Poems by William Stanley Roscoe

Wild restless stream! thy course I trace
With musing steps, when Evening gray
Steals o'er the vale with silent pace,
And shuts the crimson gates of day.

As on thy chequer'd banks I rove,
And listen to the woodlark's note,
Or blackbird pipe the song of love,
Responsive to his partner's throat;

I seek the various-tinted flowers,
That speck the mountain's lofty side;
Or those that in thy wild-wove bowers,
Their fragrant sweets unheeded hide.

Falling in many a gurgling rill,
From stormy Langdale's pathless brow,
And sparkling on the grassy hill,
Thou seek'st the sunny vale below.

There, wandering by the hazel bush,
I scarcely mark thy silent stream:
Now forth again I see thee gush,
And catch the sun's departing beam.

Now sparkling on thy pebbled bed,
Now in a sportive whirlpool playing:
Or by the fragrant cool shade led,
Within the lonely green-wood straying.

Now rushing deep the vale along,
Thou boisterous roll'st thy little wave;
Till Grasmere's waters lost among,
No more thy troubled stream shall rave.

Such is the life of woe-born man,
Doom'd the like chequer'd course to take,
Till, worn, he end his fretful span,
In dark oblivion's cheerless lake.

THE MUSES.

Daughters of Jove! ye holy sisterhood,
That dance with soft feet round the sacred fount
Of fair Ausonia, to whose steeper mount,
Wrapt in diviner mood
Of soul-delighting poesy,
I turn me from the world, and bend the suppliant knee.
With what supreme delight
Phœbus dispels the dewy clouds of night,
To meet ye in the bright climes of the east,
Where often, on the myrtle skirted shore,
Ye hail his rising from the ocean hoar,
Robed in his liquid crimson vest.
On you he bids the rosy morn attend;
And when he falls at eve, a brighter smile
Illumes his glowing lips, the while

He bids your bowers farewell,
And sheds his last beams on your laurel-shaded cell.
Lo! at your divine command
The dread scythe falls from ruthless Time,
And as you round him sing,
He stays his flight, and plumes his hoary wing,
And listens to your rhyme.
O heavenly comforters of life!
Amid the din of mortal strife
Tell how your blissful favours I may prove:
What was it first that mov'd your love?
What planet bade ye o'er my birth preside,
My glory and my guide?
Not to the paths of kingly fame
The warriors shout, the high ambition'd name,
But to those isles of poesy,
Where, slumbering underneath the laurel tree,
Ye watch'd me thro' my infant hours,
Nursing me in your faery bowers;
Often lulling me to sleep
By the hoarse Sicilian deep!

When on my brows the budding keys ye hung,
And taught the mystic warbling of the tongue.
O bend your laurell'd brows!
O listen to my youthful vows!
More ardent never met your polish'd ears:
And with these falling tears
Your presence I implore.
But oh! for you I boast no marble floor,
No pillar'd dome, no golden roof,
No sculptur'd forms of heavenly proof,
Nought save this solitary cell,
And the frail texture of my vocal shell.

THE HERMITAGE.

WRITTEN IN THE SOUTH ALCOVE, ALLERTON.

What amid this desart wild,
Stranger, hath thy feet beguil'd?
Here no tinsel liveries wait
The pomp of pride, the glare of state;
But if to thee the russet stole,
The amice gray, and beechen bowl,
If, stranger, these to thee are dear,
O rest a gentle Hermit here.

Ere yet to rouse the slumbering morn,
The hunter rings his mountain horn,
At distant glimpse of eastern day,
The lark shall join thy matin lay:
And oft in evening's vesper hour
The fays shall haunt thy silent bower,
And thread their dance in mystic maze
Beneath the pale moon's chequer'd rays.

Here, far from mortal steps exil'd,
Among the tenants of the wild,
The sportive squirrel oft shall share
Thy sheltering hut, and frugal fare;
And, often seen at early dawn,
The hare shall crop thy dewy lawn;
And always in thy mossy cell
Her grateful song the wren shall swell.

What tho' no wine may stain thy board,
Nor costly dish thy cell afford,
To thee the village maid shall bring
The crystal beverage of the spring,
And ever, for her cheerful task,
The Hermit's saintly blessing ask;
Whilst all around the sportive young
To view thy holy book shall throng:

And thou may'st teach their tender age
The morals of its golden page;
And bid them ne'er forsake their home,
Thro' foreign lands and seas to roam;
And never quit their native plain,
For western worlds of evil gain:
Nor idle thus shall pass away
The moments of thy fleeting day.

And, guided by thy taper's light,
That gleams amid the wintry night,
The wearied pilgrim's sandall'd feet
Shall often trace thy lone retreat;
And thou shalt bid him doff, I trow,
The cockle bonnet from his brow,
And throw his scrip and staff aside,
With thee a welcome guest to bide.

And he and thou shall ponder o'er
Supreme Religion's hallow'd lore:
Or he shall tell of Bourbon's fate,
His nobles fled in abject state;
Shall tell of leagues and distant wars,
Of foreign broils and civil jars:
Then leave thee at the morning ray,
For holy climates far away.

When Spring first casts her smile around,
And calls to life the blooming ground,
And gaily twines the primrose wreath,
Or bids the wanton zephyrs breathe,
Delighted thou may'st careless rove
By flowery dell or shady grove,
And listen to the feathery throng
That “chant the echoing woods among.”

And every blameless joy is thine,
When summer suns shall fairer shine;
Thou then may'st linger in the shade,
Or wander thro' the tangled glade;
Or haply, wrapt in aery dream,
Beside some far sequester'd stream,
Full many a magic strain may'st hear,
Which fancy wakes upon thine ear.

When Autumn comes in tresses sear,
Wan daughter of the fading year!
And cheerless binds the yellow sheaf,
Or strews around the wither'd leaf;
When Winter on his silver brow
Shall bind his hoary badge of snow,
Still every varied charm is thine,
For thee the seasons all combine.

As from the margin of yon shore,
Where ocean's waves tumultuous roar,
The breezy gales in cadence bear
The soften'd murmurs thro' the air,
So from the world's forgotten stage,
Borne to thy silent Hermitage,
Is heard the distant din of strife,
And all the varied storms of life.

And thus down life's secluded tide
Thy stealing years shall softly glide,
In loving lov'd, in blessing bless'd,
Here, O gentle stranger, rest,
And take thee now the russet stole,
The amice gray, and beechen bowl,
And long as these to thee are dear,
O rest a gentle Hermit here.

SONNET.

EVENING.

Swift fades the purple from the mountain height;
O'er the blue lake yon bark with homeward sail
Spreads its light canvass to the prospering gale;
The pale moon bends thro' fields of azure light
Her heavenly course, tinging with radiance bright
The rippling stream, dark grove, or shelter'd dale;
The gray mist rising in the dewy vale,
Cheats with fantastic forms the traveller's sight:
Hush'd is the voice of nature all around!
Hail, lovely eve! to contemplation dear!
No murmur breaks thy halcyon calm profound,
Save where the timorous bat in idle fear
Shrieks to the quivering leaf, or the dull sound
Of night's slow herald, wakes the startled ear.

THE SPIRIT OF O'DONAGHOE.

From Killarney's green waves, and the smooth deep returning,
Ere yet the sweet wood-lark had caroll'd his lay,
O'Donaghoe rose in the beam of the morning,
With radiance ne'er seen in the sunshine of day.

His face, tho' angelic, with sorrow was worn,
His beard softly wav'd to the wind of the west;
In his once royal Isle he was seated forlorn,
And thus his old kingdom he, weeping, addrest:

‘Fair Island of Saints, in the mid ocean roar
Still dash the white waves round thine emerald throne;
Still swell the bold cliffs on thy far jutting shore,
The broad sea thy boundary, its waters thine own.

Proudly still rolls thy Shannon his high waves along,
And bids the Atlantic hoarse murmuring recoil;
Softly flows thy fam'd Liffey its valleys among,
And winds its slow stream thro' thy fertilized soil?

Sweetly spread thy blue lakes, lofty rise thy wild mountains,
Still boast thy green valleys the sun's brightest beams,
Still thine the gay woodlands, and crystalline fountains,
Flowery meadows, deep glens, and smooth gliding streams.

Then, O say, sadly sorrowing beneath thy clear skies,
Why droops man a slave and a recreant to heaven?
Shall he dare thy rich clime and its blessings despise,
And scorn the high boon which his Maker has given?

Desolation now strides o'er thine ill-fated land;
Lament o'er the time when her course she began:
Scatters round her wide waste with her red fiery hand,
And fattens thy fields with the slaughter of man.

Who is she, the poor maiden, who o'er yon wide heath,
Her garments loose flowing, unbonnetted flies?
O mark! as she roves thro' yon sad field of death,
How shudder the dying, and start at her cries:

She calls on her lover, she calls him in vain,
The night-shouts of battle are heard from afar;
Her bosom she bares to the rude beating rain,
And welcomes the horrors of woe-spreading war!

She flies the fierce tempest,—she flies to the city,—
She sees his pale head on the high castle gate!
O shed o'er her memory the kind tear of pity,
And heave a last sigh for poor Marian's fate.

But athwart the blue sky, on yon far mountainheight,
Now see the green banner, all-waving, unfurl'd!
Hark! the shrill brazen trump warns thy sons to the fight,
And peals its loud sound on the wide startled world.

Now rush thy brave hosts on thy proud glitt'ring foes,
And sweep thro' the plain like their big ocean wave:
Ye sons of Green Erin! remember your woes.
Thou slave, rise a man, or be freed in the grave!

O remember the deeds which your fathers have done,
Bold conquerors of yore! when by Liberty led!
Remember the fields which their valour have won!
You fight for the land where your forefathers bled!

From their caves of the wind their sad spirits shall rise,
And roll the dim cloud o'er Lena's blue heath;
Shall chant their wild death-song amid the dark skies,
Enwrapt in the red streaming meteors of death.

But when the rough blast of the battle shall cease,
And Freedom again all propitious shall smile,
Your fair-bosom'd daughters shall meet you in peace,
And welcome you home to your Emerald Isle.”

He struck his sad harp with the faint hand of woe;
Softly echoed the notes, as, with sorrow opprest,
He tore the white locks in despair from his brow,
And sought in the waves the green seat of his rest.

Νησοις δ'εν μακαρων σε φασιν ειναι.

How shall he rest whose mouldering hand
Hath struggled for his native land?
Dishonour'd, shall his ashes lie
Trodden down by tyranny?
Or shall oppression walk the ground,
And his suffering spirit wound?
No! Freedom's mighty hand shall save
Her champion from a traitor's grave:
And midst the relics of the just
Shrine his rich and holy dust.
And o'er the lov'd, the honour'd dead,
Gushing tears shall Erin shed;
And call her weeping children round,
And bid them mark the hallow'd ground;
And throw the living laurel wreath
On the closing shroud of death.

And many a dirge of soothing power
Shall flow upon that mournful hour;
And hymns be sung, to soothe to rest
The hero's soul in islands blest:
Blest for ever be the dead,
They who have for Freedom bled!

SEPARATION.

Sad is the hour when lovers part;
In anguish flow their gushing tears,
And deeply throbs the bursting heart
With present woes and future fears.

To them is Time a sea that roars
And rages wild with troubled wave,
Whose waters whelm the blissful shores
Where Love had built his halcyon cave.

And their's the dark and joyless night,
On which no morning sheds its beams;
Where the wan moon, with sullen light,
Haunts the cold bow'rs and mournful streams.

Where Hope's dim star with dying ray
Sets in the gloom of gathering clouds;
And dread Despair, with iron sway,
Life's transient day in sorrow shrouds.

DIRGE.

O dig a grave, and dig it deep,
Where I and my true love may sleep!—
We'll dig a grave, and dig it deep
Where thou and thy true love shall sleep!

And let it be five fathom low,
Where winter winds may never blow!—
And it shall be five fathom low,
Where winter winds shall never blow!

And let it be on yonder hill,
Where grows the mountain daffodil!—
And it shall be on yonder hill,
Where grows the mountain daffodil!

And plant it round with holy briers,
To fright away the fairy fires!—
We'll plant it round with holy briers,
To fright away the fairy fires!

And set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine!—
We'll set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine!

And let the ruddock build his nest
Just above my true love's breast!—
The ruddock he shall build his nest
Just above thy true love's breast!

And warble his sweet wintry song
O'er our dwelling all day long!—
And he shall warble his sweet song
O'er your dwelling all day long!

Now, tender friends, my garments take,
And lay me out for Jesus' sake!—
And we will now thy garments take,
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake!

And lay me by my true love's side,
That I may be a faithful bride!—
We'll lay thee by thy true love's side,
That thou may'st be a faithful bride!

When I am dead and buried be,
Pray to God in heaven for me!—
Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee,
And pray to God in heaven for thee!

—Benedicite!

VERSES

WRITTEN IN LANCASTER CHURCH-YARD, AUGUST, 1800.

The moon uplifts her dewy head
Above the castle's battled towers;
And gliding thro' her heavenly road,
Leads on the silent midnight hours.

Along the church-yard's quiet path
I tread the damp and dripping grass;
And hear the whispers of the dead,
As o'er their peopled graves I pass.

And bending o'er thy low-laid bed,
I call thee, Mary, from the tomb!
O wake thee from thy senseless trance,
And at a lover's bidding come.

Not mine to shudder at thy form,
Tho' shrouded in nocturnal dress;
For thou wouldst speak with seraph voice,
And wear an angel's form I guess.

Ah! who at yester-eve had thought
Thy spring of life so soon had fled?
Who ever dreamt the morrow morn
Might count thee with the parted dead?

To-day the lily lifts its bells
In perfum'd guise of courtesy;
Alas, to-morrow's piercing blast
May kill it with inclemency.

Where is thy dance, where is thy song?
Where is thy beauty's boasted bloom?
'Tis danc'd by Death, 'tis sung by Grief,
'Tis buried in an earthly tomb.

Oh! ask from Death a short reprieve,
A little space, and then no more;
A last permission, once again
To view this world's forsaken shore.

Oh yield to him thy ruby kiss,
And turn on him thy beaming eye;
And clasp him with a lover's arms,
And shed the tear of extacy.

And bend thy beauteous blushing neck,
And breathe upon his ghastly cheek;
And parley with the ruthless king,
And speak as thou wert wont to speak.

But oh, thy lips are faded now,
All blighted in their blooming hour;
Thy beaming eyes are clos'd in dust,
And mute that tongue of heavenly power.

Then welcome be thy shadowy house,
And welcome be thy chamber cold;
Where dying I may clasp thy heart,
And slumber with its sacred mould!

Our tomb o'erspread with wintry flowers,
No studied epitaph shall claim;
But soft shall fall the traveller's tear,
That wets with grief each sculptur'd name.

What time the cloister'd beadsman walks,
To contemplate the stormy moon;
Or seated on our holy grave,
Long listens to the dashing Lune;

When thro' yon chapel's chanted roof,
The solemn dirge at distance rolls;
His voice shall join the swelling choir,
A requiem to our parted souls!

TO A LILY

FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT.

O why, thou Lily pale,
Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight,
And shed thy rich perfume upon the night.
When all thy sisterhood,
In silken cowl and hood,
Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale?
Fair horned Cynthia woos thy modest flower,
And with her beaming lips
Thy kisses cold she sips,
For thou art aye her only paramour,
What time she nightly quits her starry bower,
Trick'd in celestial light,
And silver crescent bright.

O ask thy vestal queen,
If she will thee advise
Where in the blessed skies
That maiden may be seen,
Who hung like thee her pale head thro' the day,
Lovesick and pining for the evening ray;
And liv'd a virgin chaste amid the folly
Of this bad world, and died of melancholy?
O tell me where she dwells:
So on thy mournful bells,
Shall Dian nightly fling
Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume,
Her pale night lustre to enhance thy bloom,
And find thee tears to feed thy sorrowing.

SONNET TO A LADY,

WITH CAMPBELL'S “PLEASURES OF HOPE.”

Lady, if ever with an earthward eye
Thou sitt'st in melancholy's silent dress,
Shrouding thy soul in visions of distress;
If chance the queen of sacred poesy,
With Hope the fair enchantress pass thee by,
O do not thou, with froward tongue, repress
The joyous hymn of future happiness;
But bend thy steps, and them accompany;
They shall sustain thee to that sacred height
Whence thou may'st view the folded doors of heaven
Open harmonious to their patient lays;
And thou shalt hail the messengers of light,
Who speed thenceforth to yield thee what is given
Tidings of bliss and hope of better days.

