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Malvern Hills

with Minor Poems, and Essays. By Joseph Cottle. Fourth Edition

Cottle, Joseph (1770-1853)

VOLUME THE FIRST.

II.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

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I. VOLUME THE FIRST.

S. T. COLERIDGE, TO JOSEPH COTTLE.

(ON THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS POEMS.)

MY honour'd Friend! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as “never-sere”
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence!
For, like that nameless riv'let stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd: the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the poetic mount,
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow,
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream, on pinion fleet,
Beneath the mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlab'ring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill,
To the soft wren or lark's descending thrill,
Murmurs sweet undersong, mid jasmin bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will,

xvi

I ween, you wander'd—there collecting flow'rs
Of sober tint, and herbs, of med'cinable powers!

There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier chaplet added bloom,
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But, lo! your Henderson awakes the muse —
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views!
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!

Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song;
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme:
Waked by Heaven's silent dews, at Eve's mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest honour'd ground.

xvii

ROBERT SOUTHEY, TO JOSEPH COTTLE.

(ON THE PUBLICATION OF MALVERN HILLS.)

IS Malvern then thy theme? it is a name
That wakes in me the thoughts of other years,
And other friends. Would I had been with thee
When thou didst wind the heights. I could have loved
To lead thee in the paths I once had trod,
And pointing out the dark and far-off firs
On Clifton's summit, or the spire that mark'd
That pleasant town, that I must never more,
Without some heavy thoughts, bethink me of.
I could have loved to live the past again;
Yet, were I ever more to tread those heights,
Sure it should be in solitude; for since
I travell'd there, and bath'd my throbbing brow
With the drifted snows of th' unsunn'd mountain clift,
Time hath much changed me, and that dearest friend
Who shared my wanderings, to a better world
Hath past. A most unbending man was he,
Simple of heart, and to himself severe,
In whom there was no guile, no evil thought,
No natural weakness. I could not have borne
His eye's reproof; it was to me as though
The inward monitor that God has given
Spake in that glance; and yet a gentler man
Lived not. I well remember on that day,
When first I pass'd the threshold of his door,
The joy that kindled every countenance,
Bidding him welcome home. For he was one

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Who in the stillness of domestic life
Was loved and honour'd, rightly deeming that
Best scene of virtue, and partaking there
The happiness he made.

Upon a hill,
Midway, his dwelling stood. The ceaseless stream
That rolls its waters o'er the channell'd rock,
Sent from the glen below such mellow'd sounds
As in the calm and contemplative hour
Invite the willing sense. The ascent beyond
Bounded the sight, that ask'd no fairer view
Than that green copse whence many a blackbird's song
Was heard at morning, and the nightingale
Such sweet and solitary music pour'd,
As, suiting with the twilight's sober thoughts,
Blends with the soul's best feelings. In her dreams
Of purest happiness, my fancy shapes
No lovelier place of resting. But no more
Shall I behold that place of pleasantness:—
Death has been busy there.

And well it is
That thoughts like these should wean us from the world,
Strengthening the heart with wholesome discipline
For life's sad changes. Oftentimes they rise
Uncall'd, but not unwelcome, nor unmix'd
With a deep joy that satisfies the soul.
E'en now, a man contented with the past,
Pleased with my present fate, and looking on
In hope, I sometimes think on that dear Friend,
Who surely, I believe, will welcome me
When I have pass'd the grave, and bless my God
For this belief, which makes it sweet to die.

xix

MALVERN HILLS.

ARGUMENT.

MORNING ascent up Malvern, p. 1. — Mountain thorn, emblematical of Genius, 3. — Chatterton, 4. — Advantage of early rising, 8. — Profound knowledge not necessary to perceive the works of God, 10. — View from the summit of Malvern, 10. — Upton, 11. — Malvern Chase, 12. — Conflict of Prince Edward with the Earl of Leicester, at the base of Malvern, 13. — Holy Well, 16. — Two Lovers killed by lightning on Malvern, 18. — Little Malvern, 20. — Bransil Castle, 21. — Hanley Castle, 22. — Beauchamp, and the spoils of time, 23. — The Infidel, 24. — Malvern Forest, 25. — Camp on Malvern, 27. — Conflicts between the Britons and Romans, and the Saxons and Welsh, 28. — Pernicious consequences of war, 31. — The Corsican, 31. — Alfred imitated by few potentates, 35. — Encomiums on the Sons of Peace, 36. — Slavery denounced, 37. — The Slave Merchant, 37. — The Slave Captain, 38. — The Slave Dealer, 39. — Apostrophe to Wilberforce, &c. 41. — Domestic Slaves, 42. — Milliners' Apprentices, 43. — Manufacturing Children, 46. — Unfeeling Masters, 48. — Children of Mammon heedless of the charms of Nature, 52. — The Book of Life, 53. — Criminality of Catholics in withholding the Bible, 54. — Value of the Bible to the afflicted; the wanderer; and the captive, 55. — Folly of regarding wealth as the chief good, 56. — Independence of the Poet, 57, — The City Magog; his follies and tergiversations, 58. — Magog's death, 66. — Man, a sojourner on earth, 67. — Death terrible to some, 68. — Hailed by the Christian, 69. — Reference to the dissolution of early friendships, 69. — Village bells, 70. — Festivities of Whitsuntide, 70. — Youthful dancers; rustic musicians; aged spectators, 70. — Farewell to Malvern, 71.

ALONE, unnoticed, at this early hour,
While all around is silence, I will mount
The Malvern Hills. This is a holy day;
And holy I will make it, leave the world,
Its toils, and cares, and commune with myself.

As up I climb, the freshness of the morn
Smells grateful, though no object meets my view.
Through the dark mists, which now, with coming day,
Struggle for mastery, the giant Hill
Casts not a shade. Now back I turn, to mark —

The winding path, but all is grey and void;
On every side thick and impervious clouds
Stretch their dark-bosom'd forms. The spacious world
Lives but in memory! whilst forth I roam
A wandering, unlov'd, solitary thing.

With Malvern thus before me, Fancy starts
At her discordant shapings, rousing up
Impossibilities, pursuing then
Through each strange circumstance, the vagrant thought,
With aptest energy, earnest, and stern.
Ye airy shapes and fantasies, away!
I am no unblest solitary man,
Confined to one rude spot, while round, a scene
Illimitable spreads, bleak, desolate,
With not one kindred soul my joys to share:
Ten thousand recollections, such as cheer
The inmost spirit, crowd upon my mind:
This Mount, I know it well, pre-eminent
Among the loveliest uplands of our isle,
And soon, from its proud head, shall I behold
Objects that glad the heart, assured the while
That I am loved and loving. — Still I toil.
How long, and steep, and dreary, the ascent!
It needs the evidence of close deduction
To know that I shall ever reach the height.

Now have I left the mists, and, glad, ascend
Up to a purer air. The hill appears
Bright in the crimson splendours of the morn,
Yet, when I cast a sideway look behind,
And mark the prostrate clouds, and view no form,

But this huge Mount, which, like an island, stands
Mid boundless seas, I could almost believe
Yon steril eminence, turf-clad and wild,
Spite of its glorious vest, the regal spot
Where Desolation sits, and views entranced
His vast, dispeopled empire.

By my side
An aged Thorn I see. At this lone hour,
Th' obtruding sight of aught familiar
Conducts, once more, my spirit back to earth.
How bent its matted head, by the bleak wind,
That in one current comes — howling and fierce!
A spectacle art thou, disshevell'd Thorn!
Though this the month of gladness, and the time
When verdure thrives — though now thy fellow trees,
Down in the vale, their summer dress put forth,
And every spray, with gorgeous blossoms hung,
Dances with happiness; yet, heedless, thou,
With here and there a solitary leaf,
Look'st ever to the earth, disconsolate:
Waiting till some rude storm the mount involve;
Uptear thy feeble limbs, for ever end
Their conflict with the winds, and down the steep
Hurl thee, unpitied, tenant of the clouds!
Emblem too oft of him, in this low world,
Whom Genius burdens; whose diviner mind
Spurns at the earth's low aims, heeding but small
The things which others sigh for, whilst he feels
Bleak Poverty's soul-withering blasts assail.
Low, like the Mountain Thorn, he bends his head,
Brooding; and if no solace reach his heart,

From trust in God and Goodness, he, alone,
Estranged from this ignoble scene of things,
Looks downward, and in darkness wraps his soul.

Such was Bristowa's bard, that wondrous boy,
First in the ranks of Genius, who illumed,
With coruscation of mysterious light,
Our dark terrene, then, comet-like, pass'd on!
Oh! had this spirit, of ethereal mould,
Into his heart received the Book of Life!
Soften'd and mellowed by the Christian's faith,
He had not look'd on all created things
As fatherless, ocean and starry heaven;
In evil hour, he had not sipp'd the bowl,
Which sent him, unprepared, in audit dread,
To meet his Judge!

O, ye, in after times
Who feel, like Chatterton, (over whose grave
We bend, in solemn silence!) Power of Song,
The lofty consciousness, seize not your lyre,
And dash it down, if men awhile withhold
Their tardy recognitions. What is Fame,

For which you pant, as the ascendant good?
One smile of Heaven, one whisper sweet within,

In Wisdom's chasten'd estimate, exceeds
The proudest plaudits Earth e'er scattered round.
Crowd not your thoughts, your aspirations high,
Into this point of being! — like a cloud —

A tale — a flower — a vision of the night!
So frail and fleeting! Grasp at mightier joys!
Stretch your impassioned and inspiring views
Beyond the passing finite: realize
Man, as immortal! From the Word Divine
Derive your maxims, regulate your aims,
The one enclosure where true peace is found!

How sweet the early fragrance, as the dew
Rises with morn's pure incense to the skies!

The mount is still before me, and my feet
Must tread the mazy circuit, rough, and steep,
Ere I attain the summit, but, on earth,
Toil is the grand precursor of all good.

— The strife is o'er! Thou Soul within me, shout!
Now on the Beacon's towering head I stand!
O, what a wide diversity of shapes!
The world in miniature! Trees, hills and dales,
Glist'ning with countless sun-beams; whilst high heaven
Assumes an aspect more magnificent,
So throng'd with all unutterable things!

