story,
Such the great, the endless glory
Of her father's splendid reign,
He, who wore the sable mail,
Might, at this heroic tale,
Wish himself on earth again.

One who reverently, for thee,
Raised the strain of bridal verse,
Flower of Brunswick! mournfully
Lays a garland on thy herse.

LOVE.

They sin who tell us love can die;—
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions as of earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But love is indestructible,—
Its holy flame for ever burneth,—
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest;
It here is tried and purified,
And hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
Oh when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!

EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Well, Heaven be thanked! friend Allan, here I am,
Once more, to that dear dwelling-place returned,
Where I have passed the whole mid stage of life,
Not idly, certes,—not unworthily—
So let me hope; where Time upon my head
Hath laid his frore and monitory hand;
And when this poor frail earthly tabernacle
Shall be dissolved—(it matters not how soon
Or late, in God's good time)—where I would fain
Be gathered to my children, earth to earth.

Needless it were to say how willingly
I bade the huge metropolis farewell;
Its dust and dirt and din and smoke and smut,
Thames' water, pavior's ground, and London sky!
Weary of hurried days and restless nights;
Watchmen, whose office is to murder sleep,
When sleep might else have “weighed one's eyelids down;”
Rattle of carriages, and roll of carts,
And tramp of iron hoofs; and worse than all,
(Confusion being worse confounded then
With coachmen's quarrels, and with footmen's shouts)
My next door neighbours, in a street not yet
Macadamized (me miserable!) at home!
For then had we, from midnight until morn,
House-quakes, street thunders, and door batteries.
(O Government, in thy wisdom and thy wants,
Tax knockers! in compassion to the sick
And those whose sober habits are not yet
Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day;
Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged
Armorial bearings and bepowdered pates!)
Escaping from all this, the very whirl
Of mail-coach wheels, bound outwards from Lad Lane,
Was peace and quietness; three hundred miles
Of homeward way, seemed to the body rest,
And to the mind repose.

Donne did not hate
More perfectly that city. Not for all
Its social, all its intellectual joys,
(Which having touched, I may not condescend
To name aught else the demon of the place
Might as his lure hold forth); not even for these
Would I forego gardens and green fields, walks,
And hedgerow trees and stiles and shady lanes,
And orchards,—were such ordinary scenes
Alone to me accessible, as those
Wherein I learnt in infancy to love
The sights and sounds of nature; wholesome sights,
Gladdening the eye that they refresh; and sounds
Which, when from life and happiness they spring,
Bear with them to the yet unhardened heart
A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy;
Or, if proceeding from insensate things,
Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith
To woo the ear and win the soul aunaed.
Oh not for all that London might bestow,
Would I renounce the genial influences
And thoughts and feelings, to be found where'er
We breathe beneath the open sky, and see
Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then from thyself,
Allan, true child of Scotland; thou who art
So oft in spirit on thy native hills,
And yonder Solway shores; a poet thou,
Judge from thyself how strong the ties which bind
A poet to his home, when—making thus
Large recompense for all that, haply, else
Might seem perversely or unkindly done,—
Fortune hath set his happy habitacle
Among the ancient hills, near mountain streams
And lakes pellucid; in a land sublime
And lovely, as those regions of romance,
Where his young fancy in its day dreams roamed,
Expatiating in forests wild and wide,
Loegrian, or of dearest Faery land.

Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy
No man drinks freelier; nor with heartier thirst,
Nor keener relish, where I see around
Faces which I have known and loved so long,
That, when he prints a dream apon my brain,
Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types:
And therefore in that loathed metropolis
Time measured out to me some golden hours.
They were not leaden-footed while the clay,
Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand,
Grew to the semblance of my lineaments.
Lit up in memory's landscape, like green spots
Of sunshine, are the mornings, when in talk
With him and thee and Bedford (my true friend
Of forty years) I saw the work proceed,
Subject the while myself to no restraint,
But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged;
Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride,
To think this countenance, such as it is,
So oft by rascally mislikeness wronged,
Should faithfully to those who in his works
Have seen the inner man portrayed, be shown;
And in enduring marble should partake
Of our great Sculptor's immortality.

I have been libelled, Allan, as thou knowest,
Through all degrees of calumny: but they
Who put one's name, for public sale, beneath
A set of features slanderously unlike,
Are our worst libellers. Against the wrong
Which they inflict, Time hath no remedy.
Injuries there are which Time redresseth best,
Being more sure in judgment, though perhaps
Slower in his process even than the Court,
Where Justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed,
Sleeps undisturbed, fanned by the lulling wings
Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down
Evil or good report, if undeserved.
Let then the dogs of faction bark and bay,—
Its bloodhounds savaged by a cross of wolf,—
Its full-bred kennel from the Blatant Beast,—
Its poodles by unlucky training marred,—
Mongrel and cur and bobtail;—let them yelp
Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length
Sileace the noisy pack; meantime be sure
I shall not stoop for stones to cast among them!
So too its foumarts and its skunks may “stink
And be secure:” and its yet viler swarm,
The vermin of the press, both those that skip
And those that creep and crawl,—I do not catch
And pin them for exposure on the page;
Their filth is their defence.