SONNET TO MY MOTHER,

WITH A VOLUME OF EARLY POEMS.

Untaught to walk th' Aonian hills among,
Nor skill'd to plant the dark leav'd laurel tree,
Or quaff the immortal fount of Castaly,
Yet may I frame for thee my youthful song;
Numbering the blessings which thy whispering tongue
Pour'd on my life, as slumbering on thy knee,
From fount more pure thou fed'st my infancy:
And as these unripe strains to thee belong,
(If He in heaven approving may inspire
The breathing genius of maturer age,)
So thine the labours of my future days;
Content if to this frail untimely page,
Or loftier sounding of that deep strung lyre,
Thou yield that dearest meed, a mother's praise.

TO A LADY,

WITH A LATE ROSE.

Sweet rose! untimely is thy bloom,
And wasted all thy fine perfume,
For winter's icy breath will come,
And blight thy crimson blossom!
Then, Harriet, pluck it from its stem
With all its buds, a blushing gem,
And for their sweetness shelter them
Upon thy beauteous bosom.

TO SPRING,

ON THE BANKS OF THE CAM.

O thou that from the green vales of the west
Com'st in thy tender robes with bashful feet,
And to the gathering clouds
Liftest thy soft blue eye:

I woo thee, Spring, tho' thy dishevell'd hair
In misty ringlets sweep thy snowy breast;
And thy young lips deplore
Stern Boreas' ruthless rage.

While morn is steep'd in dews, and the dark shower
Drops from the green boughs of the budding trees;
And the thrush tunes his song,
Warbling with unripe throat;

Thro' the deep wood where spreads the sylvan oak
I follow thee, and see thy hands unfold
The love-sick primrose pale,
And moist-eyed violet.

While in the central grove at thy soft voice
The Dryads start forth from their wintry cells,
And from their oozy waves
The Naiads lift their heads,

In sedgy bonnets trimm'd with rushy leaves,
And water blossoms from the forest stream,
To pay their vows to thee,
Their thrice adored queen!

The stripling shepherd wandering through the wood,
Startles the linnet from her downy nest,
Or wreathes his crook with flowers,
The sweetest of the fields.

From the gray branches of the ivied ash
The stock-dove pours her vernal elegy;
While further down the vale
Echoes the cuckoo's note.

Beneath this trellis'd arbour's antique roof,
Where the wild laurel rustles in the breeze,
By Cam's slow murmuring stream
I waste the livelong day;

And bid thee, Spring, rule fair the infant year,
Till my lov'd maid in russet stole approach:
O yield her to my arms,
Her red lips breathing love.

So shall the sweet May drink thy falling tears,
And on thy blue eyes pour a beam of joy;
And float thy azure locks
Upon the western wind.

So shall the nightingale rejoice thy woods,
And Hesper early light his dewy star,
And oft at eventide,
Beneath the rising moon,

May lovers' whispers soothe thy listening ear,
And as they steal the soft impassion'd kiss,
Confess thy genial reign,
O love-inspiring Spring!

MONODY.

Umbrageous woods, that lift your aged arms,
And brave the ruthless tempests of the sky;
Storms that despoil the valley's fading charms,
And chase the summer's dying melody;
Ye old retreats of solitude,
Where nought but grief might e'er intrude,
Ere the dark winter spreads his latest gloom,
To your wild reign I come,
To pour the sad and unavailing tear
O'er Henry's early bier,
With deep entranced spirit, dark, yet holy,
And haunt your silent shades in strictest melancholy.

Oh! where, sooth shepherd, are those joyous strains
That charm'd so oft our plains?
While every sylvan dell, and sculptur'd cave,
With wood o'erhung, or wash'd by ocean wave,
Rang to the echo of thy summer reed,
For Pan to thee decreed
An oat to win the ear of morn,
Sweeter than harp or horn;
Old Mersey listening hush'd the hollow roar
Of his high waves, and bade them on the shore
Fall with a shallow tide,
And soft and slowly glide;
The ladies of the flood,
Emerging from their coral haunt,
Upon the golden briny waters stood,
In mute astonish'd mood,
To hear thy verses blither than the chaunt
Of blue-ey'd syrens in their oozy courts,
Where aged Nereus oft resorts
To chide the ocean maids that keep
The fountain waters of the deep;

And oft with mermaid voice would lure thee to their cells,
Waking the hidden voice that dwells
In pearly chambers of their wreathed shells.

Oft at the shut of even,
When thro' the path of heaven
Hesper went forth in starry mantle bright,
And silence slumber'd in the arms of night,
Thy melody would call
Echo from her vaulted hall!
Even the gray hermit in his amice weeds,
With hoary staff and beads,
Brushing the forest dews with sandall'd feet,
Thy pastoral hymn would greet,
And bend his ear to mortal strains so sweet.
Alas! might nought avail thy gentle rhyme,
To soothe the rigour of our ruder clime;
Cold blew the frost winds on thy tender flocks,
That on the tempest-beaten rocks,
Or in the wintry vale below,
Perish'd in drifts of frozen snow,

While thro' thy sorrowing heart disease had spread
The parting throb, and hollow sigh of death,
And thou, lone shepherd, hung thy sickly head,
And all untimely pour'd thy tuneful breath.

Ah me! that thou hadst sought the sunny groves
Of fair Ausonia, and the pasture land
Of Tuscany, where every shepherd roves,
And sings propitious loves;
Or the green marge of Arno's flowery strand,
Or mountain caves of Sicily,
Where, on some olive-shrouded steep,
Thy blue eyes flung across the deep,
Thou hadst awoke the Doric melody,
Or listen'd to the syren's song,
That chant their crisped waves among,
Or breath'd the fragrant wind that blows
Amid the laurel's rustling boughs,
Then hadst thou never died unsung,
And many a votive wreath had o'er thine urn been hung.

O vain presumptive thoughts, thy rigorous doom
Is dealt by fate, and I am come
On travell'd feet, to strew thy hearse
With wild untutor'd verse,
For I had wander'd to the willowy shore
Of hoary Camus fraught with ancient lore;
Where with due feet I wont to tread
His antique walks, and orchard bowers,
Girt with sunny walls and towers,
Conversing with the dead,
Oft till the accustom'd vesper bell
Toll'd the swift flight of meditative hours,
And warn'd my slow feet to the studious cell;
And oft I join'd the ardent crowd,
That at the shrine of science bow'd,
But oftener wander'd to explore
Those woods and deep banks, where of yore
The dark orb'd priest of poesy
First smote his holy minstrelsy.
Yet had I ripen'd hopes with thee to dwell,
Sooth shepherd, in thy ever shaded cell,

With thee as erst upon the eastern lawn,
To wake the blue lids of the cloudy dawn,
On some green hill where the deep fountain runs,
To watch the crimson light of setting suns:
With thee as erst to tread
The forest's leaf-strown bed,
And trace the violet, tempest-born and pale,
Scenting with its thin breath the wintry gale,
With thee to visit in the haunted dell
Storied tower, or fabled well;
With thee, on the far mountain's solitude,
To court the golden cinctur'd sister brood,
Jove's high honour'd progeny,
Daughters of Mnemosyne,
And breathe with trembling lips my verses rude.
And am I only come,
To shroud thee, shepherd, in thy timeless tomb,
To see thy bier with cypress garlands drest,
And the cold turf laid on thy hallow'd breast?
Whilst the rude tempests o'er me rave,
I tear amid the forest's shelter'd walk,

The last late flowers of summer from their stalk,
With sorrowing hand to scatter on thy grave.
O winds that rage along the autumnal sky,
The south may woo you to her rustling bower;
O woods that strew your leaves to fade and die,
Your boughs may flourish in the vernal hour;
O tender families of herb and flower,
That sink and slumber in the cradled earth,
You may again burst forth in purple birth;
O thou lone bird, that mourn'st the dying year,
Shivering and cold amid the stormy night,
For thee revolving planets may appear,
And summer stars may shed their rising light;
O weeping season, dark and wintry now,
The Spring may bind her roses on thy brow,
But who shall wake the eyes that sleep in death,
Or bid the pale lip bloom with purple breath?
O shepherd, dost thou slumber in the vale,
Freshen'd by the immortal gale?
Or midst unnumber'd worlds, that roll
And glitter underneath thy feet,

Seest thou the dark earth's dim discover'd pole,
And many an orb her sister planets meet
Beneath the curtain'd canopy of night;
And the fair seasons take their flight
To the azure realms of day;
And the blithe hours foot their silent way,
Down to the low earth's bourn,
To trace their fateful round, and up to heaven return.
Or wondering at thy heavenly birth,
Broodest thou o'er the distant dream of earth,
And wanderest on the solitary shore,
Fast by the eternal ocean's roar,
Whose golden tide interminably rolls
Upon the shadowy land of souls,
Asking his falling waves to waft to thee
Tidings of mortality!
Shepherd, I bid thee now a long farewell.
Yet while these eyes behold the orb of day,
At noon and eve on thee my thoughts shall dwell,
Till Death enshroud me in his robe of clay,

Whether he call me to the fated tomb,
Like thee in youth's prime bloom,
With locks of auburn, or with tresses hoar,
Thee will I mourn, sweet shepherd, thee deplore.
—Sorrowing, he sung, and then declin'd his head;
And now the queen of heaven had westward led
Her starry ocean, and the streams of night:
And now had risen the still morn's liquid light,
The sunbeams playing on his dewy locks,
The shepherd woke at the gray dawn of day,
Drove thro' the hoary mist his breathing flocks,
And o'er the uplands took his solitary way.

Εν μυρτου κλαδι το ξιφος φορησω.

Green are the myrtle leaves that glow
On Beauty's fair and polish'd brow;
But greener are the leaves that shine,
And round the dirk of Freedom twine!
Those have flourish'd by the fount,
On Cythera's golden mount;
These have drunk a richer flood
From the perjur'd tyrant's blood:
These, by elder Greece ador'd,
I gird around my thirsty sword,
That flashes at the purple vest,
And slumbers in the traitor's breast.

TO AN ÆOLIAN HARP IN WINTER.

Spirits of air! that wake th' Æolian strings
To the deep warbling of the seraph's voice,
Now hover o'er with still and viewless wings,
Now in the tide of melody rejoice.

Now pause, while echo thro' the listening sky
Wafts the soft billows to her aery shore;
Now smite the chords with thrilling ecstacy,
And bid the heart your heavenly strain adore.

Chill are the woods, and desart is the heath,
And mute the songsters in their leafless bower,
While your soft whispers thro' my lattice breathe,
And solace with your joys the wintry hour.

Cherubs of love, when dawn'd the vernal year,
I saw ye woo the purple breath of spring,
Kiss from her opening eyes the April tear,
And waft new fragrance from your perfum'd wing!

I heard ye revel with the summer wind,
In the deep foliage of the sighing grove;
And on the full moon's shadowy beam reclin'd,
List to the night bird's soothing song of love.

When autumn mourn'd along the misty vale.
And the sere chaplets wither'd on her head,
I caught your spirits in the dying gale,
And heard ye rustle in her leaf-strewn bed.

And live ye now upon the freezing wind,
Songsters of bliss, and brave the tempest's hour;
Doth winter ne'er your wings in fetters bind?
Dread not your rosy lips the icy shower?

Sisters of hope, come to my aery lyre,
While mute I bend, your heavenly voice to hear;
And on you pour my eyes with fond desire,
And drink your falling notes with ravish'd ear.

“Mortal, that hear'st, O listen to the lay
That tells of summer months, and blooming flowers,
The golden promise of life's orient day,
Wild tales of bliss, and love-devoted hours.

“List to the lay, and bid the spirit bend,
And worship at the sacred shrine of love;
In homage let thy breathing vows ascend,
Thou that wouldst hours of heavenly rapture prove.

“Resign the soul to love's supreme delight,
And we will bathe thee in our vision blest,
With forms of beauty feed thy ravish'd sight,
And fan new flames of passion in thy breast.

“Come to the sweet south's deep-embosom'd vale,
Where zephyr sighs among the violet beds!
Come, and inspire the heaven-descending gale,
That wafts fresh fragrance o'er the dewy meads.

“Where the deep forest spreads his sylvan shade,
And all his wandering echoes love to sport,
Where blooms the thornless rose, nor blooms to fade,
And sovereign Love hath fix'd his smiling court.

“Nor clouds nor tempests fright the halcyon world,
But forms of heaven-born rapture hover round,
With golden plumage to the sun unfurl'd,
And shower fresh incense on the blooming ground.

“There in the still grove shalt thou joy to find
That angel form,—the form that sways thy breast,
Wandering unbosom'd to the vernal wind,
And rob'd in Nature's simplest, loveliest vest.

“And thou shalt prompt the lighting of the eye,
And wake her spirit to extatic bliss,
Chide with soft breath her bosom's heaving sigh,
And rob the zephyr of his rosy kiss.”—

And pause ye now, ye cherubs of the wind,
And is your strain of promis'd pleasure past?
How sunk, how torn, how ravish'd, how declin'd,
Swept by the spirit of the northern blast!

So flee my hopes, so sinks my fainting heart,
So my fond dreams of pleasure fade and die,
And all that Love had promis'd to impart,
Is vanish'd with your passing melody.

THE ETHIOP.

Who shall win from the halls where our forefathers dwell
The sword of destruction, oppression to quell?
Who shall bind it with boughs from the forests of heaven,
To lighten and flash like a thunder-cloud riven?
Who shall temper its wrath in the far western wave,
And sever the chains of the dark-visag'd slave?
Loud sweeps the Tornado along the blue coasts:
He comes from the dim-shrouded dwelling of ghosts,
The warrior of Congo, renown'd in his land,
The mighty of heart, and the dauntless of hand;
His shadow is dark on the white foaming flood,
The path of his feet—it is crimson'd in blood!

Gird your loins for the rivers of battle—he comes!
Sound the conch thro' your islands, and waken the drums:
The trumpet is braying with terrible breath
Thro' yon columns of fire, and yon dun clouds of death.—
The Ethiop hath vanquish'd—the battle is won—
He lifts his sear'd brow to the bright setting sun
Whose beams and whose glories are jealous to rest,
For e'er on the soft blooming isles of the west;
And Ocean exulting, is clapping his hands,
While Freedom descends to the summer green lands.

ON THE LAST REGIMENT OF POLISH PATRIOTS BEING ORDERED BY THE FRENCH GOVERNMENT TO SERVE IN THE ISLAND OF ST. DOMINGO.

Relic of that noble band,
That slumber in their native land,
Blest in death, in battle slain,
On Warsaw's dark ensanguin'd plain,
What time immortal liberty
Bow'd her head to tyranny!
Wretched race! condemn'd to roam
Exiles from your native home;
Condemn'd to stem the western wave,
And crush the pale and struggling slave,
Who dar'd like us to clothe his breast
In Freedom's red and martial vest;
To scorn the tyrant's scowling eye,
And snatch the wreath of liberty!

Oh! had we fallen that direful night,
When Warsaw echo'd with affright,
When, rous'd in horror from her bed,
Her Russian foes by murder led,
She saw in gory troops advance,
And heard the clashing of the lance,
Trembling oft with thrilling fear
At the lightning of the spear;
When death invaded all our towers,
And rapine sack'd our princely bowers;
And, clotted thick with Polish blood,
Our river roll'd a crimson flood;
As gleaming to the cannon's flash,
We saw its waves tumultuous dash!
O happy had we clos'd our eyes
Amidst our dying country's cries!
What now, alas, for us remains,
But scorn, and penury, and chains?
Fellow swordsmen, rally round,
Hush the trumpet's fiery sound;
Hush the shrill fife's Spartan breath,
And shroud the drum in weeds of death!

Fellow warriors! tear, O tear
Your banner bright that woos the air:
Never shall it tarnish'd be
By the hands of slavery!
A captive in the hall of kings,
Ne'er shall the eagle plume his wings;
But feed his green eye on the ray
And splendour of the rising day;
Longing his heavenly course to run,
And revel in the golden sun!

Native Poland, fare thee well!
Thy future fate, ah, who shall tell?
The god of battle yet may rise
With vengeance on thine enemies!
May bid thee raise thy drooping head
From the dwellings of the dead!
And crown thee, with a destin'd hand,
Empress of a blooming land!
But we, alas, must see thee lie
Pining in captivity!
With nothing left but tears, to shed
For valour lost, and freedom fled!