Each moment brings some nobler object forth.
The radiant sun just peers o'er yonder hill
In silent grandeur, whilst the neighbouring land,
Like ocean, drinks the splendour of the morn —
One mass of glory! Now the last faint star
Withdraws his timid ray, whilst slow the moon
Sinks shadowy in the western hemisphere.
Beneath my feet, down the dark mountain's side,
The clouds are troubled! now they fast dissolve!
A fairy vision! whilst the early lark
Up through their bosom mounts most merrily.

Oh, what a luxury do those possess
Who, rising with the morn, taste its first sweets!
The breeze that waves the long grass to and fro,
While yet the dew of heaven hangs thick upon it,

Gives health, and raises the unfetter'd mind
To loftiest meditation. Day returns,
And Nature, rising from a transient rest,
Exuberant of beauty, seems to look
Lovelier for being seen. How wide the sway
Of Him who spake, and all things sprang to life!
Whose hand upholds, whose eye encircles all!
Parent, and Guardian of Creation round!
The elephant on Thee depends for food,
And all the intermediate train of shapes,
Down to the mite! with beings, smaller still,
Possest of parts peculiar and complete,
To whom the mite appears an elephant!
All on our Common Father call for bread!
Learn it, astonish'd Earth! shout it, oh Heaven!
He hears them all!

Little by man is known
Of this fair heritage; this world of sense;
The grand interior of the human mind;
Of thought untired; the living principle;
The secret springs of action; how the soul,
Occult, and moving through its dim obscure,
Maintains wide empire; all inert beside;
And, of that little, what is blindly lost
By him who wastes his hours in drowsiness!
In the still grave we shall have sleep enough!
Befits us now to do the work of day;
Night hastens on.

Though man's enquiring eye
Hath pierc'd the ethereal vault, where planets roll

Their never-ending course, and suns their fires
On other worlds bestow; seen the vast orbs
That tremble in th' immeasurable void;
Yet these are atoms, lost in littleness,
Compared with Deity's unnumber'd works,
Scatter'd beyond the utmost range of sight,
Where stars, far distant, never light exchange,
And never comets in their wide career
Blend their faint beams.

Most thankful be our hearts,
That not to search the vast profound of space,
And know all knowledge man hath yet attain'd,
Is needful, to perceive the Almighty's power!
This world, this land, this spot, an endless source
Of meditation offers, where all eyes,
In every insect, gliding through the air,
In every blade of grass, may view the God
Who form'd the Universe!

How bright the scene!
Now the low cots appear, the distant hills,
The fertile plains, wide spread on every side;
Whilst all the vast variety of forms
In yonder sunny vale, tranquil and fair,
O'erpower my ravish'd senses. What a sweep
For mortal eye! Trees of a hundred years,
From this huge mount, appear like tender sprays,
And mock the toil to separate; while flocks,
And scatter'd herds, so faintly meet my sight,
They seem not living things. The goodly view
Makes my eye swim with rapture, and my heart
Feel ecstasy.

Ah! who could stand, unmoved,
And trace this blue expanse, this beauteous scene? —
Who, not allied to marble, view yon sun
Mounting the arch of heaven, whilst clouds surround,
Fiery, that o'er th' horizon's verge, far stretch'd,
Heap their rich columns, nor the question ask
Whence came the whole? Such marvellous display,
Indicative of Deity, methinks,
No eye might contemplate and not confess
The Power that call'd it forth.

Now Upton's spires,
So late obscure, shine with the orient ray.
From east to west, in one continuous chain,
Hamlets attract the eye, their names unknown,
With cots, innumerous, some just peeping out,
From woody covert; some, with hardy front,
(Sylvan protectors none,) daring each wind
That revels in the canopy of heaven,
While orchards, with their odoriferous breath,
Perfume the air, and to the sight present
One sheet of blossoms; the beholder's heart,
In the excess of unconstrain'd delight,
Almost disclaims humanity's dull powers,
And thinks it were a task of easy sort
To glide an airy shape amid the sky,

Or through yon pleasant vallies; drinking more
Of heavenly influence.

But now I turn,
From Hills that in the distance die away,
To mark the subject Chase. Trees that just rise
Above the tufted fern, in one long line
Of tasteless order, and the bounds of earth
And partial barrenness, and mouldering trunks,
Clad in their russet dress, proclaim that man
With sacrilegious hand hath labour'd hard
To tame its wild luxuriance, and destroy
The haunts of hermit innocence and peace.
But memory strains her eye beyond the date
Of thy young pastures — memorable Chase!
She fancies the white mists that curl along
Yon river, marching armies, pacing slow,

And solemn, to this plain, to pitch their tents.
Even now the crafty Edward moves before
My retrospective glance, methinks I see
The youthful chieftain with his valiant hosts
Crown'd with new laurels, urging swift their course
To this fair spot, where Leicester sleeps secure
And meditates new triumphs, whilst his King

Stoops to obey a subject, and resigns
Europe's first crown.

The monarch's dauntless son
Now hastens to the fight, resolv'd to die,
Or free his captive father: There they stand!
Both armies marshall'd, gazing each at each
In fearful expectation. Ere the fight
Scatter the slain, as Autumn's gust, the leaf,
Forebodings stern they feel; such searching doubts,
As when a traveller benighted roams
O'er Alp or Andes, whilst the thunder's voice
Imperious, speaks on high; and lightnings flash
Round his bare head. He marks each peal subside,
Yet fears the rattling elements again
Will sound to war, and thinks, with serious brow,
Of that fresh conflict which may sink his head,
Abased, before the Genius of the Storm.
With such expectant heart both armies pause.
The spell is o'er! — the battle's bray is heard —
The combat rages, fierce, impetuous,
And dreadful is the sound of clashing arms.
There Edward sends his sword, through each mail'd foe,
As it were air that met it, whilst the crown,
Suspended o'er the thickest of the strife,
Rouses his heart anew. The gallant youth
Feels for a sire in chains, a throne usurp'd,
And moves mid mangled heaps of his own slain,
Resistless, singly, till with joy he views

The hostile ranks retire, discomfited,
And hastes to rend his captive Father's chain.

Each moment brings some secret object forth!
Old Severn there his eager current rolls,

Urging his stately undiverted course,
Impatient to embrace his parent flood.
And many a pleasant stream that from these hills
Takes its meandering way, now meets my eye;
The sun-beams sparkle on their humble waves,
That, hid awhile by little hills, or trees,
Seem lost, then reappear, and onward steal,
Gladdening the villagers.

And now I mark,
Beneath two lofty hills, and in the vale
Form'd by their steep descent, the Holy Well.
A plain stone dwelling, weather-worn and rude,
Stands singly by. There, never sound is heard
But the bleak wind, that, howling from above,
Sweeps the bald mountain's side, and urging on
Its boisterous way, at length forgets its rage,

In dallying with the valley's scattered trees:
Save when the sky is hush'd, and to the ear
The never-ended bubblings of the spring
Send the same note — the same eternal note.
Most melancholy spot! the hand of time
Is busy with thy shatter'd tenement,
And all around thee prompts to pensiveness:
For who can view this place, nor think of those
Who to the fount are led to ease their frames
Of rankling malady. The drooping sire,
Hastening to death, disfranchised of his hope,
And casting, with a serious brow, his eye
Through distant times, with many an anxious care
For those he leaves behind. Or of the wife
Who bears a mother's name, by slow disease
Treading the downward road, yet, fill'd with dreams
Of lengthen'd days and future happiness;
Watching her infant's smile, and planning well
Its opening destiny, though never she
Shall mark its course. Yet not alone the throng
Who vainly hope the renovated frame,
Here pass their days: beneath yon spacious roof
Health and her sister Cheerfulness are found,
Whilst every joy, from Nature's fairest works,
When in her pride she sits immaculate,
Spontaneous heaves the heart.

Yet, sudden check
Was it to the full current of delight,

Accordant with this spot delectable,
When tidings came, at which, the coldest heart
The tear withheld not. Piteous is the tale.

The air was balmy, as the morn was fair;
Creation, in her loveliest vest array'd,
Chided the reader, with his book, or pen
Absorbed, while Nature call'd all beings forth.
A youthful pair, whose lightsome hearts received
The general invitation, from this roof,
Went forth, to wander, in sweet colloquy,
Over these hills, free as the circling air,
Fancy their guide, while every word, and look,
Gave token of their loves reciprocal.
(Affection! he who never felt thy power,
Knows not the pinnacle of human joy,
And in a world of sweet community,
Stands alien, and unknown; — a feast around,
Where he, a guest, must never sit and smile.)
In the sweet interchange of heart with heart,
Behold them now, clear on the Beacon high,
Gazing on all the multitude of things
With silent awe, or, calling each aloud,
On Pan, or Elfin Mab, no matter what,
From cheerfulness excessive, unconstrain'd,
Bursting the measuremeut of sober speech;
They must expand, and give the heavens their shout,
While, as they call, (no cynic listeners near,)
E'en Folly's voice hath tones, to lovers' ears,
More touching than a Tully's eloquence.

The sun withdraws himself. The heavens collapse,
The deep blue cloud comes sailing from the west,

And breezes, that, so late, with ringlets play'd,
(The only motion, save the bird on high,)
Wafting a grateful coolness, now retire,
Succeeded by the preludes of the storm,
Mist, and the winds austere. The youth exclaims,
“Beloved! haste we down! No moment's pause!
“Press on this arm! A covert in yon house,
“Upon whose roof we gaze, the Holy Well,
“We soon shall gain; refuge of travellers,
“In hour like this.” The maiden clasps his arm.
No word she uttered. See them now descend,
Not in the well-trod path circuitous,
But, nothing daunted, down the mountain's side,
Straight forward, leaping, bounding, like the roe,
Haply to scape the tempest ominous
Dark brooding in the air. The well they reach.
Joy kindles in their eyes at perils past.
Stay, gentle fugitives! Suspend awhile
Your gratulations! Dangers yet await!
Their brows contract! Solicitude, alone,
Each feels for each. The heavens assume a dye
Still more portentous! Hark! the distant peal
Sounds audible. That sudden flash bespeaks
The elemental tumult! Louder still
The thunders shake the firmament. A light
Diffus'd through heaven, in instantaneous burst
Of forked glare, proclaims the focal point
Of conflict was the spot, which, in their flight,
Wistless, the lovers sought. That other flash!
The roof is shatter'd! See! the maiden lies
Stretch'd, breathless, on the ground! The youth beholds!
He clasps his hands, his eyes to heaven upcast,

In all the speechless agony of grief!
Brief pause, and holy! Ah! a fiercer flash
Lays him, a corse, beside the maid he loved!