725

But I appeal
Against the limner and the graver's wrong!
Their evil works survive them. Bilderdyk
(Whom I am privileged to call my friend),
Suffering by graphic libels in like wise,
Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give
The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch,
As his dear consort hath transfused my strains
Into her native speech, and made them known
On Rhine, and Yssel, and rich Amstel's banks,
And wheresoe'er the voice of Vondel still
Is heard; and still Hooft and Antonides
Are living agencies; and Father Cats,
The Household Poet, teacheth in his songs
The love of all things lovely, all things pure;
Best poet, who delights the happy mind
Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart
Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid life rich,
And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age.

Hear then, in English rhyme, how Bilderdyk
Describes his wicked portraits, one by one.

“A madman, who from Bedlam hath broke loose;
An honest fellow of the numskull race;
And, pappier-headed still, a very goose
Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face;
A Frenchman, who would mirthfully display
On some poor idiot his malicious wit;
And, lastly, one who, trained up in the way
Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it,
But hath served Mammon with his whole intent,
(A thing of Nature's worst materials made),
Low minded, stupid, base, and insolent.
I—I—a poet,—have been thus portrayed!
Can ye believe that my true effigy
Among these vile varieties is found?
What thought, or line, or word hath fallen from me
In all my numerous works, whereon to ground
The opprobrious notion? safely I may smile
At these, acknowledging no likeness here.
But worse is yet to come, so—soft a while!—
For now in potter's earth must I appear,
And in such workmanship, that sooth to say,
Humanity disowns the imitation,
And the dolt image is not worth its clay.
Then comes there one who will to admiration
In plastic wax the perfect face present;
And what of his performance comes at last?
Folly itself in every lineament!
Its consequential features overcast
With the coxcombical and shallow laugh
Of one who would, for condescension, hide,
Yet in his best behaviour can but half
Suppress, the scornfulness of empty pride.”

“And who is Bilderdyk?” methinks thou sayest:
A ready question; yet which, trust me, Allan,
Would not be asked, had not the curse that came
From Babel, clipt the wings of Poetry.
Napoleon asked him once, with cold fixed look,
“Art thou then in the world of letters known?”
And meeting his imperial look with eye
As little wont to turn away before
The face of man, the Hollander replied,
“At least I have done that whereby I have
There to be known deserved.”

A man he is
Who hath received upon his constant breast
The sharpest arrows of adversity.
Whom not the clamours of the multitude,
Demanding, in their madness and their might,
Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind;
Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny
From the straight path of duty turn aside;
But who, in public troubles, in the wreck
Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile,
Want, obloquy, ingrate neglect, and what
Of yet severer trials Providence
Sometimes inflieteth, chastening whom it loves,—
In all, through all, and over all, hath borne
An equal heart; as resolute toward
The world, as humbly and religiously
Beneath his heavenly Father's rod resigned.
Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man!
True lover of his country and his kind;
In knowledge and in inexhaustive stores
Of native genius rich; philosopher,
Poet, and sage. The language of a state
Inferior in illustrious deeds to none,
But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now
Sinking in irrecoverable decline,
Hath pent within its sphere a name, with which
Europe should else have rung from side to side.

Such, Allan, is the Hollander to whom
Esteem and admiration have attached
My soul, not less than pre-consent of mind
And gratitude for benefits, when being
A stranger, sick, and in a foreign land,
He took me, like a brother, to his house,
And ministered to me, and made the weeks
Which had been wearisome and careful else,
So pleasurable, that in my kalendar
There are no whiter days. 'Twill be a joy
For us to meet in heaven, though we should look
Upon each other's earthly face no more.
—Such is this world's complexion! “cheerful thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind,” and these again
Give place to calm content, aud stedfast hope,
And happy faith, assured.—Return we now,
With such transition as our daily life
Imposes in its wholesome discipline,
To a lighter strain; and from the Gallery
Of the Dutch poet's misresemblances,
Pass into mine; where I will show thee, Allan,
Such an array of villanous visages,
That if among them all there were but one
Which as a likeness could be proved upon me,
It were enough to make me in mere shame
Take up an alias and forswear myself.

Whom have we first? a dainty gentleman,
His sleepy eyes half closed, and countenance
To no expression stronger than might suit
A simper, capable of being moved;
Saucy and sentimental, with an air
So lack-thought and so lack-a-daisycal,
That one might guess the book which in his hand
He holds were Zimmerman on Solitude.