TO HESPER.

Sweet harbinger of evening's fragrant hour,
That sail'st the still expanse of ether blue,
Feeding the thirsting flowers with summer dew;
Ere the bright moon hath quit her eastern tow'r,
I woo thy pale ray in the hermit's bow'r;
What time the shepherd homeward sped,
His gray cloak mantled o'er his head,
Treads with fear the haunted dell,
To shun the wizard's lurking spell;
While far at distance dies away
The falling breath of day,
And faery phantoms gather round,
Enchanted worlds, and shadowy ground:
Or pallid visions of the dead

Rise and bow the cloudy head!
Now starts the warm and tranced tear,
While silence rules the vaulted sphere,
And the rapt soul spurns the earth,
Brooding o'er her heavenly birth,
And longs on angel wings to soar
In safety to the eternal shore.
O fairest planet of the mystic quire!
What hopes of promis'd bliss thy beams inspire;
That when this form on earth no more is seen,
Mix'd with the dust as it had never been,
The soul triumphant thro' the dread decay,
From the dark bourn shall wing her heavenly way,
And, soaring to the mansions of the blest,
Sink in the bosom of her God to rest!

TO HOPE.

O thou that sitt'st an angel form
Amidst the raging of the storm,
When spectres of the deep arise,
And ocean mingles with the skies!
O thou that tread'st with rosy feet
The parched desart's sandy heat,
And kenn'st from far, on silent wing,
The shady palm, and gushing spring,
Who walk'st undrench'd the whelming flood,
And tread'st unhurt the field of blood.
O thou that whisperest from the dust,
Seraph, in thee we hold our trust.
By Babel's streams the prophets wept,
Their golden harps in sorrow slept,

But o'er them pass'd thy viewless wings,
And woke to life the captive strings.
Soon shall the weary heart have rest,
And Israel in his house be blest!

O Thou that smooth'st the bed of death,
When beauty pours her fainting breath,
Upon thy lap she rests her head,
Nor fears to mingle with the dead!
What hand but thine shall close those eyes
That shut for ever on the skies?
Thine is the sad, the parting smile,
That lingers on those lips awhile!
When struggling life's last throbbings cease,
To thee she yields her soul in peace;
In thee she trusts again to rise,
A lovelier angel in the skies,
When the long silent sleep is o'er,
And Death and Time shall be no more!

ABSENCE.

The sun hath clos'd his golden eye,
And faintly smiles the parting day;
Fair wanderer of the woodlands tell,
Ah! tell me whither dost thou stray?

Where is thy solitary path?
While o'er the east the moonbeams pour,
Lov'st thou to tread the shadowy vale,
And muse the visionary hour?

Or dost thou loiter in the grove,
To pull the violets bath'd in dew,
Or hear the night-lark from his bower,
His tender strain of woe review?

Or view the summer calling star,
That gems the sapphire brow of even;
Or waken with thy tuneful voice
Sweet echo from her aery heaven.

Soft fall the dew in fragrant showers,
Where'er thy truant feet may rove;
And brighter beam the orb of night,
To guide thee thro' the pathless grove.

And sweeter chant the bird of love,
With raptur'd notes to win thine ear;
And cherub shadows hover o'er,
And ever at thy steps be near!

DEO OPTIMO MAXIMO.

O Thou that dwell'st enthron'd on high,
Beyond the seraph's golden sky,
Eternal God of power and might;
Eternal Thou ere time began,
Eternal Thou when he hath run
The circle of his destin'd flight.

Almighty God! in prayer to Thee
I bow the head and bend the knee,
With humble soul and heart resign'd;
To Thee with trembling lips I raise
The holy sacrifice of praise:
O Friend and Father of mankind!

By Thee inform'd, this mortal frame
To being from oblivion came,
Thy love and goodness to survey;
To view the glitt'ring vault of night,
To hail the sweet return of light,
And all creation's blooming day!

In life's young morn Thou did'st impart
The rivers to my beating heart,
And taught'st the streaming pulse to flow;
Amid sensation's changeful tide,
Thou bad'st the trembling soul abide,
Alive to rapture or to woe!

And still unquench'd, at thy behest
The flame of being warms my breast;
But fleeting life must soon be o'er!
Soon will thy hands again require
This transient spark of heavenly fire,
And this frail heart shall heave no more!

But Thou, O Spirit, prompt to save,
Wilt brood upon the shrouded grave,
While wrapt in earth thy offspring sleeps;
As o'er her infant's midnight bed,
With bosom'd breath, and silent tread,
Her secret watch the mother keeps.

O Thou that dwell'st enthron'd on high!
O God of heaven! we shall not die;
Omnipotent, All-wise, and Just!
Death shall resign his iron sway,
And love, that beams eternal day,
Shall warm our ashes in the dust.

But how shall man abide with Thee
Thro' ages of eternity,
When suns shall shed their beams no more;
With awe-struck soul I fear the birth,
And sinking on my mother earth,
I faint, I tremble, and adore!

FRIENDSHIP.

O that the voice of Friendship could delay
With powerful words the fleeting course of time;
Or bid him turn and wing his former way,
Thro' the fair path of youth's enchanting clime.

But vain the wish, and impotent the hand,
That would arrest him in his mid career;
And ceaseless flows the ever trembling sand,
That marks the moments of the ebbing year.

Nor plighted love, nor beauty's rosy smile,
With all their magic, all their sov'reign power,
Could e'er the tyrant's ruthless flight beguile,
Or bind his pinions in a parting hour.

O'er the bright eye he casts his clouding shade,
And tints the auburn locks with falling gray;
Touch'd by his hand the dreams of fancy fade,
And sorrow waits on life's declining day.

Yet some there are that spurn his harsh control,
Nor fear the anguish of his wounding dart;
On faith and hope repose the anxious soul,
And all the ripen'd virtues of the heart;

Upon whose footsteps fairer visions wait
To thwart the terrors of his iron doom;
Smooth with mild hand the rugged brow of fate,
And guard the sweets of life's perennial bloom.

STANZAS.

An angel in the realms of day
Forgot her heavenly birth;
Impell'd by Pity's gentle voice
To walk the suffering earth.

To pour a thousand streams of bliss,
To still the weeping storm,
To fill the world with light and love,
She came in Harriet's form!

SONNET TO MY FATHER.

Stay thine o'ershadowing wings, relentless Time,
Nor shed those auburn locks with falling gray,
That o'er my father's frownless forehead play
Graceful and fair, as in youth's golden prime.
Stay thy rude hand, and he thro' many a clime
Shall teach thee to retrace thy distant way
To the bright regions of historic day!
Or he shall charm thee with prophetic rhyme,
Swept from the strings of Freedom's holy lyre,
Or call the muses from th' Ausonian land,
And with the strains their breathing lips inspire,
Win thy cold ear, and check thy ebbing sand!
Vain is my prayer—already o'er my sire
Thou, ruthless power, hast stretch'd thine iron hand!

LINES WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN, IN JULY, 1804.

Mortal, whose feet this hallow'd hill have trod,
The throne of earth, the altar of thy God!
Here view the tempest, in his flight sublime,
Pursue the clouds o'er many a distant clime:
Extend thine ardent gaze from shore to shore,
“Admire the works of God, and then adore!”

LINES WRITTEN IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL HALL, WESTMORLAND, IN THE SUMMER OF 1804.

O Thou that rul'st this wild of wood,
Lord of the forest and the flood,
Whose sullen voice is heard to roam
By fits amidst this leafy gloom,
Where erst the rolling orb of night
Gleam'd on the Druid's hallow'd rite,
Spirit, we hold thy oak-crown'd shrine,
And altars as of yore divine!

So be it ours to see thy hand
The golden gates of morn expand,
And the young sun shoot his ray
O'er the glittering hills of day;

While Tithon from his sea-wash'd side
Frets to lose his blooming bride,
Who throws the slumber from her eyes,
And walks amid the eastern skies,
Till Sol her virgin beauties shrouds
In scarf of gold and crimson clouds;
While all the misty forms of night
Flee before the rosy light,
And the cloud-capt hills are seen
To robe their sides with living green,
And, starting thro' the newborn skies,
Woods and vales and rivers rise,
And all the landscape blooms around,
From wizard shades of night unbound.

So be it ours to walk thy vale,
Perfumed by the morning gale,
And mark the dewy-bosom'd rose,
Her soft and damask buds disclose,
And zephyr lave his lightsome wing
In the aery tide of spring;

While the shepherd frees his flock
To wander to the thymy rock,
And as he leads them o'er the mead,
Fills with sweet breath his oaten reed.
But when the star of day hath power,
Hide us in thy shaded bower,
In thy deepest den of wood,
Freshen'd by the falling flood
Of some hoar stream, whose waters rave
With ceaseless fall and dashing wave;
Where Melancholy holds her state
With Wisdom in a calm debate,
Until the light of day be fled,
And the gray evening lift her head;
And then forthwith they rise and talk
With spirits in their holy walk.

So be it ours, our limbs to lay
On some lone hill the livelong day,
Where we may muse o'er days of strife,
And the passing dream of life;

And as we share the deep repose,
Our soothed souls to sleep dispose,
And to our half-slumbering eyes
Let spirits of the dead arise,—
Chiefs of fame and warriors hoary,
Such as live in antique story;
The lord of Morven sword-renown'd,
With youths of battle cinctur'd round,
That dar'd with mailed hearts oppose
The rushing of a thousand foes.
Hark, thro' the silent noonday skies
The din of aery war arise!
'Thwart the broad sun's golden tide
Shadowy spears are seen to glide,
And all the hollow hills resound
With trampling hoots of thundering sound!
Now nearer comes the bloody fray,
Now distant dies the war away,
Till starting from our trance profound,
We cast our wondering eyes around,
And find the gorgeous vision fled,
And barren hills around us spread.

So be it ours with joy to climb
Thy mountain cliffs, and reign sublime,
And on thy loftiest hill to stand
And gaze o'er many a distant land;
But never may we tempt thy power,
Spirit, in thy raging hour,
But flee thee when we see thy form
Begin the workings of the storm,
When sighing o'er the rippling lake
Thou bidd'st the sullen winds awake,
And the gathering tempests rise
Along the dark and lowering skies,
While the sun hastens on his way,
And fades apace the light of day!
Woe to the shepherd then that stands
Belated on thy mountain lands,
And from some steep rock's naked brow
Views the unfathom'd gulf below,
And sees the scudding clouds of night
By winds dispers'd in stormy fight,
Like giant phantoms swiftly ride
On the steep mountain's pathless side:

And now he hears the whirlwind's sound,
And flings him on the unshelter'd ground,
Lest, borne away, his shuddering form
May perish in the wasteful storm.
Louder the swelling torrents dash
Above, below the lightning's flash,
And the thunders long and dread,
Burst upon his trembling head,
While the eagle screams afar,
Rous'd by the dark tempestuous war,
And in the vale the tumbling woods
Echo to the maddening floods,
And all is death and wild uproar,
From hill to hill, from shore to shore.

So be it ours with footsteps blest,
When evening glimmers in the west,
Thro' thy hush'd woods to bend our way,
And trace the westering orb of day;
While many a distant wild wood sound
From the mountain echoes round:

The torrent stream that louder falls,
The rook that to his fellow calls,
The hern, whose wings the still air beat,
Journeying to his ancient seat,
The bull's deep roar, that travelling fills
The valleys of the startled hills,
While echo with the murmur sports,
And frequent challenges retorts,
Till breath'd in wrath upon the gale,
Loud bellowings fright the silent vale;
Might seem were here that fiery band,
That rag'd upon the Colchic strand,
To thwart the adventurous lord of Greece,
And heroes of the golden fleece.

And oft at eve our slow steps guide
To some green hill's sloping side,
Whence we may view the queen of night
Robe the woods in amber light,
And kiss with many an amorous beam
The silent river's crystal stream;

And oft while falls the evening hour,
Let lights be seen in hall or tow'r,
Where youth and love their revels keep,
Chasing the feather-footed sleep,
Till morning peeps with dewy eyes
Thro' the ruddy eastern skies.

So be it ours when age and care
Have sadly blanch'd youth's auburn hair,
Once more to seek thy woodlands blest,
Ere we retire to endless rest;
To view the distant mountain head,
Whose dark brow we were wont to tread,
Now doom'd alas to walk the vale
And wait the summer's soothing gale,
With feeble steps and trembling hand
Long travellers of this earthly land!
O spirit of the wild woods, come
And take us to thy sainted home!
So will we hold thy oak-crown'd shrine,
And altars as of yore divine!

SONNET TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON HER POEM OF “PSYCHE, OR THE LEGEND OF LOVE.”

I saw in heaven, before the throne of Jove,
A vision bright, and midst her odorous bowers
Fair Psyche sate culling eternal flowers,
While o'er her stood entranc'd immortal Love!
And ever as the blooming wreath she wove,
Shed from his beaming eyes ecstatic showers;
And on the amaranthine buds he pours
His breath, that all the leaves with rapture move.
Fair Psyche smil'd, and rais'd her blissful eyes.
“This crown for her whose chaste and hallow'd song
Hath so rejoic'd us midst our native skies,
And echoes still these sapphire vaults along,
For her who sung our wanderings on the earth,
And hail'd with hymns of joy our heavenly birth.”

SONNET.

[O voyager of life! the stormy wave]

O voyager of life! the stormy wave
Hath o'er thee past with wild and furious sway,
Threatening to whelm thy frail bark on its way,
In the dark horrors of the watery grave!
Yet steadfast at the helm the tempest brave,
Till from the east thou hail the dawning ray,
And the rich promise of a calmer day,
For He who rules the storm hath pow'r to save!
His voice shall smooth the billows of the deep,
And bid the fair winds soft and prosperous blow,
And ocean heave his raging tide no more,
Whilst blissful gales o'er the still waters sweep,
And the bright skies upon thy bark bestow
The haven of her rest, the long sought heavenly shore!

LINES WRITTEN IN PASSING THROUGH VALE CRUCIS IN OCTOBER, 1806.

Vale of the cross, the shepherds tell
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell!
For there are sainted shadows seen
That frequent haunt thy dewy green;
In wandering winds the dirge is sung,
The convent bell by spirits rung,
And matin hymns and vesper prayer
Break softly on the tranquil air!

Vale of the cross, the shepherds tell
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell!
For Peace hath there her spotless throne,
And pleasures to the world unknown;
The murmur of the distant rills,
The sabbath silence of the hills,
And all the quiet God hath given
Without the golden gates of heaven!

TO THE MOON.

Queen of the night! with virgin ray
O speed thee on thy azure way;
In splendour dress thy sapphire bower,
And shed thy smiles on hill and tower.

Deep clouded in thy misty veil
The dark woods sigh upon the gale;
Thy dewy beams the vales adorn,
Thy starry streams are sweet as morn.

Fair is thy path in heaven above,
Fair is thy path, thou light of love!
Soft are the clouds that o'er thee glide,
While Ocean heaves his murmuring tide!

Thy beams are blest, thou queen of heaven!
And joys untold to thee are given;
In dreams of hope I waste the day,
And live but in thy silent ray!

WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN AUTUMN.

Sweet is the autumnal day,
The sabbath of the year;
When the sun sheds a soft and farewell ray,
And journeys slowly on his silent way,
And wintry storms are near.

Sweet is the autumnal rose,
That lingers late in bloom,
And while the north wind on its bosom blows,
Upon the chill and misty air bestows
A cherishing perfume.

Sweet is life's setting ray,
While Hope stands smiling near;
When the soul muses on the future day,
And thro' the clouds that shade her homeward way
Heaven's azure skies appear!

THE BARD'S LAMENT FOR LLYWELYN.

[_]

AIR—“THE BRITONS.”

O mourn, my harp, along the vale,
Where great Llywelyn fought and bled,
And sigh upon the wandering gale
That soothes his gory bed;
In chains of death with swordless hands
His fallen heroes round him sleep;
Weep Britain o'er the dragon bands,
Despairing Britain, weep!

The ruby banners bathed in blood,
The raging of the battle tell,
How dark, how deep the crimson flood,
Where all thy warriors fell;
Their valiant hands, their burning hearts
Are mouldering in the silent clay,
Thy freedom falls, thy fame departs,
Thy glory fades away.