Let not the sacrilegious touch of man
Disturb the sanctity of these reft walls,
August in nakedness, and form'd to breathe
Instructive truths; warning the thoughtless heart,
That, in the hour to joyance most alive,
Death may be near, when, he whose heritage
Time bounds, however rich, is “poor indeed.”

From this high spot, associate with the clouds,
How many spires and aged towers appear,
Clear, or by distance dimm'd. —Most sweet to think
That these are Temples to the Living God,
Rais'd by our pious fathers, who, beneath
Their ever changing shades, now rest in peace.

Encompass'd by majestic foliage,
The Lesser Malvern stands. Proud edifice!
The spot around thee speaks of quietness.

Down at the mountain's base thou long hast braved,
With unmoved front, the season's varying hour;
The vernal tempest and December's storms;
Yet, at this time! when every breeze is hush'd,
Unwonted beauty sits upon thy brow.
The aged oaks around, and scatter'd elms,
In wild luxuriance spread their stately limbs;
And, true to friendship, ward each angry blast
That, howling through the valley, sweeps along
To thy dark battlements. Sequester'd church!
Round whom for ever strays the Forest Maid,
Tranquillity, whilst Meditation loves
To watch thee from afar; — protected stand
Through many a year of sun-shine and of storm,
And may thy sylvan guardians flourish too;
The woodman pass them, and the tempest spare.

A musing melancholy fills the mind
As we behold where Bransil turrets stood.
How are the days gone by! how chang'd the scene,
Simce, circled by a vast and rich domain,
Its towers arose, imposing, moated round,
And made to bear th' assault of ages! now
The neighbouring shepherd scarce can point the place
Where once they stood! — Significant of Man!
Where are the countless generations past?
Earth's boasted lords? her lofty ministers?
Once fear'd throughout the world! her valiant hosts!

Prais'd in their day! her captains? and her chiefs?
Instructive thought, where are the mighty men,
The potentates, that ruled a crouching world,
Who call'd the earth their own, and proudly sway'd
The sceptre of dominion? — Where are now
Empires once famed? Assyria! where art thou?
Thou? Babylon! the mistress of the world!
Media? and Persia? Greece! thy boasted power?
And thine? victorious Rome! nations and states,
(Your record, like a dream!) the spoiler Time,
Hath o'er your greatness past, and at each step
Your proudest temples levell'd with the ground —
Your brazen monuments, your towers of strength;
Save one — a pillar of majestic height,
Fill'd with dark annals, where your names appear
Pre-eminent. There, Time, the contest yields!
Secure it stands, immoveable, ordain'd
To teach mankind, the great, the solemn truth,
“What shades they are, what shadows they pursue.”

Nor may I well forget, whilst tracing round
These spacious scenes, where Hanley's Castle stood.
Now not one stone remains to claim the sigh
Of passing man — save, when the hollow winds,
Bending the night-shade's head, or nettle rank,
Disclose some sculptured fragment, green and damp,
And half immured in earth. But though this pile
Hath fallen long — yet Fancy still delights

To trace the busy scenes of ancient days;
To view the Lord Manorial pacing slow
His castle-hall, and poring with mute joy
Upon the hard-won spoils, obtain'd in fight,
Or in the chase, by daring ancestors,
And made to grace these walls, and prompt their youth
To feats renown'd, of hunt, or chivalry,
Not heedless of their sires. But all is gone!
Lost with the hopes and fears before the flood!
No vestige left! and Beauchamp too is gone!
The great, the gallant Beauchamp known no more!

In him expired a race of valiant men,
For prowess famed, and wealth, and courtesy;
But, stern memento to the great, and proud!
Low lie their honours now, their wealth, their power,
Their very names forgotten, or reserv'd
To grace Time's trophies. Where is now the scowl
Of haughty Independence? where the views
That agitated once their glowing breasts
With hopes of high achievement, and inspired
Their youthful progeny to dare the wars
Of Cambria, or of France? Awhile they lived
In splendour's gayest hall, and laugh'd, and sung
The merry roundelay, or bade the harp
Swell with tumultuous joy. No more is heard
The song of gladness: and the blooming cheek —

The graceful step, that held th' admiring eye,
No longer charms! the throbbing heart is still!
Both sires and children, all have had their days
Of pain and ease, disquietude and joy,
And now repose on Earth, our common nurse!
Death, King of dread! with no enticing look,
(Haply, but may the secret fear be vain!)
Call'd to his arms these sons of affluence;
He seldom calls the great, the rich, the proud,
With soft and winning accent, but preserves
Silence unbroken, save when some slow knell
Sends through the air, at midnight, a report
Warning, and terrible. But to the poor
He yields a voice of comfort, sanctified,
And pointed rightly by that word of truth
Heaven hath vouchsafed to man. Most goodly then
These scatter'd spires appear; these aged towers,
Which to some little flock the path way tell
That leads to life eternal, where the ills
Which strew'd their mortal way shall never come.
And honour'd be the men who here preside,
And, with sincerity and holy zeal,
Point the celestial road! to simple minds
Reveal those holy truths, the which to hear,
And from the heart receive most willingly,
Blunts the keen shafts of sorrow; well they know,
The conflict will be short — the triumph, sure.

Some men, endued with a discerning soul,
Intuitive, discriminating, keen,
Breathing no vulgar atmosphere, removed
To a proud height from all that others fear,

Laugh loud at superstition, and include
In that mean bondage all who cherish thoughts
Of joys hereafter! yet, vain scoffers, know,
If, (prodigal of happiness,) your hearts
Can well resign such hopes, and pleased remain
With earthly habitations and delights,
Blame not the poor and needy, who have felt
No joys like you, in this inclement world;
Blame not their humble bosoms, if they think
Upon the hardships of their mortal race,
And draw consolement from futurity.
Nor were it quite unworthy of the wise
To meditate, —if, what they dare to scorn
Should true be found, and an insulted Judge
Deal wrath retributive! Such interests vast,
Trembling on the uncertain scale of life,
Might wake the serious thought. No little thing;
No evanescent blessing stands before,
Claiming our notice. It will prove to be
Welcome to heaven, or banishment from God —
Light, Love, and Goodness, thro' all time and space!
The ground, on which the wise their tower will rear,
Should be above mutation, —adamant,
Firm as the everlasting skies. To doubt
On such a theme, Eternity at stake,
Is folly, which, to wisdom, wants a name.

Amid the subject champaign, stretching far,
The eye in vain enquires for thicket dark;
Track, strew'd with trees, coeval with the soil,
That here reign'd paramount; whose lofty heads,
With jealousy, the mighty Malvern view'd,

And felt himself less vast. No longer, now,
These aged residents engender damps,
And secret vapours — pestilent and foul:
The fragrant orchard, and the waving corn
O'erspread the cultured ground, while life, and helath,
And cheerfulness, pervade the spacious scene.
But, not that thou art changed from wood to field,
And fragrant orchard; not, that thy rich corn
Enchants the gazer, and repays the toil
Of patient man, do I thy praises sing;
Not, that thy woods are levell'd, thy tall trees,
That dared the blast, and check'd e'en Malvern's pride,
But that the laws which ruled the royal lands
Are gone for ever! — curse of ages past!

An object which conducts the mind far off,
Into the dark unknown of earliest time,
Is that old Camp beside me, once the haunt
In years unchronicled, perchance of Chief,
(In lawless times, when strength alone was right,)
Whose trade was rapine; in whose iron heart,
No sojourn, pity made. From this bleak point,
Like eagle perch'd on clifts of giddiest height,
Haply he spied his prey, and, rushing down,
Spread ruin, as the thunder scatters rain.

Or, here abode Rome's Cohorts, fearing still
(For where does tyranny serene repose!)
Some fiercer Cassivelaunus, who might view
His fathers', and his sons' inheritance,
Wrested, successive, by the spoiler's hand,
Rage boiling in his veins, till, bursting on,
The Roman Eagle quivered in his grasp.
Or here, perchance, terrific in their ire,
Dwelt, undisturb'd, that noble-hearted race,
Opposers of our Cimbrian ancestors;
Stern patriots! waiting to roll back the tide,
Wide wasting, that advanced toward Cambria's hills;
Assail'd in vain. The fame of Rodiri,
(Maintaining rivalry with Arthur's self,)
Inspires them, and for “Sax” they gaze around,
With eve's last beam, and, at the earliest dawn.
Joy gladdens every heart! The foe they spy!
The glittering of the hostile spear is seen!
“Arms!” “arms!” they shout, exultant. Fancy sees
The march begun! the proud habiliments,
Target, and lance, with burnish'd sword and spear;
The trumpet's blast inspiring! Mournful thought!
Yet, true as sad! the falchion dyed in gore,
Again they seize, and, for the thousandth time,
In unavailing strife, shed Christian blood!
These scenes are vanish'd. Concord now prevails.
Blest change! and we are brethren.

Would it were
That only in those dark unannal'd times,

Or, when the Briton strove for mastery,
The spirit of destruction had gone forth;

E'en in these boastful, these enlighten'd days,
When right and wrong, once doubtful, have received
Such nice adjustments, even we have seen
Hamlet and town, the peaceful villagers,
Valleys and mountains wild, through half the earth,
Reckless invaded, whilst full many a stream,
Wont to reflect upon its bosom pure,
Rock, tower, and tree, in crystal sanctity,
Has borne the sanguine hue, rolling along
The mangled corse, impetuous to the sea.