Then comes a jovial Landlord, who hath made it
Part of his trade to be the shoeing-horn

726

For his commercial customers. God Bacchus
Hath not a thirstier votary. Many a pipe
Of Porto's vintage hath contributed
To give his cheeks that deep carmine engrained;
And many a runlet of right Nantes, I ween,
Hath suffered percolation through that trunk,
Leaving behind it in the boozy eyes
A swoln and red suffusion, glazed and dim.
Our next is in the evangelical line,—
A leaden-visaged specimen,—demure,
Because he hath put on his Sunday's face;
Dull by formation, by complexion sad,
By bile, opinions, and dyspepsy sour.
One of the sons of Jack,—I know not which,
For Jack hath a most numerous progeny,
Made up for Mr Colburn's magazine
This pleasant composite. A bust supplied
The features; look, expression, character,
Are of the artist's fancy, and free grace.
Such was that fellow's birth and parentage!
The rascal proved prolific! one of his breed
By Docteur Pichot introduced in France,
Passes for Monsieur Sooté, and another,—
An uglier miscreant too,—the brothers Schumann,
And their most cruel copper-scratcher, Zschoch,
From Zwickau sent abroad through Germany.
I wish the Schumenn and the copper-scratcher
No worse misfortune for their recompense
Than to fall in with such a cut-throat face
In the Black Forest, or the Odenwald.

The Bust, which was the innocent grandfather,
I blame not, Allan. 'Twas the work of Smith—
A modest, mild, ingenious man; and errs,
Where erring, only because over true,
Too close a likeness for similitude;
Fixing to every part and lineament
Its separate character, and missing thus
That which results from all.

Sir Smug comes next;
Allan, I own Sir Smug! I recognise
That visage with its dull sobriety:
I see it duly as the day returns,
When at the looking-glass, with lathered chin
And razor-weaponed hand, I sit, the face
Composed, and apprehensively intent
Upon the necessary operation
About to be performed, with touch, alas,
Not always confident of hair-breadth skill.
Even in such sober sadness and constrained
Composure cold, the faithful painter's eye
Had fixed me like a spell, and I could feel
My features stiffen as he glanced upon them.
And yet he was a man whom I loved dearly,
My fellow traveller, my familiar friend,
My household guest. But when he looked upon me,
Anxious to exercise his excellent art,
The countenance he knew so thoroughly
Was gone, and in its stead there sate—Sir Smug.

Under the graver's hand, Sir Smug became
Sir Smouch,—a son of Abraham. Now albeit
I would far rather trace my lineage thence
Than with the proudest line of peers or kings
Claim consanguinity, that cast of features
Would ill accord with me, who in all forms
Of pork,—baked, roasted, toasted, boiled or broiled,
Fresh, salted, pickled, seasoned, moist, or dry,
Whether ham, bacon, sausage, souse, or brawn,
Leg, blade-bone, bald-rib, griskin, chine, or chop,
Profess myself a genuine philopig.
It was, however, as a Jew whose portion
Had fallen unto him in a goodly land
Of loans, of omnium, and of three per cents,
That Messrs. Percy, of the Anecdote-firm,
Presented me unto their customers.
Poor Smouch endured a worse judaization
Under another hand: in this next stage
He is on trial at the Old Bailey, charged
With dealing in base coin. That he is guilty,
No judge or jury could have half a doubt,
When they saw the culprit's face; and he himself,
As you may plainly see, is comforted
By thinking he has just contrived to keep
Out of rope's reach, and will come off this time
For transportation.

Stand thou forth for trial
Now William Darton, of the society
Of friends called Quakers; thou who in the fourth month
Of the year twenty-four, on Holborn Hill,
At No 58, didst wilfully,
Falsely, and knowing it was falsely done,
Publish upon a card, as Robert Southey's,
A face which might be just as like Tom Fool's,
Or John, or Richard. Any body else's!
What had I done to thee, thou William Darton,
That thou shouldst for the lucre of base gain,
Yea, for the sake of filthy fourpences,
Palm on my countrymen that face for mine?
O William Darton, let the yearly meeting
Deal with thee for that falseness!—All the rest
Are traceable: Smug's Hebrew family;
The German who might properly adorn
A gibbet or a wheel, and Monsieur Sooté,
Sons of Fitzbust the evangelical;
I recognise all these unlikenesses,
Spurious abominations though they be,
Each filiated on some original,
But thou, Friend Darton,—and observe me, man,
Only in courtesy and quasi Quaker,
I call thee Friend!—hadst no original,
No likeness, or unlikeness, silhouette,
Outline, or plaister, representing me,
Whereon to form this misrepresentation!
If I guess rightly at the pedigree
Of thy bad groat's-worth, thou didst get a barber
To personate my injured Laureateship:
An advertising barber, one who keeps
A bear, and when he puts to death poor Bruin,
Sells his grease fresh as from the carcase cut,
Pro bono publico, the price per pound
Twelve shillings and no more. From such a barber,
O Unfriend Darton! was that portrait made,
I think, or peradventure, from his block.
Next comes a minion, worthy to be set
In a wooden frame; and here I might invoke
Avenging Nemesis, if I did not feel
Just now, God Cynthius pluck me by the ear.
But, Allan, in what shape God Cynthius comes,
And wherefore he admonisheth me thus.
Thou and I will not tell the world; hereafter
The commentators, my Malones and Reeds,