False Edward's vengeance gluts the plain,
His voice is death, his words are fire,
Lo! Britain's thousand bards are slain,
The souls of song expire;
Yet, Tyrant, shalt thou ne'er destroy
The spirit of their moving strings,
Their magic notes for e'er shall fly
On Time's remotest wings.

Lords of the lyre, they fall, they bleed,
But hark, the hills with music swell,
The dark woods shout to glory's meed,
And echo wakes her shell;
The winds that sweep the mountains round,
Catch the soft numbers ere they die,
The green vales drink the passing sound
In sorrowing ecstasy;

The forests wave in vocal pride,
Responsive to the ocean's roar;
The rivers murmur in their tide,
And sigh on every shore:
And future ages, as along
The destin'd stream of life they roll,
Shall hear the faint surviving song
Of melancholy soul.

But hush, my harp, thy plaintive sound,
Thy aged master yields his breath,
And silence soon shall reign around
This dreary vale of death;
Farewell, my harp of bounding wire,
My joy, my sorrow, and my pride,
Pour thy soft notes as I expire,
And slumber at my side.

But if the Saxon's blood-stain'd hand
Shall violate thy golden string,
Indignant burst his stern command,
And themes of glory sing;
Blanch his fierce cheek with freedom's song,
Thy country's first and latest trust,
And Britain's wildest strain prolong,
Tho' sighing in the dust.

SONNET.

[Sweet bird, that in the pauses of the blast]

Sweet bird, that in the pauses of the blast
Lovest thy simple melody to pour,
Regardless of the winter's icy hour;
And ever as the sky is overcast,
Shroudest thyself; and when the storm is past
Warblest afresh, forth from thy blanched bower,
Trusting that Spring shall wake the slumbering flower,
Nor adverse seasons so for ever last;
So I amid the beating storms of life
Turn to the climes where Memory's daughters dwell,
And yield each calm day of a vain world's strife,
To the sweet labours of the vocal shell;
With fond hope worshipping those better Nine,
And the twin god who rules with bolt divine.

SONNET TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Again thou reignest in thy golden hall,
Rejoicing in thy sway, fair queen of night!
The ruddy reapers hail thee with delight,
Theirs is the harvest, theirs the joyous call
For tasks well ended ere the season's fall.
Sweet orb, thou smilest from thy starry height,
But whilst on them thy beams are shedding bright,
To me thou com'st o'ershadow'd with a pall:
To me alone the year hath fruitless flown,
Earth hath fulfill'd her trust thro' all her lands,
The good man gathereth now where he had sown,
And the great master in his vineyard stands;
But I, as if my task were all unknown,
Come to his gates, alas, with empty hands.

ODE TO MAY,

WRITTEN IN 1807, ON THE ABOLITION OF THE AFRICAN SLAVE TRADE.

O thou, who saw'st the infant morn
With secret joy in Eden born,
And fed'st his waking eyes with many a smile,
O prosperous power that rul'st the west,
Arouse thee from thy bed of rest,
And turn benignant to my native isle!
While yet the faint ey'd star of day
Lingers amid the cloudy gray,
To see thee from the heavens descend,
My feet with hasteful hope I bend.
And lo! the thunder-brooding cloud,
That wont his beaming eyes to shroud,
Bursts before the lord of light,
And he from the ebon hands of night

Snatches the ensigns of his sway,
That rule the crimson realms of day;
His sapphire helm, his glittering spear,
His fiery tressed steeds appear;
The glorious beams that gird his head,
Arrowy light around him shed;
Enwrapt in triumph, rob'd in state,
His path is thro' heaven's highest gate:
But thou that own'st a milder birth,
Descend'st on dewy feet to earth,
And as thou com'st, the woodland lay
Hails thee, thou fair-ey'd virgin, May!
Thy vestals chaste, the smiling hours,
From their cold chambers lead the flowers
To blossom on the breezy hill,
Or tremble o'er the mountain rill;
The summer winds, the perfum'd gales
Breathe amid the woods and vales,
Breathe amid the vales and woods,
And soothe the winter swollen floods.
But whence this voice that round thee floats,
That seems to breathe celestial notes,

And wakes on earth a sweeter strain
Than ever grac'd thy genial reign.

With votive hands as erst in early hour
I rose, the glad return of May to hail,
Dark shadowy mists o'erhung her blooming bow'r,
And sighs of woe came on the vernal gale.

Seaward they came, while, silent and alone,
On mournful feet I sought the frowning shore,
Where sate my country's genius on her throne,
Serene amid the ocean's sullen roar.

The eagle of the sea, on conquering wing,
With guardian thunders hover'd o'er her head,
The stormy clouds their ruffling shadows fling,
On waste and desart waters round her spread.

And lo! with joy the homebound vessels ride,
The ruling flag the winds of heaven unfold,
Her sons careering o'er the foaming tide
Pour at her sea-wash'd feet the Afric gold.

As flush'd with proud delight she stretch'd her hand,
A passing spirit caught her startled eye,
The form of Russell walk'd the murmuring strand,
And sigh'd reproachful as he wander'd by.

In dark suspense she ey'd the glitt'ring ore,
And trembled when she saw the alloy of blood;
Again she turn'd, and on the silent shore
In angry tears the shade of Sidney stood.

Her cheeks were blanch'd with fear, and burnt with shame,
Her eyes that spoke delight were turn'd to weep,
With sterner voice she call'd on freedom's name,
And wash'd her red hands in the oblivious deep!

'Twas freedom's voice that rent the air,
Slavery's toiling reign is o'er,
Heaven's own winds the fiat bear
To Afric's bleeding shore!

100

Lo! as they pass, in sudden fear
Couches the Gaul his fiery spear,
Abash'd the proud Iberian stands,
Trembling on his blood-stain'd sands.
Afric hears the British voice,
All her thousand realms rejoice!
The sable myriads that abide
By Niger's deep and boundless tide,
And all the palm embower'd hosts
That wander on her tawny coasts,
With shouts of triumph fill their woods,
Their spicy vales, and sacred floods!
Troubled in his mystic bed,
Nile lifts his dark Egyptian head,
While golden songs, and rapturous fire
Flash from Memnon's ancient lyre,
That to Britain's valleys flings
The ecstatic murmur of its strings.
O Britain! may it long be thine
Thy lance with myrtle wreaths to twine,

101

The laws of heaven aright to spell,
The oppress'd to aid, the proud to quell!
So never may the threatening Gaul
Thy warrior-featur'd youth appal;
So may'st thou see in danger's hour,
A flaming sword on every tower,
In every gate a cherub stand,
To save from spoil thy favour'd land:
The while at freedom's shrine we raise
Our votive hands with hymns of praise,
And gemm'd with buds, our virgins pay
Their homage to the smiling May!

102

ON THE DEATH OF DR. WILLIAM DICKSON,

LATE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR.

Sweet was the wisdom thron'd upon thy brow,
Servant of God, and meek the heart thou bore
Whilst ministering upon this earthly shore;
Humblest and wisest, well didst thou bestow
Thy deeds of light upon this vale of woe;
The majesty and grace which here thou wore
God shall in heaven to thee again restore
With higher trust, thy master's love to shew;
So not in vain against an evil age
Rais'd was thy hand, and eloquent thy tongue;
So not in vain as patriot, prelate, sage,
Single thou stood'st in truth and virtue strong,
And scorn'd the tyrant man's avenging hour,
And broke with angel force the oppressor's power.

103

SONNET.

[As one that slumbering on a desart shore]

As one that slumbering on a desart shore,
Lull'd by the music of the murmuring deep,
Bursts suddenly the dreamy bands of sleep,
And sees the raging tide and waters hoar
Whelming the mainland in their giddy roar;
Aghast he stands, and eyes the distant steep,
While ruthless worlds of waters o'er him weep,
And the green face of earth appears no more.
—So, from this dream of life, my startled soul,
Nurs'd on the treacherous lap of youthful prime,
Awakes, and sees upon these shoals of Time
The waves of Fate in billowy surges roll,
And turns for safety to that heavenly throne,
Where mercy dwells, and mortal hearts are known.

104

SONG OF THE FALLEN STUART.

How sweet the fair ey'd ruddy morn
Breathes o'er my cold and desart cave,
Soft dews the budding trees adorn,
And gently flows the ocean wave!

I shelter in the bowery aik,
And mark the gaudy flowers of spring,
And see the sun the birds awake,
That carol high on mounting wing.

But oh! the dawning of the day,
It brings nae beam of joy to me,
Sine I have tint the bloody fray,
And fallen in my destiny!

105

Amid the glens of wild Moray
The hunter starts me with his spear,
Along the forest's tangled way
The English rover's shout I hear!

106

THE DREAM.

O fleeting visions of the night,
That lull to peace my aching breast;
O sainted shadows of delight,
That hover round with whispers blest;

Once more entrance these weary eyes,
Nor vanish from my fainting heart;
Again your shadows seem to rise,
Again they smile, again depart.

And Reason now with sober hand
Hath burst the golden bonds of sleep,
And Fancy drops her magic wand,
While the still hours their vigils keep.

107

O gentle Sleep, what tongue shall tell
The forms thy watching angels bring,
Or where the blissful visions dwell,
That Memory wafts on silent wing.

I saw the maid whom envious fates
Had ravish'd from my ardent view,
And Love his tale again relates,
And lover's vows methought were true.

Her beaming eye, her ruby smile
Aton'd for years of lingering pain,
And truth repos'd the happy while,
Nor whisper'd of her high disdain.

The friend of all my youthful years
I saw again before me stand,
I saw his eyes distend with tears,
As fond I grasp'd his offer'd hand.

108

Friend of my youth, where art thou fled?
That heart-warm hand, that tear-fraught eye
Have their long dwelling with the dead,
And in their mansion mouldering lie.

The morning dawns, no more I hear
The thrilling vows of plighted love;
The morning dawns, the starting tear
Bids my lone heart fresh sorrows prove.

O dawn of life, where is the beam
That smil'd upon thy infant hour;
O youthful tide, where is the dream
That hover'd o'er thy rosy bower?

O love, where is that angel form
That glanc'd before my ravish'd eyes?—
Swept from this earth by sorrow's storm,
Or resting in her native skies.

109

One silent tear, and then adieu
The hopes that rul'd this youthful heart;
The world awakes her prospects new,
And life's fond visions all depart.

Yet shall the silent noon of night
The vanish'd dreams of youth restore,
And oft recall with fond delight
The forms that day shall yield no more.

110

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT BOY.

'Tis past—those eyes for ever close,
Soft falls the parting breath,
Those limbs shall have a long repose
Within the arms of death!
So still, so pure that gentle smile,
Thou seemest but to sleep,
Thy parents linger yet awhile
Or ere they turn to weep.

111

O fragrant be the turf and flowers
That shroud thy infant breast,
While o'er thee fly th' unheeded hours
Of everlasting rest;
The dews of eve, the breath of morn
Shall gather o'er thy tomb,
And hands unseen thy grave adorn
With summer's sweetest bloom.

I bid thee now a long adieu,
But linger yet awhile,
Till weeping memory calls to view
Thy soft and cherub smile;
Deep are the pangs that rend my soul,
Thus from thee to depart,
And sighs that will not brook control
Oppress my labouring heart.

112

How soon thy infant race is run,
How short thy morning light,
Or ere the beams of day begun,
'Twas shrouded dark in night!
Ah! never shalt thou tread the round
Of youth's delighting years,
When earth with all her blooming ground
A paradise appears.

On some fond breast that beats with thine,
Caressing and carest,
Thy youthful head shall ne'er recline
In tender transports blest;
Nor is it thine to feel the blight
That chang'd affections bring,
How dark the thoughts of past delight,
That own no second spring.

113

Thou shalt not see a blooming race
In beauty round thee stand,
To spread thy name in many a place,
The loved of thy land.
Nor art thou doom'd to see them bend,
And fade in youthful bloom,
And midst thy vain laments descend
Before thee to the tomb.

To see a hoary length of days
Sent by approving heaven,
And walk in Wisdom's sacred ways
To thee shall not be given;
Nor shalt thou drain this mortal bowl
Midst dim and darkling fears,
Or feel the sorrows of the soul
Bow'd with a weight of years.

114

Ah! yet farewell—careering fast
The days of manhood run,
Soon shall this mortal race be past,
And end as it begun.
Then, cherub, shall I see thee stand
Serene amid the blest,
And I shall find that happy land
Where all the weary rest.

115

EPITAPH ON A LADY,

WHO DIED SOON AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

Daughters of Erin, bow your heads and weep
O'er this fair tomb, where love and beauty sleep;
Where fond affection bends with bosom'd breath,
And faith looks homeward from the realms of death.
O mourn the stranger, who from Albion's isle,
Led by soft hopes, and Love's all ruling smile,
Gave to the desert waves her lovely form,
And met with quenchless heart the ocean storm.
—O'er the dark rolling deep preceding bright,
Love wav'd his torch amid the starless night;
Walk'd on the mountain wave, or thro' the abyss
Of whelming billows bore the torch of bliss;

116

But ah! no sooner reach'd the sister shore,
Than Death reversed it to relume no more.
To this sad urn the fragrant cypress bring,
With the soft violets of the budding spring;
Breathe the deep sigh, unzone the sobbing breast,
And bid these ashes in sweet slumbers rest;
Shed the warm tear, that tells the long adieu,
Join your faint hands and turn with lingering view;
Till silence, gathering on your sister woes,
Casts o'er the sacred scene a long repose.

117

THE PRISONER OF WAR.

How heavy fall the weary hours
On those whom war's relentless hand
Has ravish'd from their native bowers,
And prison'd in a foreign land.

With sorrowing hearts they greet the morn,
In lingering hope they waste the day,
By dark despair their hearts are torn,
As ever falls the evening ray!

And sleep, that with her soothing wings
Wafts thro' the world a soft repose,
To them, alas, fresh sorrow brings,
And loads them with unnumber'd woes.

118

With fav'ring winds, in fond delight,
In dreams they reach their native shore,
Then wake amidst the hopeless night,
To mourn their lot, and weep the more.

While memory brings, all unreprov'd,
Dear visions of their native land,
Some honour'd parent's form belov'd,
A fair, but weeping sister band!

A dearer one whose virgin heart
Was pledg'd in vows of sacred truth,
And still upholds her solemn part
Amid the wasting years of youth.

Ah! never shall yon captive see
Fair England's vales and green woods more,
His suffering hours how sad they be,
Ah! none shall tell, but all deplore!

119

TO A FAVORITE MYRTLE,

RAISED FROM A BRANCH WORN BY A LADY AT A BALL.

Green be thy leaves in the dews of the morning,
And fair be thy blossoms, thou pride of the grove,
And bright be the sunbeam thy beauties adorning,
For thou hast been nurs'd on the breast of my love.

The flowers of the forest are pale and decaying,
And wan are their sisters that dwell in the vale,
But thou art all joyous, new honors displaying,
And rich is the fragrance thou pour'st on the gale.

Nor tempests nor storms in their ravage shall blight thee,
And the season of summer for ever is thine,
And my love with the beams of her eyes shall delight thee,
And tempt thee to bloom in their radiance divine.

120

For the gales of the south, and the zephyrs of heaven,
Her breath thro' thy green woven branches shall stray,
And the sigh of her bosom to thee shall be given,
An offering more rich than the incense of May.

121

THE BIRTH OF WOMAN.

How cold was this planet ere Love lent his light
To beam on the desolate regions of night!
Deep silence and solitude circled the earth,
And sad was creation till Love had his birth!

He sprang out of chaos,—and flush'd with desire,
The young sun leapt forth from his mansion of fire;
Earth felt the fond passion awake in her breast,
And pursued him with love-laughing eyes to the west.

The dark caves of ocean re-echoed his call,
And his pow'r and his sway were acknowledg'd by all;
Thro' the bounds of existence the soft impulse ran,
And shed its bright beams on the bosom of man.

122

All joyless and lone on the threshold of fate,
He felt the deep rapture, and stept forth elate;
While the visions of love in their fulness impart
Fresh fire to his eyes, and new streams to his heart!

She came in the fulness of beauty and love,
The Eve of his dreams came down from above!
The stars sang in heaven, and sweet was the morn
By angels uncurtain'd when Woman was born!

In the might of his joy, in his heart's gushing pride,
He clasp'd to his bosom his heaven blooming bride!
While rapture and music encircled the earth,
And fair was creation when Love had his birth!