Disastrous truth! how pliable is man! —
Moulded to every form, diversified
Of evil, trusting all hypocrisy declares,
(The attribute of vacant thought his own,)
Or would a tyrant few, in every age,
From Nimrod, bold, down to the Corsican,
Have raised the bloody standard, and beheld

(Assurance verified,) crowds gather round,
Passive, to slay, whom others call their foe!
With folly, were not men identified,
Would such tormentors desolate the earth;
Such wars prevail, — that hide the face of day
With steam of slaughter, bearing to the skies,
On each ascending particle, a prayer,
Leagued with the frowns, and thunderbolts of heaven?
Oh! ye, at whose command such deeds are done,
Take heed! ye have a long account to close,
When each, untimely slain, shall rise, and cry,
(Heart-withering words!) “You were my murderer!”

Not slightly would I pass the Corsican,
The wonder, and the scourge of this our age!
What crimes diversified, upon his head
Rest pond'rous! Virtue spurns the tarnish'd name!
Once more confirm'd, — Power was not made for man;
It saps his little virtue, manifests
His spirit's penury, subdues the weak,
And makes the strongest, giddy; opening wide
Sluices, that inundate with waste and death.
If Power were not subversive of the soul,
Had this once great Napolean, sunk abased!
Fallen from his fearful height! so talented!
So keen to penetrate both men and things!
Without a peer, in multiplicity
Of knowledge, bearing on the kingly rule?
Had power no curse, would he have prostrate lain!
His grasp relax'd! when fame was all his own? —
Conjuncture fair, mighty in means of good,

His will alone defective, failing there,
His laurel leaf was sear'd,

A sable cloud
Rest ever on the man, whose hand let slip

Such fair occasion to perpetuate
Each form of virtue; not ideal good,
Restricted to the vision of the night,
But clear, substantial; pass'd for ever by!
Doubtless, the Arbiter of human things
Has fix'd, irrevocable, that the world
Shall owe its renovation, not to chance,
Th' ensanguined warrior, or the wily skill
Of statesman, but to principle austere,
Deduced from Heaven's pure manual; light divine!
His law that rules, his will that governs all.

Are earth's mistitled great ones, bound by spell,
Potent, that dooms them never to expand,
Luxuriant, in achievements of high name?
Ambition sways their tiny faculties,
But not th' august ambition, pondering still
On lofty themes, how best to humanize
The brutish, raise the low, and altitude
Confer on genius, living for one end,
Their subjects' good, and practising alone,
Through their brief reign, deeds worthy of a king.
Is Ethelwolf's proud son, whose praise no trump
Need blazon, after twice five hundred years,
Still doom'd to stand alone, (like some old oak,
The forest's pride, gazing majestical,
Upon the royal underwood beneath!)
Age after age, to see his progeny
Inglorious creep, pleased with the record mean,
Lived, but not greatly, glitter'd, sicken'd, died!

If nobler purpose; fame legitimate;
Lordly aspirings, with no whisper, bland,

Spake to their hearts, motive of baser sort
Their souls might stimulate, and urge them on
To semblance of true greatness. They might hope
When they in marble rest, in record fair
To stand conspicuous; rampart to the surge,
Oblivious, that assail'd them. To sustain
The spirit, sinking to despair, one King,
Enwreath'd with honours, incorruptible,
Our Albion calls his birth-place. May the Line,
Firm-seated in our hearts, the Brunswick, brave,
To whom such debt we owe, as time rolls on,
Number, and in memorials, not of brass,
Not one, but many Alfreds!

Hope is ours.
Peace shall prevail! The happy hour shall come,
When nation, nation, shall molest no more,
But, Love prevail, that renovating spring
Of holy confraternity, which gives
To heaven its attributes, and which, withdrawn,
Makes hell, and outer darkness. Praise be theirs,
Above the common standard of renown,
Who War denounce, and with the filial heart,
Behold in man a brother; who promote
Concord, and on oppression heap their scorn.
Could such extinguish each fond sympathy
That lights, and warms the breast? Could such prepare
Chains for his fellows; sons of other climes,
Formed, like himself, of feelings exquisite;
Who love their homes, their friends; who freedom prize
Their crime, a swarthy skin!

Man, unrestrain'd
By influence from on high, left to himself,
Revels in all luxuriance of ill;
Worships the many-headed monster, vile,
Gain, as his one vocation: he corrupts
Fair Nature's face, made, like its author, good:
All things betray the curse; man, most of all.

Behold! to what unfathomable depth,
Creatures that breathe our air, and see our sun,
In virtue's scale may sink! Contemplate one
A Chapman, (Merchant, in the courtly phrase,)
Who deals in bones, and sinews. In the hour
To rest and night devoted, he concocts
Treasons against his kind: projects, serene,
In coverture of darkness, plans of blood.
Himself, a coward, who at danger starts,
He meditates who best will guide his bark,
Of captains, emulous of such a charge;
Who, do his bidding; traverse burning sands;
The arid waste; with pertinacity,
Unshrinking; skirt, with cautious step, and sure,
Some forest, crouching like a hungry lynx,
To plunge upon his prey. So much at stake,
He looks, with an especial vigilance,
To his vicegerent, soon, on Afric's shore,
Warfare to wage: enquires, if, to the pitch
Of total apathy in right and wrong
He dares aspire, and can divest his heart,
Effectual, from all mercy. Lo! the choice,
Momentous, now is made. A man stands forth,
Low'ring, the frozen zone upon his brow,

Ice at his heart — His very countenance,
(Less genial than the storm, advancing bleak
From hyperborean region,) ministers
Assurance, that the worshipper of gold
No loss will bear — this side Eternity.

Behold the vessel trim, freighted, and deep,
With instruments of torture, gag and chain,
Dividing wave on wave; with favouring gale,
Seeking the line. The long-look'd port he sees! —
Inhales the spicy odours; views the stream,
Majestic, up whose waters, calm and clear,
His calling lies. No secret qualm within,
The boat is launch'd, Sabres, and guns profuse,
Are dash'd, and piled, alternate on the deck;
Sight that inspires new courage, as he, now,
With character at stake, directs the helm,
From point, to jutting head-land, passing each,
And urging still, (no let,) his prosperous way.
With faithful crew, all peers in villany,
He ploughs, untired, the river, throwing far
The line of foam, while birds, with insects gay,
Wanton in air, and, through the western sky,
In wide diffusion o'er one half of heaven,
(Hateful discordancy!) clouds gorgeous reign.
This is a sight for Innocence alone:
No chord, in him, responses to the scene.
He had preferr'd, far as the eye might reach,
Thick clouds, harmonious with his dark designs.
To shake each thought, obtrusive, from his heart,
With undiverted purpose, he applies
Fresh sinews to the oar, and now, as eye

Deepens her shades, he lands. On villagers,
Sporting in joyous interlude, whilst round
The breeze of twilight throws the rich perfume,
He pounces, drags them off, and down the tide
His struggling captives bears, complacently,
Heeding no more their pungent agony,
Their prayers, their tears, their intercessions deep,
Than though they all were gnats of evening grey.

Lest in some moment, when his heart might shrink,
Spite of his will, from sight of misery
Known but on Afric's shore, he turns his eye
From all that outward is, to meditate
And thriftily devise expedients new,
(Had he a mother!) how to leave no chink
Untenanted in his accursed bark.

Ah! now he meets, upon the golden strand,
The Princely Dealer; (hundreds in his train,
Black as December's pitchy hour of night,)
Belov'd of none, though fear'd; through many a clime;
Claiming a proud precedency, and rais'd
Thus to his eminence by recreant sons —
Blots on our country! men, who sacrifice
Truth, honour, justice, — human sympathies,
Yea, lives, in hecatombs, at lucre's shrine!
These, the Slave Merchants, Britons blush to own!
Who consecrate their influence, all their powers,
Not to improve, reform, and elevate,
But to abase, by bribes on ignorance,
Quaternion population of the world!
Urging the base to violate, alike,

All laws, of God and man; no means too vile,
So they might thrive, and batten in the things
Of this wrold's elevations.

There they meet!
The white man, and the black, pre-eminent,
Each in his way: both lured by love of gold!
The merchant, who, so late, his foot-marks left
On Niger's boasted margin, gathering still
His merchandize, indifferent how, now stands
Upon Benin's wide shore. He looks around,
Hope realized, with a majestic port,
On wares of flesh and blood. The buyer, too,
No whit behind his peer, in consequence,
Encompass'd by select commodities,
(Powder, or “slaughter weapons,” spirits, beads,)
Offers, denies, rejects, each master-mind
In trick and subterfuge: The balance reels!
Th' agreement is confirm'd and ratified.
One “keg of proof” brings down the trembling beam!
A savage joy lights up the buyer's eye!
Doubtful no more, he calls his own, the droves
Of male and female captives, tied like beasts;
Their fate less envied. Compact now fulfill'd,
The captains greet at parting. One retires
To hunt his prey, with heart more resolute,
“Compunctions visitation,” none; to buy,
Or seize by stealth, remorseless, multitudes,
Parents and children, friendless, hopeless, wild,
Against the hour when they might meet again.
The other, hastes to the receptacle
Of misery sublimed, expands his sails:

Spite of the tremulous sigh, and burning tear,
His sable freight conducts across the seas;
Sells whom he calls his slaves, and then sits down
With the ferocious aspect of the damn'd,
To count his gains.

Thy name, O, Wilberforce!
(Redeeming half the character of man,)
Friend of thy kind! to the far-distant age,
Shall shine conspicuous! with thy brave compeers, —
In cause which might an angel's heart entrance,
Sharp, Cowper, Clarkson, Thornton, who withstood
The “strife of tongues,” the scowl of contumely,
Not, as with us, when a diversion grand,
Justice hath made, but in the battle's heat,
When all, for truth who pleaded, who beheld,
And dared to recognize, in Afric's sons,
The links, the features of humanity,
Were singled, as the outcasts of their race!
But ye were faithful. Unappall'd by frowns,
When God and Conscience smiled, you nobly stood,
(Conjoin'd with worthies, to the grave gone down,)
Denouncing slavery! There is on high,
A record, and Humanity, on earth,
Hangs o'er the turf of her illustrious dead.