727

May, if they can. And in my gallery,
Though there remaineth undescribed good store,
Yet “of enough enough, and now no more,”
(As honest old George Gascoigne said of yore);
Save only a last couplet to express
That I am always truly yours,—R. S.

Keswick, Sept. 1, 1828.

LINES

WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

'Tis not the public loss which hath imprest
This general grief upon the multitude,
And made its way at once to every breast,
The young, the old, the gentle, and the rude;
'Tis not that in the hour which might have crown'd
The prayers preferr'd by every honest tongue;
The very hour which should have sent around
Tidings wherewith all steeples would have rung,
And all our cities blazed with festal fire,
And all our echoing streets have peal'd with gladness;
That then we saw the high-raised hope expire,
And England's expectation quench'd in sadness.
It is to think of what thou wert so late,
O thou who now liest cold upon thy bier!
So young, and so beloved: so richly blest
Beyond the common lot of royalty;
The object of thy worthy choice possest;
And in thy prime, and in thy wedded bliss,
And in the genial bed,—the cradle drest,
Hope standing by, and Joy, a bidden guest!
'Tis this that from the heart of private life
Makes unsophisticated sorrow flow:
We mourn thee as a daughter and a wife,
And in our human nature feel the blow.

EPITAPH.

Time and the world, whose magnitude and weight
Bear on us in this now, and hold us here
To earth inthralled, what are they in the past?
And in the prospect of the immortal soul
How poor a speck! Not here her resting-place;
Her portion is not here: and happiest they
Who, gathering early all that earth can give,
Shake off its mortal coil, and speed for Heaven.
Such fate had he whose relics here repose.
Few were his days; but yet enough to teach
Love, duty, generous feelings, high desires,
Faith, hope, devotion: and what more could length
Of days have brought him! What but vanity?
Joys, frailer even than health or human life;
Temptation; sin and sorrow, both too sure;
Evils that wound, and cares that fret, the heart!
Repine not, therefore, ye who love the dead.

University of Virginia Library

Suppressed Poems.

TO THE EXILED PATRIOTS MUIR AND PALMER.

THE KNELL.

MUSINGS

ON THE WIG OF A SCARE-CROW.

THE IVY.

TO THE RAINBOW.

THE MORNING MIST.

SONNET. TO MR UNDERWOOD, ON HIS SETTING OUT FOR A GEOLOGICAL EXCURSION IN CORNWALL, JULY 1795.

SONNET.

[That gooseberry-bush attracts my wandering eyes]

SONNET.

[What though no sculptured monument proclaim]

SONNET.

[Hard by the road, where on that little mound]

SONNET. TO ARISTE.

SONNET.

[Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast]

SONNET.

[Let ancient stories sound the painter's art]

SONNET.

[I praise thee not, Ariste, that thine eye]

SONNET. DUNNINGTON CASTLE.

SONNET.

SONNET. TO THE FIRE.

SONNET. THE FADED FLOWER.

SONNET. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SONNET. TO REFLECTION.

THE MAD WOMAN.

ODE TO A PIG WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED.

TO A COLLEGE CAT.

WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE INSTALLATION AT OXFORD, 1793.

ROMANCE.

TO URBAN.

THE MISER'S MANSION.

HOSPITALITY.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE HENRY MARTEN THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED THIRTY YEARS.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE BANKS OF THE HAMPSHIRE AVON.

INSCRIPTION

UNDER AN OAK.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A MONUMENT AT OLD SARUM

TO LYCON.

TO LYCON.

ROSAMUND TO HENRY.

WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL.

THE RACE OF ODIN.

THE DEATH OF ODIN.

TO INDOLENCE.

OLD CHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE,

AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT.

VERSES

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF PORTLAND, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY, ETC. ON HIS INSTALLATION, 1793.

THE KILLCROP.

A SCENE BETWEEN BENEDICT, A GERMAN PEASANT, AND FATHER KARL, AN OLD NEIGHBOUR.

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

FUNERAL SONG

FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.

LOVE.

EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

LINES

WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

EPITAPH.