123

TO A DESERTED COUNTRY SEAT.

Hail to thy silent woods,
Thy solemn climate, and thy deep repose,
Where the west wind as he goes
Moans to the falling floods,
That thro' the forest glide,
And journey with a melancholy tide!

Hail to thy happy ground,
Where all is steep'd in stillest solitude;
And no unhallow'd sound
Wakes nature from her holy mood;
Here let me waste away
The little leisure of life's busy day!

124

Thy lone and ancient towers
Shall be my only haunt from youth to age;
Thy wild grown garden bowers
Shall shelter me in life's long pilgrimage;
And I will think me blest,
For ever in thy peaceful bounds to rest.

On thee the sunbeam falls
In silence all the solitary year;
And mouldering are thy walls
That echoed once with hospitable cheer;
And all is past away
That stood around thee in thy prosperous day.

But I may seek thy shades,
And wander in thy long forgotten bowers,
And haunt thy sunny glades,
Where the mild summer leads the rosy hours,
And mingled flowers perfume
The noontide air,—a wilderness of bloom.

125

For nature here again
With silent steps repairs her woodland throne,
Usurps the fair domain,
And claims the lovely desert for her own,
And o'er yon threshold throws
With lavish hand the woodbine and the rose.

Deep silence reigns around,
Save when the blackbird strains his tuneful throat
Then the old woods resound,
And the sweet thrush begins his merry note;
And from some scathed bough
The murmuring ring-dove pours her plaintive vow

Here at the break of morn,
No hunter wakes the halloo of the chase,
Nor hounds and echoing horn
Fright from their quiet haunts the sylvan race,
Rest, happy foresters, for ye shall be
In these green walks for ever safe and free!

126

Wave, laurel, wave thy boughs,
And soothe with friendly shade my wearied head,
Come, sleep, and o'er my brows
With gentle hand thy dewy poppies shed,
Here shall be well forgot
The many sorrows of this earthly lot.

Haunts of my early years,
Amid your sighing woods O give me rest:
Unnotic'd be the tears,
Unknown the griefs that fill this aching breast,
While shelter'd in your bowers,
With patient heart I wait the suffering hours.

How soon the morn of life,
The beam, the beauty of our days is o'er,
Amid a world of strife
The heart's young joys shall bud, shall bloom no more!
Yet tranquil be the day
That lights the wanderer on his homeward way.

127

Lo! where the lord of light
In setting splendour pours his crimson beams,
And at the approach of night
Bathes his bright orb amid the ocean streams,
And sinks into the west,—
So still, so peaceful be my hour of rest!

128

FRAGMENTS OF A POEM ENTITLED “THE CONTEMPLATIVE DAY,”

SUGGESTED BY SCENERY IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF ALLERTON, AND WOOLTON HILL.

Thro' this dark glen, and by the grassy bank
O'erspread with tufted heath, I bend my steps
To the green summit of yon upland lawn,
There with new song to hail the dawn of day,
And greet the morning fresh with heavenly dews.
As yet the mist clads in her hazy robes
The far extended country, all conceal'd,
And gives to view a waste and boundless sea
Spread o'er the landscape, whilst upon the ear
Of listening fancy seems the tide to break
In loud commotion, as upon this cliff,
As if begirt with ocean rocks she stands

129

And now my feet have climb'd this craggy mount,
Whose lofty brow surveys the first approach
Of orient day, and from afar the night
Hath gather'd up her robes of dusky hue,
And dews unwholesome; and the foggy air
That clouded the green bosom of the earth,
Retires and opens to the wondering view,
Rivulets and brooks, and valleys wide and deep,
Woodlands, and hills emerging from the mist
Of the gray vapoury night.
Thus on the day of covenant, from the height
Of mountain Ararat the patriarch saw
The waves retire from the o'erwhelmed earth,
And Deluge, at the breathing of the wind,
Upheave his monstrous bulk from that vast flood
Where long he slumber'd, all at large outstretch'd
Over the hills of Asia. As he stirr'd
His folded limbs, and rear'd his shapeless head,
The deep was troubled, and the uplifted tide
From the smooth surface of the water broke,
Washing his cumbrous back, as thro' the surge
With weltering waves he clave his sinuous path:

130

He with loud bellows sought his ancient home
Beyond th' antarctic,—there the mariners
Hear him all restless in his frozen bed,
Where oft with cold distraught he claps his hands,
Shouldering from their broad base huge hills of ice,
That clash upon the main in adverse course,
And whelm in stormy graves their shatter'd barks,
Wind-bound and lost amid those perilous seas.
Him follow'd all the fountains of the deep,
Oceans and seas, rivers, and torrents loud,
Down the steep rocks, and o'er the highest lands,
Innumerable rushing from the earth
All to their several confines. These forthwith
Down to the eastern ocean or the sea
Of wide-spread Zud, or that Pacific nam'd,
Or that of Atlas, since in later times
Explor'd by bold Columbus, and the crew
Of Amerique; these to the rolling seas
Caspian or Euxine, and the blue Levant,
Or wild Mæotis. Those to the muddy banks
Of that fair river, that erst roll'd her waves
Thro' Eden, and the trees of Paradise;

131

Some to the distant banks of rivers wide,
From Ganges, and the many nameless floods
That flow thro' India, to the famous streams
Of Tigris and Euphrates, where they wash
The walls of Babylon, or the loud roar
Of Niger, or to th' Ethiopic fount
Of old Ægyptus. Others to the streams
Of purer rivers, deep Eridanus,
Alpheus or Strymon, and the gentle lapse
Of Ister and Meander, Phasis wide,
And Rhesus, and the swift Ætolian flow,
Of silver whirling Achelous, or fair
Æsopus, and the Simois divine,
Peneus and Caicus, and the spreading tide
Of deep Sangarius, and the tripping waves
Of Ladon's sandy shore, Parthenius,
Evenus and Ardiscus, and thou too,
Divine Scamander, ancient in thy fame!
And as the patriarch saw the floods retire,
The silent world uprear'd her breathing head,
Weltering and wet, while from her surface rose
The loftiest mountains and the topmost hills,

132

With groves uprooted, and the tottering rocks
O'erspread with relics, and the slimy weeds
Of the proud ocean. Then his eye survey'd
Empires and kingdoms of the ancient world,
Sunk in the deep, all merg'd and desolate,
And where the ocean held his former reign,
Broad continents and islands, and vast shores
Left waste and boundless by the flying waves;
Or fair peninsula, or isthmian straits,
And far extending cape or promontory,
The lofty bulwark of the refluent wave.
Then rov'd the patriarch's view o'er the high grounds
Of fair Armenia, and so on to the lands
Of Syria and Chaldæa, and the hills
Of Horeb and of Sinai, and Cedar tall,
And that wide plain where stood the sinful towers
Of Sodom and Gomorrah, o'erwhelm'd by God,
Now lake Asphaltetes, and deserts wild
Of stony Arab, and the solitude
Of Palmyrene and Etham wilderness;
Thence to bright Persia, and the eastern climes
Of India, 'yond the Ganges, to the land

133

Of golden Chersonese, and forward thence
Even to the extreme limits of the earth
Beyond the ocean, climes where dwell and sing
The Hesperian damsels; and all other realms
Since peopled, or wherever mortal man
Hath built his cities, or with savage feet
Hath wandered or inhabited, all lands
Fabled in ancient story, or explor'd
In later days, and all the surface wide
Of the green earth that e'er the Almighty gave
From the proud ravage of his angry flood.

How far extends the prospect! from the fields
The sickly vapours with the night are fled;
Along the mountain's feet the misty clouds
Steal all away at the soft break of morn,
The woods and underwoods in green appear,
Valleys are seen where cultivation spreads
Her golden harvests, and the rivers wide
That court the woody dingles of the shore,
Or wash, with hoarser waves, the busy strand
Of opulent cities; lakes of etherial blue

134

O'er whose still surface the faint breeze of morn
Slow passes, and scarce moves the glimmering waves
In tender undulation; rivulets swift,
That wind their silver course in mazy folds
Thro' the green champain, and by forests deep;
Or lave with healthy streams, and waters pure,
The distant townlets, or low cottages
That peep with white fronts thro' the shadowy trees;
Woodlands and parks, the range of fallow deer,
And sweeping heaths o'erspread with flow'ry furze;
The slow faint rising smoke of city towers,
And the tall spire of village church afar,
That tips the summit of the evening wood;
Streams that divide and intersect the lands
Of distant counties, now with winding waves
Gleaming by rural vales, and scatter'd isles;
Now tumbling deep beneath the mouldering walls
Of some old castle, and now lost in shade,
And seen and lost amid their various course!
Mersey's broad tide, where oft the bark is view'd
At pleasant intervals thro' leafy groves,
Spreading her white sails to the morning sun!

135

And Dee's old wizard current fam'd of yore!
There dimly seen amid the horizon blue,
Beeston's proud towers, now crumbling in the dust
Upon yon fair etherial azure mount
That swells majestic from the fertile vale
In perpendicular ascent. Those towers,
So bards prophetic sang, in future days
Shall rise in ancient splendour, and its halls
Loudly re-echo to the festive voice
Of antique chivalry, and pomp again
Uplift his gorgeous head with cumbrous feast
Of sewer and seneschal, and chaunting bards,
Bevies of ladies fair, and pageantry
That swell'd antiquity's forgotten age.

'Tis mid-day, but the sun with hazy beams,
As with a modest veil of texture slight,
Hides the shy landscape; over the blue sky
The light gray clouds of autumn float and spread,
Their shades increasing with the waning day.

136

Weary with wandering, near this sloping bank
That skirts the dark brown solitary heath,
I lay me down upon the thymy turf
Beside these mouldering stones, the silent tomb
Of ancient hunter, or the tumulus
Of warrior old; quiet and undisturb'd
Beneath the waving fern their reliques lie,
And on their shelter'd bones, in frequent whirls,
Thick fall the autumnal leaves! At ease reclin'd,
I watch with anxious eye the lazy mist
People with fancied forms the desart air,
While o'er me pass in day dreams ominous
The spirits of the dead; the striding form
Of mountain hunter with his swift gray dogs
Chasing the airy game, the long array
Of battle-crested heroes, the still form
Of the pale virgin calling from the hill
Her lover slain, or with her plighted hand
Building his narrow house, and the dark shape
Of long departed ghost that thro' the clouds
Spreads his voluminous course until he fall
Into the mountain stream, whose troubled waves

137

Murmur complaint, and roar among the rocks
With sound of nothing earthly.

This green mound,
Under the shadowy outskirts of the wood,
Bespeaks thy lonesome grave, poor Emeline!
And with thee sleep the sorrows that distrest
Thy frail existence. From a foreign land
The wanderer came, and never person knew
The fountain of her sufferings. On these plains,
Friendless she wore away her wretched life,
Unhous'd and comfortless; her head was craz'd
By sore afflictions, and before her eyes
Spectres of life travell'd incessantly
By day and night. When the cold northern wind,
With sleety breath blew thro' the desart heath,
And man and beast retreating from the storm,
Fled for a shelter, and the rustic hind
Sate at his cabin window with his babes,
To watch the big drops of the pelting hail
Darken with their thick showers the closing day;
Oft thro' his frozen lattice he would see

138

The simple wanderer pacing the deep snow,
And chaunting to the wind. One wintry morn,
When the green forester went out to verge
The southern wood, a bitter gust arose,
That drove him to seek shelter in a glade
Tangled with shrubs and pathless; there he found
The hapless maid in the cold arms of death!
Her eyes were deeply clos'd, and on her cheeks
The trickling tears were frozen to icicles,
Her auburn hair, that all dishevell'd lay,
Was lac'd with hoary dew, and her wan breast,
And fair neck, were to alabaster wrought!
Her pious hands, tho' numb'd by death, were clasp'd
In meek devotion, and upon her lips
Pale and unkist there lay a gentle smile,
As if from heaven an angel had come down
And drunk her dying breath. The villagers
Dug her a grave in this sequester'd spot,
And to her memory planted the green turf
With garden flowers. Hither the painful bees
In early spring-time bend their wandering wings,
When from their honey cells too far they stray,

139

And rest benighted; solitary 'tis,
And silent, save that oft in summer time
Some lingering warbler to the noon of night
O'er her dark tomb prolongs his evening song,
Which the lone shepherd hears when o'er the heath
He passes home belated.

In covert ambush, under the thick leaves
Of broad depending boughs, that careless spread
A solitary, dark, uncultur'd shade,
Impervious to the day beams, I repose.
Enwrapt in meditation on the state
Of man below, and musing on the dreams
Of early youth, how sweet it were to spend
The listless hours amid these tranquil seats!
How silent all around, save where the wind
Creeps thro' yon ancient grove of trembling firs
In distant suscitation, like the roar
Of ocean surge, rough dashing on the rocks,
Or midnight storms, that thro' the long drawn aisle
Of Gothic abbey, rush with fearful sound
Thro' the deep cloisters, rent and desolate!

140

Were it not better for unthinking man,
Amid these silent haunts from all the world
Sequester'd, to forego his vain pursuit
Of fruitless treasure, and alone to lead
A hermit's life, depending on the hands
Of frugal nature for his sustenance,
To muse on his poor heritage, how short
His frail abode upon the unshelter'd earth,
How vain his dearest toil in bitter chase
Of pride and vanity. The lingering ties
Of fond attachment to this fickle world,
As frail and fluttering as the painful web
Which the poor spider weaves in sunshine hour
Of bleak December. Were it not better then
Amid these holy shades to yield him up
To contemplation, and the thoughts of heaven;
So should long health attend his latter years,
And bend him gently downward to the grave,
So from his head should age with trembling hand
Tear his grey tresses leisurely and slow,
Till on some wintry day death's welcome breath
Should kindly lay him in his parent dust!

141

Now to yon upland grove, (at summer eve,
My frequent walk, or ere the setting sun
Decline into the horizontal waves
Of ocean, and the purple light of day
Be shut in dewy mists,) my wearied feet
I turn with speed. The lapwing o'er my head,
With mournful cries now hovering in mid-air,
Now floating down, circling her ceaseless flight,
Pursues me thro' the heath. These aged firs,
That feed their spare roots on this barren cliff,
Tho' beaten, and oft dismember'd of their boughs
By the rough sea blast, still afford a wild
And safe retreat to nature's tenantry.
Hark! on yon time-worn trunk the woodpecker
Knocks repercussive with his piercing bill,
A shrewd artificer, but soon alarm'd
With shrill notes thro' the deep wood dips his wings.
And shows his varied plumes. Where yonder boughs
Form a more close retreat from brushing winds,
The ring-dove her mellifluous moan of love
Indulges undisturb'd. But whence away

142

Sweet rover of the woods? Thou shunn'st the ear
Of treacherous man, nor even the sunny haunts
Of thy fledg'd kindred have a charm for thee;
But to remoter scenes thou wing'st thy flight
To vales of solitude, gray wooded streams
Bosom'd within the pathless wilderness,
And hoary rocks upon whose shallow clifts
The ivy trails her tangling stems, and weaves
Perennial verdure; forest-shrouded caves,
Where echo all the day on mossy beds
Lies slumbering to the lull of fountain rills,
But wak'd by thee what time the star of eve
Looks o'er the furthest grove, thy amorous song,
And the soft lapses of thy moaning voice,
That float amid the shady foliage,
Repeats till nightfall.

From this heathy mound
What varied prospects rise of vales and groves,
And distant hills skirted with forests dark.
Yon woody cliffs, and prone o'erhanging rocks,
Dimly reflected, shade the winding shores

143

Of Mersey, and beyond the purple hills,
Ridge above ridge in harmonizing shade,
Uplift their lofty heads, and vanish faint.
There Dee amid his high banks cloth'd with wood,
And fring'd with waving fern and forest flowers,
Rolls full along the vale his swelling tide,
Rapid as erst, but mute the magic voice
Of prophecy that murmur'd in his waves.
There in th' etherial fading distance lies
Ewyas, thy shadowy vale engirt with hills,
And lofty woods, in whose remote recess,
In ancient days, the monastery bell
Rang duly to the morn, and vesper chant
Of pious orisons that echoed thro'
The aged groves, now swelling high, now low,
With changeful tones as rose or fell the wind.
The cowled brothers when in musing mood
They walked the dewy cloisters, only saw
The mountains swelling with exalted brows
Amid the azure sky, (ofttimes in spring
Darken'd with rolling clouds,) and the wild deer
Browsing aloft amid the horizon blue.