But, forms of greatness rear their mountain head,
Not as the lark ascends, with promptitude,
And undiverted course. Works, excellent,
Before their consummation, slow expand;
More steadfast for the process and the pause.
Be this your consolation, men! endow'd

With talents prodigal, who life your voice
Amid your country's senate, and proclaim
The stigma that o'er Britain lingers still.
Brougham, Buxton, Holland, Sussex, (in whose veins
A Brunswick's blood flows uncontaminate,)
With Russell, scion of a glorious race,
Relax not! prove the captives' advocate!
Plead for the tribes that bless you with their tears!
Tell, with an utterance which will finally
Conduct to triumph, that supreme disgrace
Rests on the men, who freedom prize themselves;
Taste of its sweets; its blessings magnify;
Yet feel no sympathy for slaves around.

But we have slaves at home, and merchants too,
Kin to the Guinea Traffickers, who deal,
(Without a slur, or breath of calumny
On their fair names,) in life's blood of their kind!
Those, who with fetters bind the distant slave,
Are branded as a base fraternity,
But the Slave-merchant on the English soil,
He, and his peers, are “honourable men!”
Legal in all they do, and scrupulous
Not to exceed the sacred bounds of Right.
Domestic slaves, who raise no uproar rude,
But calmly suffer, far from public gaze,
(Often, through avocations leagued with death;
“Dying so slowly that none call it murder!”)
Our eyes, o'er these home sufferers, when beheld,
Wander regardless, like philosophers,
Who point their tubes to comet's devious course,

Or satellite, obscure, but, nothing heed
Objects that vulgar eyes may contemplate.

Are not those slaves, and piteous in their plight!
Forced by Task-Masters, oftener Mistresses,
Feeling of heart, who would not hurt a fly!
Who yet expose their charge, the tender sex,
To rigorous exactions, scarce surpass'd
In the abhorr'd Antilles?

To adorn
The outward head, (oft emptiness within,)
And form the flowing robe for gala night,
With all its load of honours, what, to her
Who shines, and hears her thousand compliments,
And “moves a goddess!” that the wasted frame
Of many a damsel, fairer than herself,
Has toil'd throughout the night; in conflict hard,
Resisted nature, longing for repose!
The notice “short.” The buyer “opulent!”
Her “word,” a fortune! Efforts must be made!
The midnight lamp must burn! and “balmy sleep
“Alight on lids not sullied with a tear!”

The lovely Butterflies that meet our eye,
Clothed with all colours, (throwing into shade,
Rainbows, once honour'd,) own the kindly heart,
And would not wrong the sex they ornament,
And scatter thorns, if, undisguised, they knew
The tendencies of deeds that harmless seem.
“Dresses” they want, and “dresses” they must have;
But why withhold their mandates, till the hour

Barely comport with possibility,
T' effect what they desire? Why thus forget
Some finery—essential! next to life!
Till the sixth day, the seventh so near at hand,
“When thou shalt do no work!” yet both too short
For the long-look'd for moment of display?
The baser portion of such mistresses,
(Who know Dependence must restrain her frown.)
Rejoice at claims which sanction plausibly,
Such hard requirements: pelf, their sole regard,
Not human sufferance, borne not by themselves!
Yet, ladies fair! so sensitive! so sweet!
Your's is no heart plebeian; you can feel
Where vulgar minds are obdurate; Oh, hear!
Regard the whisper of humanity!
Nor those oppress whom you desire to serve!
Think, in some brief cessation from your round
Of dissipations, on the canker-worm,
Preying on those who have no foes but you.

At early morn, the summons loud is heard!
Authoritative voice! which calls the slaves,
Fashion creates, their labours to resume;
Not humbling, not unworthy, where the task,
And the reward, fairly reciprocate,
And labour is proportion'd to the frame:
But who, whose conscience is not cauterized,
Can see, and mourn not, youth and beauty bound
To services which waste the opening frame:
And hurry crowds to their untimely grave!

Look closer still. The morning now is past!
And there they are, the task severe before,

The day wanes on; around the board they sit
Like statues, permanent; like statues, pale!
The evening comes. It finds them still the same;
Fix'd, weary, urging on the spirit faint.
The eve is past! Night now begins her reign,
But, respite they have none. The faded flower
Declares th' ungenial element. The eye,
Unconscious closed, its heavy lid uprears:
The lamp again is trimmed; the work renew'd;
And when exhausted nature fairly sinks,
The voice that regulates, now pitiful,
Warns them, as twilight glimmers in the east,
To seek their pallet, till the fatal sound,
On the next morn, calls them to sighs anew.
But they have wrongs e'en less supportable.
Is this a heathen land? The spectacle
Of churches, countless, the calumnious breath
Checks, yet these half-forgotten instruments
Of ball-room splendour, hear the welcome chime
To thousands,—not to them. They must not learn
Of Better Worlds! The day, by others prized,
Cessation from the wasting cares of life,
Unutterable blessing! with it bears,
No solace sweet to them, but rather woe,
Accumulated anguish, whilst they see
Crowds, moving on, decorous, to the house
Of prayer and praise, they, fetter'd down the while
To mercenary things, and secular,
Wounding the soul!—the Christian's day of rest
Encroach'd on, and oft taken quite away!

Have this forlorn, oppress'd, and outcast train,
(Dissever'd thus from human sympathy,)

Father and mother, sister, brother, friend,
(On whom, with tears, their fondest thoughts repose!)
Who loved them in their infancy; who felt,
And still who feel, solicitudes, which prove
The strength of nature's impulse? let them still
Cherish delusive dreams—that those they prize,
Striving for independence, and the fruit
Of honourable toil, so near their heart!
Are healthy, and are happy! far away
Their pallid cheeks they see not! They, at night,
Resting in peace, behold not how they fare;
Not slaves in foreign climes, but slaves at home.

Turning from cruelties, too vast the theme!
Too hopeless! too inveterate! and too dark!
The spirit, rack'd, one other wrong shall trace,
Though last not least. Behold yon Edifice!
Form'd for an eastern king, as it might seem,
So spacious, and commanding, broad, and high!
Beauty without,—enormity within!
The house where children work, and pine, and die!
Th' indignant spirit mourns so base a part,
Acted by men, who force the infant throng,
Almost too young to know their wretchedness,
From morn, to lengthen'd eve, unceasingly
To toil, and toil; the holiday of life,
With them past by, ere scarce it is begun.
Before the lisp of infancy be past,
They waste their tender strength, not in the hours,
When health and labour join fraternity,
But by protracted, midnight services,
Assailed by languor, loathsomeness, disease,
Till death, the friend of misery, close the scene!

Amid this field of mourning, mighty men!
Inheritors of all luxurious things,
Slave-Merchants legalized, whose wealth commands
A tyrannous control o'er multitudes,
“Flesh of their flesh;” these sons of eminence
Review their riches, boast their houses, lands;
Loll at their boards; congratulations, warm,
Receive, and pass, whilst boisterous mirth prevails;
Yet who, amid their revelries, ne'er think
Upon the means which raised their heads so high!

Shall children thus be tortur'd and borne down,
Without one voice, upraised, to tell their wrongs?
Ye followers of the good Samaritan,
Hear! and combine your efforts to redress
Evils, though crying, not importunate,—
So much the more exacting your regards!
In that imposing structure, lifting high
Our admiration, oft, too oft! are found
Infants, in countless groups, through the long year
From dawn to eve, from eve to drowsy night,
Haggard and spiritless, with toil severe,
Above the point of Nature's faculty,
Wasting their strength; the vital principle,
The moral too, assail'd in every form!
Here, disregarded, toss'd in heedless heaps,
They lengthen out their hours of weariness,
Withering, like flowers, on this, our “happy soil.”
No mercy near!—haply to please some minds
Church-going; advocates for equity;
Loud talkers of a Briton's birth-right, proud!
Who gaze around, on tribes, too young to grieve,

But not to suffer, with the consciousness,
Of giving such unfriended outcasts, bread!
Cease, men, whose hearts pertain to adamant,
Such dire delusion! If your thoughts incline
To piety, though in the last remove,
Question it well! for never pious heart
Dwelt with such deeds. Can Heaven applauding view
Children of want, nipp'd by the frost of gain;
Unnumber'd orphans, seized by avarice,
(Their parents safe in their last resting-place!)
And forced, without a friend, to sacrifice
Their joys in childhood, and their hopes in age?
If, Him to please, thy Maker, ever struck,
When interest was away, thy passing thought,
Learn, with more certainty than ever man
Foretold the morrow's sun, it is by acts
Of tenderness; by viewing all mankind
As offspring of one Sire, who never made
The wonderous human frame, to be consumed,
Ere yet the leaves of childhood half expand,
By man's fierce lust of perishable gold.

Is there not slavery, England! on thy soil?
The evil clear, but where the remedy?
A book, the Book of Books! expands; I read,

And bless the words, clothed with celestial light!—
“Do, as ye would that others did to you!”
This is the antidote; but if the voice,
Breathed from the sky; if still humanity
Urges unheard the lucre-worshippers
To soften their exactions, let the Law
Restrain the Cruel, and its penalties
Accomplish that which Heaven prescribes in vain.

How sweet to breathe at this neglected hour
The Mount's pure air! to trace the landscape wide;

Diversified as soothing. Scatter'd cots,
Sprinkling the valleys round, so gaily look,
They seem as never anguish pass'd them near.
The very trees wave concord, and invite
To meditation, while the feathered tribe
Pay their best homage to the Deity.

Pondering upon this goodly heritage,
Where all is fair and quiet; where the eye

Dwells on perfection, where with joy I view
Nature's luxuriance, and with soul entranced
Hear her inviting voice, that bids mankind
Learn goodness from herself—sudden I feel
Compassion wring my heart, to think that men
Should spend their few short days, in heaping wealth,
(Often for heirs unknown,) mid toil, and strife,
Unmindful of such heavenly scenes as these!