144

Sweet seat of contemplation, where the sun
Ne'er sheds his garish beams, where morning gray
Comes not as when with rosy feet she treads
The glowing portals of the dawning east,
But walks with dewy sandals, rob'd in mist,
Silent and slow; where evening early spreads
Her shadowy mantle, ere the western tints
Of day depart from the o'erhanging hills!

In this secluded spot,
Beneath the grey arms of these aged trees
I sit me down, and claim the rural seat
Where oft in summer time I spent the day
In silent meditation, and tho' now
Hush'd are the choristers that charm'd these woods,
Yet not the less for meditation fit
Is this autumnal season, when the lapse
Of time discloses to unthinking man
A lesson of importance, to reflect
Upon his own spent season, and the hour
When he must slumber in the dust. Alas,
That ever man with his Almighty God

145

Should question in presumptuous argument,
His power to raise again to future life
The bodies of the dead, and renovate
Their lives existant thro' the unchang'd state
Of full eternal ages! Who is He
That passeth thro' the sky on wintry feet,
At whose approach the green earth bows her head
In meek obedience, and o'er her form
Gathers her robes of snow, to keep the cold
And blustering north wind from her freezing veins.
At whose chill breath the sons of men retire
From culture of their lands and fields, forthwith
Each to his sheltering mansion; when the flocks
Of sheep are pent up in their hurdled folds,
And all the melancholy lowing herds
Slowly retire to their full fodder'd stalls.
When the brute beasts that range the wilderness
Shrink to their dens, when all the agile race
Of fishes, that inhabit the still waves
Of lakes or inland rivers, in thick shoals
Of myriads moving, stain the shining tide
With the rich tincture of their emerald scales

146

As from their gelid beds adown the rills
They seek the oozy deep. When all the trees
Shed their discolour'd leaves, and the gay flowers
That scent the air, or beautify the ground,
The rose, the lily, and their sister tribes,
Scatter their sickly bloom, and seem to fall
Into their graves. When all the feather'd choir
Close their fine throats, and sit in silence dull,
Their tuneful tongues benumb'd, or speed away
On parting wing to foreign climes, and skies
Unknown to man, or steal to their warm caves
And torpid habitations. When the swarms
Of insects rare that throng the summer beams,
Orient or noontide, or the blaze of even,
Linger and die, and the industrious bees
Forego their fragrant labours, and retire
To their provision'd citadel, besieg'd
By rain and bitter tempests! Who is He
That from her western house sends out the spring?
What time the south winds blow upon the earth,
The vegetating seeds, at whose warm breath
The fertilizing pulse of nature beats

147

With quicker motion thro' her languid frame.
When to their tasks the sons of men arise
And turn the glebe. Forth to the battening hills
At break of morn the shepherd leads his flock,
And herdsmen drive to pastures fresh and green.
The lowing herds that graze the savoury meads.
When the brute beasts that range the wilderness
Traverse the forest paths, and th' agile race
Of fishes, swift returning, seek again
The summer lakes and rivers, and forsake
The oozy deep for rivulets and fresh streams;
When the green trees put forth their woven leaves
And spread their umbrage wide. When from their beds
The icy snow-drop, and the saffron bud
Of crocus upward push their blooming face,
Sweet harbingers of all their sister tribes
Of flowers innumerable that adorn
The garden walk, or shed their rathe perfume
On the lone wilderness, sweet harbingers
Of all the budding fruits, and downy bloom
Of peach and nectarine. When the feather'd choir,

148

Returning from their caves and foreign climes,
Burnish their moulted plumes, and joyful perch'd
On the green roof of the resounding grove,
Awake their vernal music, charming all
The swaying branches with their melody;
When all the variegated insect tribes
Revive and flutter in the teeming air,
Or weave in heathy fields, with floating webs,
The silken gossamer, imperceptible
To the slow traveller, who thro' the lines
Of their frail architecture bends his steps,
And tears the attenuated threads that cross
His pathway. When from his aurelian tomb,
Where long he lay sepulchred, bursts to life
Th' extatic butterfly, and flush'd with joy,
Vibrates the soft film from his powder'd wings;
Cloth'd in the gorgeous livery of the sun,
He sails the liquid air, and owns his birth
From the bright earth, when his spread wings display
The beauteous tints of all the gems and ores,
Embosom'd in the ground, a thousand hues
Of varying golden spots, and emerald shades;

149

Forsakes the wintry clod, and makes the skies
His habitation, feeding on the dew
Of heaven at morn and eve, at sunny noon
Basking his bright wings on the blooming herbs,
And sipping, as he goes from flower to flower,
Juices nectareous. When the honey-bees
Renew their thrifty labours, labours sweet,
Unlike to those of men, delicious plied
Throughout the genial day, with drowsy hum,
Cireling in their wide flight the lonely wood,
Where underneath some old o'er-arching oak,
The youthful poet lies, ensooth'd to sleep
By their soft murmurs. Who is He whose word
From the unfruitful and chaotic night
Call'd into being this sublunar globe,
And pour'd therein the rushing flood of life,
Boundless and ever-flowing while the world
Endureth! that from dust inanimate,
With plastic breath awoke the unnumber'd forms
Of full creation, that without a thought
Built all the reign of ocean, earth, and air,
Earth, air, and ocean, and their mighty reign!

150

The monster-breeding deep, where savage forms
Unprechedented roam thro' wat'ry gulfs
In cumbrous sport, bellowing unheard amid
The fathomless womb of earth; smooth rolling seas,
Beneath whose humming tides the winged fish,
In shoals of myriads graze the oozy fields,
And rest in coral groves. The happy earth,
And her inheritance imparadis'd
In azure skies, green hills and flowery vales
To entertain her guests, the heaven-born race
Of man elect, and all the inferior tribes
Of creatures that inhabit her fair house,
And relish of her feast; four-footed brutes,
Carnivorous, and those that graze the soil,
Prone bending; and the beauteous budding race
Of vegetation, forests amber-leav'd
By golden rivers growing; trees of bloom
Delightful to th' adoring eyes of man;
Cedars that canopy with their vast shade
Untrodden mountains, and the changeful forms
Of honey-breathing flowers, that speck her robe
With mystic characters. The silent air

151

Beat by swift wings; the eagle thunder-beak'd,
Soaring with open eye to quaff the fount
Of the all-dazzling sun; and you, ye tribes,
More dear to me, ye warblers of the woods,
That taught my infant tongue your tuneful notes
Ere poesy had blest me. The swift race
Of sun-born insects clad in gorgeous tints
More sumptuous than the pearl inwoven robe
Of eastern monarchs; curious flies adorn'd
By nature's painful hand, with all the toil
Of exquisite proportion, humming bees
That suck the matin flowers, and the dun-fly,
Night's drowsy harbinger, whose silent wings
Shroud in the muffled shadows of the west
Hyperion's golden eyelid; and those tribes,
People of ether, whose infinite forms
Enjoy th' aerial regions, tho' obscure
And viewless to the searching eye of man.

Whose is that dark and undiscover'd hand,
That pilots thro' the blue abyss of space,
The golden hosts of heaven, and all the orbs

152

Erratic, that with never-ceasing course,
Voyage the interminable deep profound,
And circle with their wide revolving spheres
The empyrean labyrinth. Phosphor's twinkling beams,
That linger late to warn the approach of morn,
And his unwearied brotherhood that run
At distance due their planetary race;
That built the high unpillar'd firmament,
And strew'd the expansive emerald vault with stars,
For ever during in their fixed seats:
Fair constellations, whose bright glistening lamps
Influence the seasons, and from her cold haunts
Usher the lovely spring; the pleiades,
And they that shower the chill dew on the earth,
The weeping Hyads, and with flaming rage,
Sirius, that in his inmost secret bed
Disturbs the dark Nile with unfountain'd waves,
While all his mouths rebellow, and the sons
Of Egypt's swarthy desarts shout for joy.
Orion's freezing star, and all that serve
For signs to those that fare upon the deep,

153

And plough the nightly billow. Who prepares
The sun's bright couch of glory in the west,
And bids from their unknown abodes shine forth
The gorgeous company of crimson clouds
To shade his vapoury bed, and close in pomp
His golden march, what time the queen of night,
In the dim east where her approaching beams
Dawn o'er the distant hill, with silvery orb
Breaks thro' the silent clouds, whether to walk
With all the assembly of bright twinkling stars,
Serene along the cloudless path of heaven,
(When watching on the solitary wold,
The shepherd views her clear unwavering lamp
Enlighten with soft radiance rocks and groves,
Forests and fountains, and the lucid sea
Bordering the horizon, while his breathing flock,
That taste the dewy grass, look up with joy;)
Or in sole majesty with aspect pale
To urge her stormy course, while her full orb
Swims swift along, and her dim waning beams
Vanish in mist, and all the turbid sky
In darkness sits envelop'd, and beneath

154

Rages autumnal Boreas. Who is he
That heaves the tides of ocean, and ordains
Their ebb or flow obedient to the moon,
As her attracting orb waxes or wanes:
That calls at twilight from their danksome haunts,
Chalybeate springs, or marshy drizzling wells
In valleys moist, the meteor's sulphurous blaze,
And mists and exhalations to enskirt
The sable garb of night. That bids rejoice
The rosy morn and evening, as they pass
Each in their outgoing, and the day and night,
In sweetest interchange with eve and morn.
That stores the airy chambers of the north
With hail and frozen tempests, raging storms,
And fleecy snow, all at the appointed time
To rule the wintry sky, with influence
Tho' secret yet benignant. That lets loose
The lightning's forked flash, while thro' the wide
And rending atmosphere the thunder peals,
Tremendous downfall, and the earth beneath
Trembles in dread. That spreads th' aerial arch,
Fairest reflection, ting'd with purple hues,

155

Across the frowning vault of heaven, when earth
With dewy eyes smiles thro' the glittering shower,
To bless the ancient covenant that insures,
While she remains, the seasons in their round,
Seed time and harvest, cold, and sultry heat,
Summer and winter, and the day and night.
That to the elements his commandments gave,
Indissoluble, and for e'er obey'd.
That with exhaustless uncreated power
The world upholds continual, and whate'er
His hand hath wrought, while from the living shade
Of his full glory Nature all her forms
Wakes into being, warm'd by his kindling breath.
That out of dust calls every living soul;
That wills creation heave with struggling life,
Matter inert informing, while Himself,
Omnipotent Maintainer of the whole
Of all creation, is the breath and life!

Father of life and light, how great and good
Are all thy works! how bountiful thy hands!
To man thou gav'st dominion over all

156

Creatures of earth, and to himself thou gav'st
Invention, and the music of the tongue,
And sense of bliss, and of thy beauteous works,
Sweet admiration, and the lips of praise!
Thou too of old ordain'd'st the seventh day
A sabbath to adore thy holy name,
When all the weary from their labours rest,
And bless the hand that made them. And in times
Of ancient date, so was thy glory sung,
Thy name ador'd. But now the sabbath chimes
And peals in vain, for Pleasure's tickled ears
To the too harsh and dissonant sound are deaf,
As the ground adder's to the charmer's voice;
And Folly with the jingle of her bells
Retorts in mockery, and few there are
That lave their foreheads at the holy porch
To whom Devotion at the altar yields
Her uncontaminate hand, whose fervent lips
Utter the prayer warm from the adoring heart.

O for the fugitive pinions of a dove,
Then would I escape the tempests of the world,

157

Then would I flee the raging storm, and rest
Afar off in the wilderness, that there
Troubled no more I might report thy praise,
Almighty Father, without scoff or blame,
To dark encavern'd dwellings, leafy wilds,
And rocks, and desart fountains, where the lips
Of man blaspheme not, and the tranquil vales
Echo responsive numbers. What tho' doom'd
With the rough foresters to bear the brunt
Of the inclement season, and to range
The thick entangled woods in daily quest
Of nature's frugal beverage, and to quench
My parching thirst at the cold flowing spring,
So that to Thee I might upraise the voice
Of nightly adoration, undisturb'd,
Uninterrupted, nor of aught observ'd,
Save the moon-walking tenants of the wild,
That gaze and pass my solitary cell!

Father of good! that hast to me vouchsaf'd
A spirit of meditation, and a tongue
That fervently aspires to other themes

158

Than the renown of man—O if to thee
I may awake the high adoring hymn,
That my soul dictates as on swiftest wing,
Attemper'd to the subtile air of heaven,
She soars uncheck'd to the pure fount of light,
Thy bounteous inspiration deign to yield.
Tho' not indulg'd in vision, as he who smit
With transitory fire, in awe beheld
Thy glory in the Temple, and the train
Of the thrice-winged seraphim; tho' not
Favour'd of heaven as he who darkling sate
By Siloa's brook, whose orbs with fleshly mote
Thou veiledst dark, but didst to him ordain
Rapture to walk immortal among the highest,
And converse with the angels; yet to me
Haply thy prompting breath may not deny
The prophet's unfeign'd lips, the poet's praise;
And if aught else thou lendest from above,
To thee shall reascend the sacred flame,
Pure and unsullied, and applied to none
But thee and to extol thy holy name!

159

FROM THE MESSIAH OF KLOPSTOCK.

Satan meanwhile enwrapp'd in vapours dark,
Sped thro' the valley of Jehosaphat;
And 'thwart the Dead Sea veer'd his flight, till now

160

On Carmel's cloud-encircled top he stood!
Thence to the heavens he rais'd his soaring wing,
And view'd with eye malign the rolling spheres,
Which thro' long ages had their courses run,
Beauteous as on the first morn of their birth,
When from the Thunderer's mighty hand they sprung.
Him now to emulate, around his form
Etherial rays he cast, so to disguise
His visage dark, as by the morning stars
He past. But robe of light to him was now
Glory no more, and terror-struck, he fled
The rolling worlds, and to the depths of hell
Descending came, and in his dark descent
Tempestuous, reach'd th' extremest stars. Here space
Immeasurable stretch'd, and here he thought
To fix the confines of his reign, the bounds
Of his wide empire, while from far he saw
The glimmering stars, that with pale flickering beams
Illumin'd faint the dreary void. Yet here

161

He found not hell. Hell far beneath had God,
At sacred distance from his holy throne,
And his creation, in eternal night
Establish'd, for in this his world of grace,
Such woe might not find room. But terror there
And penal tortures had the Eternal plac'd;
Amid the dismal shades God stood three nights,
And form'd it; then for ever turn'd away
His face, that face which on his creatures looks
Benignant down! Two angels at the gates,
The chosen of heaven's bands, stand vigilant.
This his command God gave them, when with arms
Invincible he blest them, to restrain
In its dark bounds the waste of hell, that so
Satan no more should in his malice rise
To assail creation, and deface the charms
Of blooming nature. To the portals dark,
Where sit the angelic guards, a twin-born stream
Of crystal light from heaven descends, and thus
They share th' empyreal beam, and the glad view
Of God's creation. 'Thwart this radiant path,
Satan descending came, and fiercely past

162

The gloomy gates, and rob'd in clouds of night
Rush'd to his despot throne. Him saw no eye,
Their eyes so dimm'd by sorrow and despair,
Save Zophiel's, herald he of hell, that mark'd
The cloud that gather'd o'er the lofty steps!
He to a fellow spirit spake: “Lo! where
Comes Satan our chief godhead back to hell!
Tells not yon mournful vapour his return,
Whom gods expecting wait?” And as he spake,
From Satan sudden the dim vapour fled,
And rob'd in terrors sate the grisly chief
On high enthron'd? The servile herald now
Hastes to a mountain whence sulphureous flames
Were wont thro' all the distant shores of hell
To tell their chief's arrival; thro' the chasm
Volcanic, on tempestuous wing he soars,
Emblazing the sulphureous air, until
The mighty void in fiercer flames shines forth
Insufferable, revealing deepest hell,
Where now all eyes beheld their sullen king.
Swiftly the dwellers of the shades of woe
Gathering, appear'd to greet his burning throne!

163

O Thou, whose eye alike can pierce the gloom
Of deepest hell, and in the face of God,
See radiant light, when justice calls on sin
Her punishment: O Muse of Sion, bend
Propitious o'er me, let the mighty strain
Rise on the whirlwind's wing, and in the storm
Of God's own thunders roll!