Is there no charm in Nature, that the eye
So shuns her, and, with quick-reverted glance,
Turns to the city's haunts, to mark around
Pollution's meager form; the cry of want,
Th' immortal spirit chain'd to avarice?
Yields it no pleasure to behold the birds,
Those gay and sportive links 'tween earth and heaven,
Caparison'd in plumage that outvies
Material splendour, whilst their varied songs,
From earliest morn, to eve, alike surpass
Man's proudest concerts? who can mark, unmoved,
The insect tribes, in ever-varying shape;—
The herbage of the field;—the yellow corn;—
The blossom gay;—or flower;—or running brook,
Winding through woods and glens its steady course?—
Who, at the seasons' changeful forms, restrain
The open eye of wonder, nor, in them,
Behold presiding Deity, whose word
Still calls them in succession, leads them on
To bless unthankful man?—who view yon sun,
Casting his full—broad—congregated beam,
At early morn, athwart the darken'd valley,
Tinging with red the distant forest top,
And view no grace in Nature's form divine?

All things that live and move send forth a voice,
Most audible, to him who hath not bow'd
To Mammon's shrine, teaching us precious lore:
A voice, though subtle, yet articulate,
Which we must seek, to hear. The hill and vale
Speak many a signal truth; nay, all things round
Join in one concert, whence the soul may draw
Sublime instructions. Should not mortals learn,
E'en from the peaceful flocks and scatter'd herds,
That harmonize with the gay landscape round,
To moderate their wants, and, to compare
Their calm contented state with toiling man?—
Who oft, to gain mistaken happiness,
With wants unreal, in his frantic chase,
Resigns the little joy he might possess,
And starves mid plenty.—To the meadows, haste,
Thou wanderer from the ways of happiness!
There, wrapt in Meditation's solemn garb,
Look well around thee; view, in silentness,
The forms which God hath made to teach thine heart
Wisdom unknown to sages; hoary truths,
Which must not be despised. Regard each sound,
Borne on the breeze, or rustling in the tree;
In such a mood, perchance some monitor
May seize thy Spirit, and true knowledge teach.

Instructions loftier! Not on Nature's self,
(Great as she is, and incontestable;—
With arguments, exhaustless, spreading far
The hand omnipotent,) must we rely—
Tillume our path, with twilight deep around;
The Book of Life, the Word of Prophecy,

Still surer, is our guide. To that we turn;
A rock which will sustain us, while we live,
And in the hour when all, beside, will prove
Refuge of lies.

If Heaven's Eternal Word—
The source of light, of life—the Bible be,
Are there, who hide the pearl, of price untold?
Is there a Priesthood, bound in compact, firm,
To stem this tide, which God, most merciful!
Sent, from above, to cleanse and fructify
The moral world? Are there, who bear the name,
Christ sanctifies, who thus his mandate spurn,
“The scriptures search!” and would, if will were power,
Sweep from the world, from every hearth, and home,
This greatest treasure heaven e'er gave to man?
Such have prevail'd in ages past away!
Such now exist! (the Papists' damning sin!)
Urged on by hell, whose cheeks to deadly white—
Turn, if perchance, the tidings reach their ear,
That, mid their flock, (precursor of all ill!)
A Bible, long proscribed, its poison sheds!
(While distant years will wonder and deplore!)
The “hue” is rais'd! In sacerdotal vest,
The Priest goes forth, wrath lowering on his brow,
To hunt the interdicted volume, source
Of “endless heresies!” to drag it forth,
And dash it to the flames! Disastrous truth!
Can these be Christians? Are the furious men,
Thus exercis'd, Religion's ministers?
Impossible! it is an idle tale!

Say ye, who, in the depths profound of grief,
Turn to your Bible, and consolement find;—
Say ye, who, in the time of solitude,
Haply, in season of captivity,
Or, mid lone wanderings o'er the clime remote;
Who, when dissever'd from the social tie,
(Remember'd still,) dwell on the sacred page,
And find a friend to warn, console, and guide;
Would you resign your treasure for aught time
Ranks in her costliest blessings? Say, O, men!
Languid, and cast upon the couch of pain;—
Say, ye, contending with the slow disease;
Or, ye, when near to Jordan's stormy shore,—
Who turn from earth, and anxious look around
For comfort, and inspiring promises,
On which to lean, in that heart-searching hour,
When smiling potentates, and mines, and crowns,
Would cease to move! would you the “Hail!” extend
To him, who sought to prove, by arguments,
And logical deductions, that the book,
By you extoll'd, had venom at the core,
And which, if shown in tongue familiar,
Would discords raise; upturn society;
Mar, and not mend the world; mislead; confound;—
Too complicate and dark for vulgar eyes!
How would your soul, the man, indignant spurn,
Unkind, who strove, with such vain sophistries,
To rob you of your joy; who dared affirm
The bearings of the book, so dear to you,
Were, (awful thought!) unhallow'd, prone to spread,
In undisguised commixtures, doctrines strange,
Delusions, deadly strifes?—the Upas Tree—

That sapp'd, and poison'd all beneath its shade!
What can the veriest infidel say more?
Oh blasphemy! from Pandemonium borne,
And hatch'd, and nurtured, by the Sire of Lies!

If thus assail'd with specious words of guile,
How would you cry, your hand upon your heart,
“I feel your fallacy. My spirit feels
“That book, by you condemned, to be, indeed,
“The word of life! the spring-head of repose!
“The balm of weary nature! whence my soul,
“Turning from man, derives instruction sweet,
“Joys, ever new! which moderates my hopes;
“Allays my fears! prepares my soul, to love
“Justice and mercy; teaches me to bear
“Affliction, as a Father's chastening rod;
“Endues me with the faculty, to view
“Man, and the range of all material things,
“In truth's clear light; the Finite to regard
“As it deserves, and, on the Infinite,
“My heart to stay! Rob me of all beside,
“But spare, O spare, my BIBLE!”

Those who yield—
All that ennobles man, the power to think!
And found their faith on others, hear, in vain,
Conclusive reasonings. So the balmy hour,
E'en Nature's face, thus lovely, has no charm,
Nature, nor inspiration, for the slaves,
Whose God is Wealth! who strive, unceasingly,
To still the voice within them̄, which would fain
Reclaim their hearts, caught in the wiles of sense.

Gold turns the breast to stone; makes wise men fools!
There is a curse in mammon;— influence,
From which the Virtues, (save in special case,
And unpresumable,) affrighted speed;
And siren are its charms.

Contemning thus
The lust of gain, the atmosphere of self,
The spirit, which consumes the lamp of life,
(That quivering flame!) in quest of avenue
That leads to wealth, the chief and only good,
What outcry loud, from city mart, outpours
Its contumelious scoff upon the bard!
Yet, mid the frown, the taunt contemptuous,
He looks, regardless;—like the regal bird,
His nest, some alpine crag, at even tide
Returning homeward, while the concave lowers,
And the fierce night-wind sweeps impetuous by;
As he withstands the blast, and, dreadless, moves
Mid the dark clouds, and elemental strife,
So should the poet be:—his object truth:
He writes for age, nor country, but obeys
The heaven-directed impulse; speaks a tongue
Pure, universal; language of the heart.
Mean adulation seeks a kindlier home;
He heeds no voice of faction; he is taught,
By his high calling, to hold light, the praise,
The censure of the world; his guide, alone,
The clear interior rule which conscience gives;
All else is servile, base, a sacrifice
Of the high gift of God, the power of song.

Where vice, or folly reigns, shall bard withhold
The voice corrective, who, at mortal frown,
Stands unappall'd? Oh! wide diversity
Of evil, changeful as the summer cloud.
Behold the mammon-loving Magog, raised
To the excess of opulence; (a king,
O'er all Cornhill!) the half adoring look
Lifted in wonderment to see the man,
Who, from his eminence, can cast an eye,
Disdainful, at the mightiest. He, “on Change,”
Resting his bulk against the column, huge,
Hour after hour, stands, with fidelity,
At his devotions: whether storms prevail,
Or cloudless suns scatter dissolving beams;
(The veteran and unshrinking spirit his!)
Whether some town be sack'd, or famine, gaunt,
Whole regions devastate:—the murrain spread,
Or earthquake shake a Lisbon to the dust,
He heeds it not. Within a narrower sphere
His sympathies, subjected, move and play.
Self is his centre, and diverging rays
Spread only to his own circumference.

Is it one day amid the rolling year,
That thus exacts, from Crœsus' darling child,
Such harsh observance, alien to his mind,
Prone to expand in more congenial scenes?
Alas! it is his home, his resting place,
His one delight; th' arena, where he strives,
As all things here, and through eternity,
Hung on the issue of his arduous task.
He loves the Gresham pillars, but, at length,

He must retire; day will not always last.
When that grim, magisterial, lacker'd Wight
Warns, with impassion'd emphasis, that time
Tedious, is flown, which tide-like, waits for none;
The moment come, when he, the massive hinge
Sending harsh discord through his soul, must turn,
Which shuts him from his heaven, he breathes a curse,
In mutter ominous, scarce less intense
Than Osmund's, when perdition he invoked
Upon his head, who should dismember e'er,
Sherborne from Sarum, to the judgment day.

Doth he ne'er gaze on heaven's cerulean vault;
View Nature, in magnificent array;

Trees, fruits, and flowers, and all her multitude
Of lovely forms?—Yes, and despise it too!
At sight so teeming with sweet influence,
Where every sense drinks rapture, is he not
Beguiled, subdued, and made, per force, to yield

Some tribute, though but faint, of passing praise?
No! charge of such defection from his God
Rests not on him. The habitation vast
He calls his own; magnificent array

Of statues, (painted with his favourite lead,)
With fair appendage, all that wealth can heap,
Or fancy, in her largest longing, crave.
Doth this restrain Behemoth from his waves;
Rolling his “rood,” upon the boisterous surge
Of stocks, and shares, and bonds, and politics;
That vortex which ingulphs the mightiest minds!