First of the band
Came Adramelech, soul malign and dark,
More dark than Satan, against whom his heart
Burnt rageful, that in heaven he first had rais'd
The standard of revolt, and had forestall'd
The dread apostacy. His aid he brings,
Not Satan's realm to exalt, but in the hope
To found a nobler empire. Long had he
Now meditated, how himself to raise
O'er Satan; him with God once more to embroil
In direful strife, or banish to the realms
Of boundless space, or if all fail'd, himself
In battle to subdue. Such were his thoughts
Even then when first from the Eternal's rage

164

The rebel angels fled. When in the dread
Abyss the gathering spirits stood, he last
Came, and before his martial armour bore
A tablet bright of gold, and call'd thro' hell:
“Whyflee the monarchs? Knowye, warriors brav
Assertors bold of freedom, better days
Await us, and immortal triumph soon
Shall lead to brighter climes! When late the Ki
Of heaven, and his Messiah, in their wrath,
With new forg'd thunder thro' the golden realm
Pursu'd you, to the sanctuary of God
I sped, and bore away this tablet, where
Are grav'd the future honours of our race!
Approach, and read the unerring hand of Fate.-

“The time shall come, when of those spirits bright,
Whom now Jehovah numbers with his thralls,
More glorious one shall know himself a god,
And leaving heaven with his immortal host,
Shall found a kingdom in the lonesome wilds
Of space. Here shall he first in honor dwell,
As he who triumph'd over him, long while

165

In chaos dwelt, ere yet my ruling hand
Had built the universe. Bold let him tread
The fiery gulf of hell, for from her shades
Shall rise a world in splendour bright as heaven.
This world shall Satan build, and from my hands
Receive the glorious prototype. Thus speaks
The God of gods, I who eternal bound
All space, and the bright orbs, and all their gods
Sustain with perfect power.” Such were the words
Of Adramelech, but he spoke in vain.
Nor hell gave credence to the flattering lie!
His blasphemy, on high, Jehovah, God,
The eternal heard, and said, “I am the Lord
Thy God, and other none! This sinner too
My power shall testify.” The dread decree
Went from God's visage forth! Far in the shades
Of lowest hell, midst the red welling stream
That to the dead sea flows, mountainous stood
A glowing rock; torn from its fiery base
By thunder, horrible it rent the air,
And Adramelech struck. In the dead sea
He fell, and in th' abyss seven nights there lay

166

Immersed. Long after to himself he built
A temple, and was worshipp'd, and above
His shrine, the golden tablet plac'd, but few
His oracles frequented! Some indeed
There Adramelech honour'd, sycophants,
Who to the present Deity bow'd low
In flattery, but absent mock'd in scorn.
Now from his temple Adramelech came,
And to the throne, with hidden rancour, nigh
Approaching, by the side of Satan sate.

Next hasten'd Moloch, of more warlike mien;
He from his fortress on the mountains came,
Which, to defend the realms of hell, he rear'd,
Lest in his wrath, the thunderous warrior,
So he Jehovah nam'd, should haply come
To ravish this new empire from his grasp.
Oft when the mournful day upon the shore
Of the wan ocean melancholy dawns,
Hell's woful dwellers see him, sore beset
Beneath the weight of some o'erwhelming rock
Ascending heavily the steep hill side;

167

And when his hand hath heav'd th' enormous mass
Against the vaulted roof, with mountains new
So to defend the pass, silent he stands
In the dun air, and listens to the fall
Of some rent cliff, and dreams in godlike might,
He thunders from the clouds! Earth's conquerors
Astounded, saw him from his hills descend
With sounding step, and struck with terror fled
From the fiend warrior. Rattled loud his arms,
And black his armour like a cloud o'ercharg'd
With thunder. As he trod, before him fled
The mountains, and behind him sank the rocks!
Advancing thus, he sped to Satan's throne.

With mournful steps came Belial, and left
The wasteful desert, where the stream of death,
From its dark fount, flows to the infernal throne.
There Belial dwelt. Ah! vain, for ever vain,
His sad endeavour these accursed climes
To fashion like heaven's beauteous fields. Thou God,
Laugh'st him to scorn, what time he hoarsely hears
The sighing whirlwind rise, and thinks to woo

168

Cool Zephyr to the fire-encircled shore.
Incessant toils he, while the curse of God
Pursues him on destroying wing, and black
Yawns the wide gulf of wasted hell behind!
Sad memory haunts him of th' immortal spring,
Which o'er heaven's fields like a young seraph smiles!
To hell's nocturnal vale, fain would he call
The golden day, but rage and heavy sighs
Oppress him, and around him hideous lie,
For ever waste the trackless realms of death!
Mournful to Satan's throne he came; revenge
Burning within him, 'gainst th' almighty hand,
That hurl'd him from heaven's clime to hell's dun shades,
Thro' rolling years to share increasing woe.

Now also from his waste of waters wild,
In the dead sea, his dwelling, Magog saw
Satan's return, and in the whirlpool's roar
Uprose! Far fled the mountainous high sea,
Dividing, as his feet the dark waves trod!
Against the Eternal Magog rag'd! The roar

169

Of blasphemy burst from his hideous throat;
For ever since his overthrow in heaven
He curs'd the Almighty, and with vengeance dire
Inflam'd, sought to destroy hell's hated realm,
Tho' ages it might ask to work success.
Now the dry earth he trod, while underneath
His wasting foot, the shore reels to th' abyss!

Hell's princes thus around their monarch throng'd;
Like ocean isles uprooted from their base,
In storm and tumult they advanc'd! A host
Of meaner spirits follow'd numberless:
And as the dark waves of the rising sea
Rush to the cliff-girt shore, so hasten'd they
To Satan's throne, myriads on myriads pour'd;
And as they came heroic songs they sang,
And deeds of martial prowess, prowess now
Doom'd to sad infamy, and from their harps,
Torn by heaven's lightning, music would have call'd;
But all discordant rang the shatter'd strings,
Responsive only to the strain of death!

170

Such is the sound when veil'd in shades of night,
The north wind in his brazen car assails
The lofty cedars! To the storms they bow
Their princely heads; the tempest, Lebanon
And Herman hear, and tremble thro' their bounds!
Exulting, Satan heard the din of war,
And from his fiery throne with gesture wild
Uprising, saw advance the infernal host.
Far in the throng appear'd the grovelling crew
Of Atheists, and Gog their grisly chief,
In madness as in power supreme. That all
They saw in heaven, yea, even Jehovah's self
Their Father and their Judge, they deem'd a dream.
Satan in scorn beheld them; tho' abas'd,
Yet felt he the Eternal liv'd! And now
In meditation rapt, he rose and cast
Slowly his eyes around, then on his throne
Reclin'd. As o'er inhospitable hills,
Dark tempests for a time encamp, so sate
Satan in silent thought; then sudden rose;
And from his lips, these words in thunder burst.
“O terror-breathing bands! if such ye be,

171

Who erst with me in heaven's bright clime maintain'd
For three long days the dread infuriate war;
In triumph hear the tidings which from earth,
On swift returning wing I bear. Hear too
My irrevocable mind, God with reproach
And shame to overwhelm. Sooner shall hell
Vanish in night, and God annihilate
Yon fair creation, which his hand hath call'd
From chaos, and again in solitude
Relapse, ere he shall ravish from our grasp,
Dominion o'er his favor'd mortal race.
Gods as we are, unconquer'd, unenslav'd,
For ever will we stand, tho' he should send
A thousand hosts of mediators down
Against us, or himself should walk the earth,
A new Messiah. But why burn I thus
In ire? Who is this new born deity,
This god so awful in the bonds of flesh,
That all the chiefs in meditation sit
Absorb'd, as in high council of debate
Or coming battle? shall the eternal son

172

To dispossess our conquest, now descend
To earth, and born of woman, child of dust,
Assail us? vain the thought! of other mind
My antagonist I deem! Yet some there were
Who at his presence dastardly forsook
The corpse like martyr'd bodies, where they dwelt
Demoniac. Cowards, tremble at my words,
And shrink in shame. Hear it, ye gods! they fled!
Why fled ye feeble hearted? deem'd ye him
Son of the eternal God? Oh! worthier he,
Your scorn and mine! but that ye all may know
Whence comes he whom now Israel deifies,
Listen, and hear in triumph, all ye gods!
To Judah's people from remotest time
Came down a prophecy (vain dreamers all
This race were ever found) that from their stock
Should rise a Saviour, who with mighty hand
Should quell their foes, and spread their kingdom wide
In glory excelling all on earth. Ye well
Remember, that of our assembly, some
(Few years have past) saw bands of angels bright

173

On Tabor's mount alighting, jubilant,
The name of Jesus in their rapturous joy
Pronouncing, till the cloud-capt cedars bow'd
Their heads in adoration, and the strain
Angelic pierc'd the umbrageous grove of palms,
And Jesus, Jesus, fill'd the mountains round.
Then insolent in triumph, Gabriel,
From Tabor's heights descended, one to greet
Of Israel's daughters, and with reverence low
Hail'd her, as we in heaven immortals hail,
And spoke—From thee shall rise a king whose hand,
Shall David's stem in victory exalt,
And Israel's birthright glorify. His name
Jesus! so shall ye call the son of God,
And of his kingdom's might shall be no end!
This heard ye, and were struck with dread. Oh! why
Tremble ye then rulers of hell, myself
Far more have witness'd, yet dismay hath ne'er
My heart assail'd. Undaunted will I speak,
Nor aught conceal, that ye may see how soars

174

My soul in danger's hour, if danger this
Ye name, when on our earth a dreaming seer
Proclaims himself a god.” Sudden he saw
A thunder scar, and falter'd—but again,
Fresh courage summoning at his utmost need,
Proceeded thus. “Yet did I watch on earth
The immortal infant's birth. Soon from thy lap
I said, Maria, shall the godhead spring!
Swifter than rushing light, or thoughts of God
For vengeance wing'd, shall he aspire to heaven.
Lo! where he stands, girt with omnipotence!
One foot o'ershadows ocean, and earth's orb
The other! In his dread right hand he weighs
The sun and moon, and in his left the stars.
He comes and slays! From all his host of worlds,
He calls the tempests on their whirlwind wings
Around him, and in arms invincible
Rushes to conquest! Satan, speed thy flight,
Lest with his thunderous bolt he hurl thee down,
Swift thro' a thousand worlds, senseless and lost,
Expiring in immeasurable space.
These were my thoughts, ye chiefs, but lo! this God

175

Was born a weeping babe, like those of earth
Whose cries presage their mortal doom. 'Tis true,
A choir of angels solemniz'd his birth
With heavenly strains, for sometimes these descend
To earth our empire, and with sorrow view
The rising graves and sepulchres where erst
Stood paradise, then tearful turn to heaven,
With solace sweet of fervent hymns. So now
They sped, and left the babe, this Lord of heaven,
Low in the dust. Then fled he my approach.
He fled, nor I pursu'd, for such a foe
My valour scorn'd. Meanwhile in Bethlehem
Herod my king and Hierarch ordain'd
A sacrifice—the slaughter of her babes.
The streaming blood, and dying groans, despair
Of the wild mothers, and the reeking air
Loaded with death, like incense to me rose.
Wanders not yonder Herod's shade? O lost
Despairing soul! bear witness I am he
Who prompted thee to slaughter! never may
The king of heaven the fashion of his hands.
The immortal soul, shield from my influence;

176

My spirit dark shall overshadow it
With the cold wings of death. When Herod died,
Assembled gods, the boy from Egypt's land
Return'd. Unknown and in the lap
Of his fond mother, all his years of youth
He pass'd, nor sought to win heroic fame,
By deed of arms or bold emprise. Yet then,
Ye chiefs, as by the forest wild he rov'd,
Or walk'd the desart shore, I deem his thoughts
Dwelt on the future day, when hell should find
Subversion from his hand, and he should put
Our watchfulness and courage to new proof.
This well might be, altho' his mind seem'd rapt
In contemplation of the flowers and fields,
Or infant innocence, and the dull praise
Of his creator, who the worm with him
Rais'd out of kindred dust. My enterprize
Had now grown wearisome, had not the race
Of man new sacrifice of souls bestow'd,
Which by heaven's gate, I sent to people hell,
At length appear'd a promise of renown;
Effulgent bright from heaven, upon him fell

177

God's glory, as by Jordan's stream he stood!
This I beheld with my immortal eyes:
Delusion none was here! as from the throne
Of God, streaming thro' rows of seraphim
The radiance came. But whether to bestow
Honour upon this vale of earth, or sent
To ascertain our watchful vigilance,
I know not; but I heard the thunder roll,
And in the thunder spoke a voice, “This is
My son belov'd, the chosen of my heart;”
Eloa or some other seraph, I deem,
With wonder to astound me, spoke these words;
'Twas not the voice of God! far other voice
Was that, which in etherial heaven constrain'd
The thrones to bend in homage to his son!
Then clad in savage garb, a Prophet wild
Appear'd, who rov'd the desart wilderness,
Aloud proclaiming! “Lo! the lamb of God
That taketh away the sins of Earth! O thou
That wert from all eternity, long ere
My eyes beheld the sun, I bid thee hail,
Fountain of Mercy! grace on grace from thee

178

We obtain. Thro' Moses, God the law
Gave us, but thro' the anointed of the Lord
Came grace and truth. O glorious prophecy!
Thus dreamers, dreamers praise in their vain strains
Of flattery, thus in darkness veil'd, they build
Their visions, while to us it is forbid,
Immortal as we are, to pierce the gloom.
This high Messiah, this all ruling king
Of heaven, that with God's thunder arm'd and bright
In golden panoply, wag'd war untold
Against us, down to this our nether sphere
Foe worthy of us, and glorious adversary,
Will he now come in mortal flesh, that flesh
Our prey? True is it that this earth-born God,
Of whom the prophet dreams, his miracles
Now boasts; The sick who sleep he holds for dead,
And calls them back to life; forerunners these
Of mightier achievements, when his power
Shall free man's fallen race from death and sin:
From sin that rules all hearts, and, unsubdued
By duty, in revolt rears high her crest

179

'Gainst God, so to contaminate his souls
In their immortal essence; and from death
Who as we prompt him, with unerring dart
Slays the whole race. You too, ye souls, whom I
Have gather'd to me, since Earth's earliest hour,
Countless as ocean waves, or as the stars,
Or cherubs round the slavish throne of God,
Even you who find in hell eternal night,
And in that night consuming fire, and in
That fire despair, despair in which I rule,
You shall he free from death. But we must bow
Forgetful of our godhead, at the feet
Of this now deified man; and what the arm
Of the almighty thunderer from our strength
Could never win, this abject thrall of death
In secret shall accomplish. Dreamer wild,
Insensate, free thyself, then wake the dead!
But he shall die! he who dares thus usurp
Thy empire, this his favorite race from death
To enfranchise, pale and in the dust outstretch'd
Shall he disfigur'd lie. Then to the eyes
Which see not, closed for ever in the shade

180

Of night oblivious, will I cry, behold
The dead awake! Then will I to the ears
Which hear not, but in cold obstruction lie,
Senseless, cry, hark, what tumult fills the fields,
The dead are risen. And to the soul, while now
From struggling bonds of flesh she wings her way,
And seeks the gulf of hell, new kingdoms there
Perchance to assay, enwrapt in terrors wild,
And with a voice of thunder will I call,
Come thou, whose conquest is so rife on earth,
In triumph come! see where in glorious pomp
Hell's opening gates invite thee, and th' abyss
Shouts jubilant, and all the assembled choirs
Of gods and spirits rise to hail thee. This
Will I now perfect, if yon circling orb
With all its mortal race, God in his might
To heaven upraise not. He shall die! as I,
Death's father and confederate, shall enjoy
Unconquer'd my immortal being thro'
The eternal lapse of ages! He shall die,
And in hell's path, before the astonish'd gaze
Of God omnipotent, will I his dust

181

Strew to the blast. Such is my steadfast mind,
Such my revenge!” He spoke, but 'gainst him straight
Went horror forth from Jesus. Midst the tombs
In silence had the mild Redeemer stood,
When wafted with the apostate's breath, who thus
Ended his blasphemy, a faded leaf,
Was blown to Jesus' feet, and on the leaf
A dying worm; the worm the Saviour saw,
And gave it life, but with the self-same glance
Horror dispatch'd against th' infernal king!
Before the face of the dread herald, dark
As night seem'd Satan; shadowy rocks his peers.