Alas! one Despot triumphs in his breast;
The love of gold! yet, other influence
Once, in vagary strange, his heart beguiled.
Time was, the resolution grand he form'd
To check the “grasping passion,” and, at length,
Be class'd with prudence' offspring, the sage few
Who know the point where wisdom cries “Enough!”
Thus fortified in his mature resolve,

He spurns at all the “money-getting tribe;”
Men of low aims, and dwarfish intellects!
“I,” he exclaimed, “who boast an ancestry,
“Direct from Noah, and whose arms display
“The head of Saracen, slain by a Sire,
“(Clear in Rouge Dragon's lucid chronicle,)
“When Cour de Lion dared the Soldan power?—

“I grope below, in Barter's atmosphere,
“The vale inglorious, form'd to climb, and soar?
“The city, and the cit, alike, I hate!
“And who like me would grace a Coronet?”
He speaks, and hurries from the hateful chimes,
The haunt familiar, humming, as he leaves
Noise, dust, and dirt, t' expand in purer air,
“God made the country, and man made the town.”

By charms encircled, various as the hours,
Calling “my own,” the rural, and the grand,
He fancies the great stake is gain'd at last,
That he is happy! Must the truth be told?
Regrets, half quench'd, still linger round his heart.
He is not quite “at ease.” His eye recoils,
At the same everlasting round of things,
Quiescent, that ne'er speak, but only smile!
They all have lost their power to animate;
The novelty is pass'd; the dream gone by.
What can he do, when all his work is done?
The hot-house finish'd; fish-pond dug, and stock'd;
The vestibule immaculate; the bath
Surpassing Trajan's; Doric green-house, stuff'd
To suffocation; temples; obelisks;—

Grottos, and cenotaphs, and corridors,—
Rising in rich profusion; naiads; nymphs;
Neptunes and satyrs; and such classics chaste;
Cascades; and fountains; with the bridge superb,
(Thrown over ditch, for lack of nobler stream;)
And still to swell the host of exquisites,
Dairy, of Parian; and the true Sien;—
The pinery built; conservatory, rare;—
(Throng'd with exotics from all tongues and climes,)
New-modell'd; walks; and seats; and shrubs; and lawns;
All trim and perfect; not a flower awry:
And, to oppress th' illiterate with due shame,
Oh! what a library the eye beguiles!
(Too sacred to be touch'd by hand profane!)
With daubs of Titian, and the Raphael school,
Thick scatter'd, (“ere their fame had reach'd its height!”)
What! object, yet, to make his joys complete?
He feels their emptiness! a beggar still!
Something he finds is wanting, what it is—
Worlds would he give to learn. It must be wealth,
Less bounded, hoards that laugh at rivalry;
Accumulations mightier; he must now,
Strain every nerve to gain the good supreme!
(Beware the wind that blows it all away!)
The resolution form'd, magnanimous,
The hasty and impatient glance he casts,
Each morn, o'er his domain, (presenting now,
Look of the alter'd friend,) then hurries off,
From his dull Mausoleum, once again,
Himself the Jehu, to enjoy the smoke,
So late despised, the multitudinous roar,
And all the sweltering, jostling of the crowd.

Rare metamorphose! See him now, again
Composed, as “Patience on a monument,”
In “high change hour,” amid the living trees,
Into his lap, which shake their mellow fruits;
A golden harvest! These are his delights,
Vista, and gay parterres, and groves in one!
Resolved to be quite happy, he augments
Stock, bullion, till the power to estimate,
Baffles his faculties, yet all is sweet,
As water to the fainting traveller!

The racer now advances to his goal!
What, must he “leave his glory,” and his gold!
Life has its morn, its noon-tide, and its eve,
And, stern mementos warn him of his end.
Fain would he live in this his paradise,
This world, so suited to his vast desires,
Mid wealth, and ease, and pleasures infinite,
Lauded of all, but here he cannot stay:
The waves behind, (those young probationers,
Sporting and countless,) drive him to the strand,
Where he must waste himself, and be no more!
Hard, but irrevocable doom! Beyond,
He has no hope, like one, with death at hand,
Who welcomed his last enemy, and cried,
“I, the good fight, have fought, and now there waits
“The crown of life!” Such lofty trust as this,
To him, finds no access; yet other joys
Cheer him, in prospect of his final change!
That hour of horrors! when he yields his all,
And sinks, annihilate! (so would he hope!)
Into the dust, with his compeer, the brute!
In musing mood, when stern realities,

Unwelcome, sometimes force an audience;
His only solace! he anticipates
The moment, when the chief of Mammon's Sons
Shall yield his empire, and the wondering crowd,
Awe-struck, do honour to the Mighty Dead!

Oh! abject littleness!—too mean for scorn!
For this he toil'd, the modern Hercules!
More slave-like, than the captive at the oar!
Burdening his thoughts by day, his dreams by night,
That when the worms have burrow'd in his skull,
Some prattling tongues, prone to expatiate
On fortunes made and scatter'd, might proclaim,
With lifted hands and eyes, mid pause profound,
Sums, boundless, Magog once could call his own!
The World's ambition, and the Scrape-all's end!

But back return, adventurous mind, from thoughts
Of folly's strange perversities: once more,
Upon these scenes, on which the heart reclines
Bestow a parting gaze, and bid adieu.

The sky is clear; these hills are beautiful;
The country smiles; and all is gaiety
That strikes the sight; but I, howe'er entranced,
Must soon forsake this spot; then, like a dream,
Snatch'd from oblivion, will it all appear;
So, life, a world of shadows, passes on!
And after some few joys, and many cares,
Our journeys end! our weary heads repose
In their last resting-place!

With different views
The mighty multitude of human-kind
Regard this prospect! Some are wisely taught
To meet, unmoved, the momentary ills
That here arise, whilst e'en their spirits glow,
Cheer'd with the thought, that soon, their nobler part,
Their souls, will be dismantled of the load
Of this vile body, and their intellect,
Illimitable, grow, associate still
With spotless purity.

And there are those
To whom these thoughts are terrible! who seek
Their all from Earth! who never raise their eye
To brighter prospects, though they ill sustain
Life's rugged conflicts, and, with weariness,
Endure the burdens of humanity!
Who still can look upon this goodly frame!—
This grand assemblage of all lovely things!—
This Speaking Tablet of Intelligence!
Yet nothing see amid the wondrous whole,
But jarring atoms! Not to Nature's form,
Not to the chaos of the moral world,
Nor to the want of that firm evidence
Which Wisdom seeks, to regulate and fix
Her calm decisions, must mankind ascribe
This strange, insensate, blindness of her sons,
But—to the heart! There is the malady!
For how can they believe, who seek man's praise,
Rather than his, who form'd the universe?
These gropers in mid-day, who will not see,
Unceasing call for guidance, and exclaim—

“The way!” “The way!” when they their eyes might ope
And see the way, the truth; clear as the sun
In his meridian glory.

Far removed
From such, the Christian stands. His peaceful mind
Welcomes the ever-changing scenes of time.
To him the world is order. He beholds
Th' Almighty Power that leads the tempest forth
To execute his judgments, whilst his heart,
Amid the whirlwind and the winged storm,
Is still, and solaced. He can calmly say,
“I fear no nightly terrors, nor the snare
“By sinners laid. I fear not Pestilence,
“Who, like an archer, when no eye can see,
“Pursues his sullen course, and evermore,
“Mid darkness and the silent hour of night,
“Sends Death around him,—for my strength and shield,
“My confidence, is Heaven's Eternal King.”

But, though, in season of high privilege,
His soul, by Faith sustain'd, can contemplate
The change that waits him; feel a humble hope,
(Through the Great Sacrifice, his only trust!)
That day eternal; heavenly joys are near;
Yet hard it is, to see Death bear away
The fond, and tenderest relative, or friend,
For time and state unknown.

These dawning eyes
Have followed to the grave, companions dear;
Some, whom, in earlier youth, I communed with,

Are gone for ever! Many a flattering scene
Of promised happiness, with which we cheer'd
Our roving fancies, fresh from fairy land,
Has vanish'd! Not a cloud to intervene,
We, in the spring-tide hour of confidence,
Talk'd of fair-opening prospects, and the joys
Succeeding years should bring: projects indulged
Of goodly import, such as learn to make
The big heart scorn its tenement, nor saw
One little cloud to dim the crimson dawn;
But, Death has been amongst us! low they lie,
My loved associates! I am left to mourn!

Not always should the mind an entrance grant
To these sad musings: pleasant in their turn
It is, to trace the virtues of our friends,
Once prized and honour'd—to the grave gone down:
Yet cheerfulness should follow, with the heart
That feels, and owns the blessings that remain.

E'en now my pulse beats high, for, now I hear
The village bells beneath ring merrily.
From hill to hill imperfect gladness bounds,
And floating murmurs die upon the air.
It is the long look'd pastime now begun!
Aye! there they are, down on the level green,
Maiden and rustic, deck'd in best attire,
And ushering in the Whitsun Holidays:
Weaving the mazy dance, fantastic, whilst,
Encircled by a gaping crowd of boys,
The merry piper stands, and, capering, plays;
Or, half forgetful of his half-learn'd tune,

Looks scantways, to behold his favourite lass
Pair'd with another; haply, smiling too!
The aged ploughman there forgets his team,
And, though to join the skipping throng, too old,
Laughs to see others laugh, he knows not why;
Or, if in graver mood, looks wondrous wise,
And tells his sportive daughters, as they pass,
Hold, maidens! hold! no whispering in the dance.
The scene is life, and soothing jollity!
That king of sports is there, the Mountebank,
With antic tricks, or, with no sparing hand,
Dealing around some nostrum, famed, alike
Specific in all pains and maladies.
And there the village matrons, gaily trimm'd
With lace and tucker, handed down secure
Through a long line of prudent ancestors;
And never shewn to gaping multitude,
Save at some marriage gay, or yearly wake.
Musing the mothers look o'er all the plain!
A cheerful smile unbends their wrinkled brow!
The days departed start again to life,
And all the scenes of childhood re-appear,
Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun
To him who slept at noon, and wakes at eve!
Light-hearted villagers, or young, or old,
Enjoy this brief exemption from your care,
And may no tempest spoil your holiday!