Low at the footstool of the infernal throne
Sate one immers'd in solitary woe,
Abdiel Abbadona, erst a seraph bright.
Deep was the anguish of his soul, as now
The future with the past he weigh'd. Before
His eyes, eyes wrapt in sorrow's gloom, appear'd
A train of woes led on by dark despair,
And terrors that thro' endless years revolv'd

182

Their course. While to those happier days he turn'd
When constant in his fealty, and the friend
Of Abdiel he stood, that seraph bright
Who in God's eyes, upon the dreadful day
Of heavenly warfare, won angelic fame,
And to the eternal's throne invincible
Single return'd. With him from the enemies
Of God, then too had Abbadona fled,
Led by his brave compeer; but sudden came
Obstructing heaven's wide path, the bright array
Of Satan's chariots; fiery swift they roll'd,
Betokening future triumph, while aloud
The war-inviting trumpet pour'd its breath
Resistless, and the heroic chiefs pass'd by
Drunk with their godhead. Vanquish'd thus he fell
Whelm'd back with Satan in the stream of war.
Even yet his friend with threatening looks of love
Had rescu'd him, but lust of empire now
Led him triumphant on. His Abdiel's voice
No more he heard. By dazzling fame seduc'd
He join'd the glorious war, in Satan's ranks

183

Exulting. Now in silent grief enwrapp'd
And self contemplative, he muses on
His youth's first innocence, and the fair morn
Of his creation. Abdiel his friend, and him,
Had God together form'd, and thus they spoke
With inborn transport mov'd. “Ah! seraph bright,
What and whence are we? Has thine eye before
Beheld me? live we? come, oh heavenly friend,
Embrace me, and thine inmost thoughts unfold!”
Meantime, the glory of God in radiant light,
Descending blest them, and around them throng'd
Numberless spirits of immortal birth;
While gently borne upon a silvery cloud,
They reach'd the eternal throne, and hail'd their God,
And Maker.—Thus in anguish rose these thoughts
On Abbadona; from his eyes there fell
Rivers of tears, as erst from Bethlehem's hill,
Ran streams of infant blood. With horror he
Had Satan heard, and him to oppose resolv'd
Now rose, but thrice his heart with sighs was rent.
As in the battle field two brothers slain,

184

Each by the other's hand, expiring learn
Their fratricide, and in a last embrace,
In groans breathe out their souls. Then thus he spake.
“Tho' this assembly all my words arraign
In high displeasure, yet my steadfast mind
Will I reveal, will speak in God's just cause.
So may the eternal curse revengeful less
O'erwhelm me than thee Satan, tempter vile,
And to my heart abhorrent. This sad spirit,
This soul immortal, torn by thee from bliss,
May God thy judge for ever from thy hands
Require. May all the souls by thee seduc'd,
Pursue thee thro' hell's everlasting night,
With shrieks of unextinguishable woe,
And thunders echoing o'er the floods of death.
Thee sinner I disown, thy dread design
Messiah in his mortal form to slay,
Blasphemer I renounce! Ah! whom against
Dost thou take council? Well thou know'st the might
Of that strong arm; howe'er thou veil'st thy heart,
Well know'st that arm of terrors. If God send

185

Enfranchisement to man, from sin and death,
Canst thou resist him? His Messiah too
Thou wouldst destroy! What! know'st thou him no more?
Has his almighty thunder sear'd thy brow
So lightly, or from us so impotent,
Can God not find defence? from us who erst
Seduc'd his favorite race. Ah! woe is me!
I too seduc'd them. Shall we madly rage
'Gainst their Redeemer, and attempt to slay
The immortal son, heaven's thunderer? Shall we thus
Shut out all hope of future joy, or least
Some mitigation of our utter woe?
Satan, as ever torments new o'ertake us,
When thou there haunts of night and dark despair
Thy empire nam'st, so overwhelm'd with shame,
Not flush'd with conquest, from the direful strife
With God and his Messiah shalt thou soon
Return:”—Impatient, Satan grimly stood,
Brooding dark vengeance. From the towering rocks
That crown'd his throne, one had he furious hurl'd

186

On Abbadona, but his giant hand,
Palsied by rage, fell nerveless. Back he reel'd!
Thrice raving stampt the ground, thrice fiery wild
On Abbadona from his meteor eyes,
Vindictive lightning shot, but unappall'd
Wrapt in stern woe the mournful seraph stood.

But now rose Adramelech, foe alike
Of God, and man, and Satan. “In a night
Of tempests, and in thunder shall my tongue
Answer thee recreant! dars't thou thus the gods
Revile? Shall spirit so ignoble rise
'Gainst Satan's power and mine? dread'st thou hell's pangs,
Far greater pangs thy thoughts! fly, dastard, fly
This regal empire. Seek the dreary void!
There may th' Almighty build thee realms of woe.
There mayst thou weep eternal—Or thou seek'st
Annihilation? die, then! at the throne
Of God all prostrate perish! But to thee
Satan I turn, who stood'st indeed a God
In heaven, and to the Almighty, wrath with wrath

187

Oppos'd. Creator of new worlds, arise!
Rise in thy might, like lightning let our deeds
Flash on this grovelling crew, and in amaze
O'erwhelm them. Come, ye labyrinths of craft,
Where death sets thick his toils, and exit none
Is found, nor clue to guide our victim forth.
But thou that sitt'st in heaven, should thy right hand
Him extricate, yet swift before our eyes
In horror shall the fiery sweeping blast
Consume him, as before time once it fell
On happy Job thy favourite! fly Earth, fly!
Arm'd with the shafts of hell, and death's own darts
We seek thee: woe to him that stays our path.”

He spoke, and loud applause th' assembly seiz'd;
A universal shout hell's concave wide
Upsent, that tore in twain the realms of woe.
Smote by their feet the everlasting rocks
Resounded, and the abyss beneath recoil'd!
With one consenting voice hell's council doom
To death Messiah! deed of blood untold
From all eternity! The plotters dark,

188

Satan and Adramelech, from their thrones
Descended. As they trod, the steps were rent
Beneath their feet, and thunder-riven the rocks,
While hell's rebellowing throat, with distant roar
Pursu'd them to the portals. Now arose
The mournful Abbadona, and their steps
Follow'd, them from the dire crime to dissuade,
Or learn the dread result! With lingering feet
And sad, he now approach'd the seraphs bright,
The guardians of the gates. Sore heav'd thy heart,
O Abbadona, when thine eyes beheld
Th' unconquer'd Abdiel! Sighing deep, he bow'd
His head and wept; now turn'd and would have fled;
And now approach'd, but struck with heaviest woe,
Half sought the dreary void; at length he found
New courage, and in trembling sorrow stood.
Dark was the strife that rent his mighty heart,
And tears, tears such as suffering angels weep,
Bedew'd his cheeks, and from his inmost breast
Groans mixt with horror rose. But Abdiel's eyes
In calm repose were turn'd to the bright throne
Of God, where he in zeal had serv'd. On thee

189

He look'd not, Abbadona. As the sun
Fresh in his youth smil'd on the new born earth,
So smil'd the seraph, but he saw not thee!
Silent and solitary, thus his fate
Mourn'd Abbadona; “Abdiel, my friend,
Wilt thou for ever shun me, doom me thus
To endless solitude? O sons of light,
Mourn o'er me! Ah! no more he loves his friend,
His friend he loves no more; mourn, sons of light!
Wither ye blooming bowers to God devote.
And tenderest friendship; flow no more, ye brooks,
Where we in sweet embrace the Eternal praise
Of God with pure voice sang. Abdiel, my friend,
Forsakes his Abbadona! dread abode,
Mother of torments, and eternal night,
Mourn with me, hell, and let the sounds of woe
When God afflicts me, echo from thy hills;
Abdiel, my friend, is lost.” So mournful sad
He turn'd and view'd the stars; but terror-struck
He stood, as on the lightning's wing rush'd by
The messengers of God! Since he had view'd
These worlds, long years of lingering woe had pass'd;

190

And now he spoke. “Oh! entrance bright of bliss!
Might I to your celestial orbs return,
No more a dweller of these woful shades!
How happy once! Oh! tell, ye countless stars,
Who saw me clad in beams excelling yours,
When first ye rose from your creator's hand!
But now I stand despairing, to the hosts
Of heaven abhorrent, to that heaven whose light
I shudder to behold—'twas there I sinn'd,
There stood against my God. Oh! sweet repose,
Sister of innocence in heaven's fair vale,
Oh! whither art thou fled? Now in thy stead
Comes contemplation sad! scarce may mine eyes
Behold your rolling spheres. Oh! might I, God,
But call thee my creator, gladly so
Would I resign a father's dearer name,
By angels utter'd. Outcast of thy love!
Oh! that thine eye would pierce these depths of hell.
Thoughts, torments, and despair, how wild ye rage
Around me! Wretch! Oh! had I ne'er been born!
Accursed be the day, God from the east
In glory came and form'd me—Curs'd the day

191

The angels saw me born—Eternity,
Mother of endless woes, that dreadful day
Why didst thou bear? why came it not o'erwhelm'd
In darkness, burthen'd with the voice of death?
But ah! blasphemer! against whom dar'st thou
Thus raise thy voice? whelm me, ye suns, ye stars,
Shield me from him who comes my foe and judge,
And strike relentless. Thro' eternity
Lives there no lingering hope? Oh! heavenly judge,
Father of mercies! Maker! God! Ah! me!
Despair afresh hath seiz'd me, since I nam'd
That holy name which sinner ne'er may speak.
Ah! now I flee! his dreadful thunder sounds
On coming wings! but whither shall I turn?”
He fled, and gazing on the abyss, resum'd:
“Send down in wrath, O God, thy wasting fire,
Whose flames this spiritual essence may consume,
Destroyer in thy judgments terrible!”
Vain was his pray'r! consuming fire was none.
He rose, alighting on a beaming sun
Wearied, and gaz'd upon the deep! There stars
On stars, shone like a sea of light. A world

192

He saw rush into chaos, from its sphere
Struck by the hand of God, and on its globe
He flung himself to perish, but he found
Not there destruction, and overwhelm'd with woe,
Sank like a hill that, white with warriors' bones,
Shook by an earthquake, crumbles into dust!

Satan and Adramelech to the earth
Meanwhile together came, but each alone
His secret thoughts revolv'd. Now dim descried
In distant vapour, Adramelech saw
The earth and spoke: “There rolls the planet bright,
The orb of earth;” and rapid rose his thoughts
One on the other thronging, as the waves
Of ocean rose, coursing in mighty swell
Each other down, when from its kindred worlds
America was rent, “there rolls the orb,
Where I (Satan by stratagem or force
O'ersway'd) of ill sole author shall remain;
Shall rule not Earth alone, but all yon globes
Revolving round me now in blissful course.
Yes, there shall death his sable wings extend

193

From star to star, even to heaven's utmost bound.
Nor to some single race like Satan then
Will I restrict my vengeance, but whole worlds
Of beings slay, who writhing in the dust,
Shall yield their souls in agony; on this,
Or that, or on some distant orb,
In triumph will I sit, and thence survey
My glorious realm. Then will I scornful mock,
Nature, thy hand, and laugh to see thy forms
Smote with corruption; and should God create
Fresh beings from this grave of worlds, them too,
By craft or courage, orb succeeding orb,
Will I seduce and slay. In thine own might
Rise, Adramelech, seek some subtle means
In death to quench the spirit; Satan, then,
Shall find annihilation, for beneath
His rule, no noble deed shalt thou achieve
Worthy thy fame. Intrepid spirit, thou
That animat'st my soul, thee I conjure
To rise and slay these spiritual essences;
Else perish, better perish than forego
The hope of empire; rise conspiring thoughts

194

Like gods in council. Now the days approach,
When I my purpos'd scheme shall execute
Plann'd from eternity, while God awakes
And sends down his Redeemer, from our hands
To wrest our late won empire, if himself
Satan deceive not; but in this indeed
Is no deceit; Since Adam's days, of all
Is this the greatest prophet, true Messiah!
So from his death more glory shall I win,
And worthiest be deem'd amongst the gods,
To mount the throne of hell! But rather first,
As my immortal spirit prompts, will I
Satan destroy, myself from thraldom free.
This my first conquest, monarch then supreme
Shall I in glory rule; The meaner task
To kill the body, to thy hands I leave
Satan, ere I destroy thee; be it mine
To slay the spirit. Thou this mortal's dust
At will may'st scatter.” Thus the black attempt
His spirit in rebellious mood resolv'd:
Th' omniscient heard, but spake not. Thus in thoughts

195

Absorb'd, with fiery brow where malice reign'd,
Clouded in darkness Adramelech stood,
Till Earth's revolving sphere with night return'd,
And wak'd the rebel spirit from his trance,
And Satan now he join'd. On rushing wings
Impetuous, to the olive mount they came,
Arm'd 'gainst Messiah, and his chosen friends.
As rush careering chariots wing'd with death
Down to the valley 'gainst some godlike chief,
And from the lowering hills the artillery bright
Descends with brazen march, and in the roar
Of thunder, thro' the battle scatters death;
So Adramelech, to the olive mount,
With Satan leagu'd, descended!

The following passages are selected from an unpublished translation of the “Messiah” of Klopstock, as affording the English reader a perhaps not uninteresting opportunity of comparing the three great christian poets, Milton, Tasso, and Klopstock, in the most epic portion of their works, the marshalling of the infernal “thrones, potentates, and powers,” recollecting in justice to the German poet, that the version here given is but a faint transcript of its almost divine original. It forms a portion of the second book, and concludes with a picture of the fallen Abbadona, the deep anguish of whose remorse claims our sympathy beyond any other character in the poem.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

TO THE RIVER BRATHAY,

IN LANGDALE. WRITTEN AT RYDAL, IN WESTMORELAND, 1797.

THE MUSES.

THE HERMITAGE.

WRITTEN IN THE SOUTH ALCOVE, ALLERTON.

SONNET.

EVENING.

THE SPIRIT OF O'DONAGHOE.

Νησοις δ'εν μακαρων σε φασιν ειναι.

SEPARATION.

DIRGE.

VERSES

WRITTEN IN LANCASTER CHURCH-YARD, AUGUST, 1800.

TO A LILY

FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT.

SONNET TO A LADY,

WITH CAMPBELL'S “PLEASURES OF HOPE.”

SONNET TO MY MOTHER,

WITH A VOLUME OF EARLY POEMS.

TO A LADY,

WITH A LATE ROSE.

TO SPRING,

ON THE BANKS OF THE CAM.

MONODY.

Εν μυρτου κλαδι το ξιφος φορησω.

TO AN ÆOLIAN HARP IN WINTER.

THE ETHIOP.

ON THE LAST REGIMENT OF POLISH PATRIOTS BEING ORDERED BY THE FRENCH GOVERNMENT TO SERVE IN THE ISLAND OF ST. DOMINGO.

TO HESPER.

TO HOPE.

ABSENCE.

DEO OPTIMO MAXIMO.

FRIENDSHIP.

STANZAS.

SONNET TO MY FATHER.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN, IN JULY, 1804.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL HALL, WESTMORLAND, IN THE SUMMER OF 1804.

SONNET TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON HER POEM OF “PSYCHE, OR THE LEGEND OF LOVE.”

SONNET.

[O voyager of life! the stormy wave]

LINES WRITTEN IN PASSING THROUGH VALE CRUCIS IN OCTOBER, 1806.

TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN AUTUMN.

THE BARD'S LAMENT FOR LLYWELYN.

SONNET.

[Sweet bird, that in the pauses of the blast]

SONNET TO THE HARVEST MOON.

ODE TO MAY,

WRITTEN IN 1807, ON THE ABOLITION OF THE AFRICAN SLAVE TRADE.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. WILLIAM DICKSON,

LATE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR.

SONNET.

[As one that slumbering on a desart shore]

SONG OF THE FALLEN STUART.

THE DREAM.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT BOY.

EPITAPH ON A LADY,

WHO DIED SOON AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

THE PRISONER OF WAR.

TO A FAVORITE MYRTLE,

RAISED FROM A BRANCH WORN BY A LADY AT A BALL.

THE BIRTH OF WOMAN.

TO A DESERTED COUNTRY SEAT.

FRAGMENTS OF A POEM ENTITLED “THE CONTEMPLATIVE DAY,”

SUGGESTED BY SCENERY IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF ALLERTON, AND WOOLTON HILL.

FROM THE MESSIAH OF KLOPSTOCK.