Farewell, entrancing spot! Receive, sincere,
My parting benediction, I return,
Not without sighs, to breathe pollution's air;
To mix with men envelop'd in the cares

Of this low world; to be envelop'd too;
To hear their converse, how to meet with wealth,
And prosperous fortune, and the little aims
Of thrifty patience. With far other thoughts
I join their throng, for I will love to think
On you, dear Mount! and ponder on the joys
This morn bestow'd, and say, pressing my heart,
Than to review with memory's musing eye
Your lofty summit; mark its subject vales,
Its many scatter'd spires, and hamlets small,
And hear the magic orisons of birds,
Breaking the silence with their melody;—
Not sweeter to the nightly traveller's ear
Sounds the soft lute, while wandering by the side
Of some slow stream, when, not a whispering breeze
Awakes the groves, and not a murmur, rude,
Impedes the warbled notes — expiring slow;
While the clear moon resplendent shines aloft,
And casts her pale beam o'er the sleeping tide.

DARTMOOR.

ARGUMENT.

Distant view of Dartmoor. Ascent up its side. Cultivation succeeded by barrenness. Lofty rock. Mountain springs. Flowers of Dartmoor. Effects of a sudden storm on the streams and rivers of Dartmoor. Moss. View from the highest Peak. The wildness of such scenery not according with England. Solitary traveller. Peat. Pannier-horses. Colts. A cottage. The housewife. The sire. The children. Comforts of cottage life. Druids. Their traces visible on Dartmoor. Incompetency of Science, Learning, Nature, or Genius, to correct Idolatry, and to teach the knowledge of the true God. Apostrophe to pure Religion. Reference to the ancient Britons, who, after their defeat, retired beyond Dartmoor. Pursued by the enemy. Storms and Sterility dismay the Saxons. Changes on the Earth effected by man. Proposed Asylum on Dartmoor, for the pauper children of London. Anticipations. Character of Devonshire. Conclusion.

WHAT hills are those, deserted, brown, and bare,
Whose mouldering crags the spoils of Time declare?
Dartmoor! thy stately presence I perceive,
Seen first at morn, and lingering last with eve:

Thy rugged pinnacles, unfolded clear,
Rising in solemn grandeur, vast, as drear.

Mounting thy sides, and musing as I go,
Streams, oozing from their source, beside me flow,
Traced by the flag; their motion, as they stray,
Known by the Sun's slant beams that on them play:
Larks, faintly heard, my weary steps beguile,
And, warm with promise, all things speak and smile.
Onward I press, yet, still before me rise,
Peaks, grey with age, their home among the skies.
As Nature's mild and gentler forms depart,
A sterner feeling sinks into my heart:
The waving corn, the “hum” of human kind,
The paths familiar, far are left behind,
And to th' horizon's dim-discover'd bound,
Heaths, strew'd with granite fragments, reign around,

So, on her course, when first the Bark proceeds,
The port, the shore, at every glance recedes;
'Till, forward borne, as favouring billows roll,
Each object fades that lingers near the soul.

Approaching now a Torr of towering height,
Where huge Rock-Idols awe while they invite,

In silence, I survey the prospect round,
Vales clothed with fern, and hills with ruins crown'd.
By slender aid from fancy, (which can give
Nerve to the feeble, make the breathless live,)
Imposing structures glisten in the Sun,
Completed often, oftener, just begun.
Base, architrave, and outstretched columns fair,
Promiscuous cast, and whitening in the air,
Save when, to change the sameness of the scene,
Lichen and Archil spot with red and green.
Whether primeval cliffs, by slow decay,
Have crumbled, till yon shapes they now display;
Or they were thus by force volcanic thrown,
Or heap'd, by power of mortal, stone on stone,

In times when men yoked lions to their car,
Nothing is certain, but that—“there they are.”

On yonder mount, where crags unnumbered lie,
Too poor for praise, too mean for rivalry,
One lordly rock, his head, disdainful, rears,
Braving the tempests of a thousand years,—
The dark and gloomy giant of the waste,
Whom eve-o'ertaken travellers pass in haste,
And, gazing at his front, austere and rude,
Start at the wizard haunts of solitude.

Ascending still; each moment to my eyes,
New wilds extend, and prouder summits rise.
The limpid streams, so late that tortuous ran
Down Dartmoor's sides, when first my toil began;
Boasting no name, by dews nocturnal fed,
And early lost mid reeds that near them spread:
Such now have vanish'd, while a nobler train,
From loftier springs, pass boisterous to the plain;

Winding through hollows in their mazy round,
And to the sea, howe'er diverted, bound.
These speed through banks that wrath departed show,
The neutral soil where herbs forbear to grow;
Through devious paths with hoarse impatience glide,
'Neath brambles oft, which matted straws bestride:
Dangling with every breeze, detained, when last,
Bearing their spoils, the floods imperious past.
Some simple flowers, attendant, fresh and fair,
Shed grateful perfumes on the “desert air:”
“Sweet-gale,” and “Thyme,” and “Spleenwort” here expand,
“Dwarf-raspb'ries” that confess th' ungenial land;
“Daisies,” in every nook of verdure found,
Or “Violets,” that empurple far the ground;
The “Sun-dew” pure, her crystal drop descried,
And thou, tall “Foxglove!” still Danmonium's pride.

The mists, that round yon Peak concentering spread,
Changes portend that mountain dwellers dread.
Clouds, dense and lowering, throng the western sky;
A pause proclaims aerial conflicts nigh,
Save when, (the equal prelude that dismays)
On summits bleak, the winds their voices raise,
Heard in the stillness, like the sullen roar
From Ocean's distant wave-assaulted shore.
Now storms conflicting burst upon the ear;
The wild-goat hurries to his covert near—

Whilst quivering flags before the tempest bend,
Rains, with brief warning, torrent-like descend;
And the loud gust, ascending peal on peal,
Comes with a might that probes the heart of steel.

Where are the silver rills that wound their way
Through tufted reeds, or spiring rushes gay;
Too small to shadow, in their face below,
The peaceful flowers that on their margin blow?
Or, where the streams, reflecting Heaven's clear dyes,
That roll'd o'er cress which vainly strove to rise,
Soothing the sense with their melodious song,
As to the vale they sparkling danced along;—
Haply to turn some clattering mill beside,
Or bear to sister towns their crystal tide?

Fled! like the savage, savage to engage,
At every blast convulsed with deeper rage!
See, in long lines of terrible array,
Th' impetuous waters, foaming, force their way.
If wrathful thus the mountain rills appear,
What forms must Dartmoor's headstrong rivers bear?

Taw, Yealme, and Stour, by countless streamlets fed,
Plunging infuriate down their rocky bed;—

Teign, in whose breast eternal discord reigns,
Or thou fierce Dart! indignant at thy chains?
So late who sped'st, dispensing murmurs faint,
Though arm'd with power, yet yielding to constraint;
Whose earnest flow th' obstructing stone divides,
Stain'd with the weeds that clothe its jagged sides;
Stretch'd out amid the current deep and strong,
And waving as it, lucid, pours along!
Now swoll'n by sudden storm, with furious force,
Onward thou bear'st whate'er would stem thy course;
Vex'd, madden'd, sending forth the fearful roar,
Then, winding round yon point, art seen no more!

Semblance of man, disquieted in vain,
Treading ambition's path, intent on gain;
Flush'd now with honours; panting for renown;
Scorning all toils to grasp the laurel-crown;
Loud, eager, ardent, hurrying on his way,
Disturb'd, or torn, by jarring passion's sway,
Scheme and device exuberant in his soul,
Till death, that foe abrupt! subverts the whole!

Is it some vagrant phantasy? the change,
Seems mightier than the last, so new! so strange!
The clouds discharged, from their unknown retreat,
The zephyrs back return on pinion fleet;

And in their comeliest garb (heaven's azure clear,)
Once more these crags and leafless wilds appear.

Moss have I seen, where, by the Moon's pale light,
Dryads might trip with fairies through the night,
(While Philomela gave th' inspiring lay,
The eye profane of mortal held at bay,)
Spread o'er some wood, or, mantling aged wall,
With the next war of winds ordain'd to fall;
Or crowning hut forlorn, 'neath beechen shade,
Prosperous itself, but all below decay'd,
Yet here the region is of that sweet flower,
Which decks the stones with many an elfin bower,
Through which the beetle peeps, or wanders o'er
His tiny vestibule, or corridor;
While near him, in the curious coil of grey,
The sly aranea waits her hapless prey.

Where is the lovelier sight than mountain steep,
When blustering storms, exhausted, sink to sleep;
The Sun aloft in cloudless pomp, serene,
With wild magnificence, the circling scene;
Rocks, hills, and sky in sleep lethean bound,
Nor one discordant voice obtruding round?
Excess of joy that verges fast on pain!
Silence maintains, too undisturb'd her reign.
In this secluded hour, when all is still,
And thoughts, fantastic, captive lead the will;
The spirit, borne on fancy's airy car,
Uncurb'd by reason's cold, but polar star,

Environ'd by the desolate and vast;
Requires a clear remembrance of the past,
To feel afresh th' indissoluble ties
Of earth, and all her softening charities.

What prospects in succession, wide as new,
From yon high Peak might break upon my view!
Form'd for dominion, 'tired in royal mien,
On which the rays of evening long are seen,
(Its splendour with beneficence combined,
Warning, mid bogs, the flag-collecting hind,)
When night, the soft enticer to repose,
Her sable canopy o'er Nature throws.
With labour hard that brow august is gain'd!
Confusion here her rule hath long maintain'd:
Far off, dismantled, stands the stannier stone,
With here and there the tower of age unknown;

Deep ravines, fretted by the wintry flood,
And large, tho' dwarfish still, old Wistman's wood.

Oh, spot! where, far from earth's cabal and crime,
Man seems a being alien to the clime,
One waste, continuous, meets the wearied eye,
No motion, but the cloud slow sailing by,
No sound remote, a death-like hush profound,
With hills, the wreck of chaos, scatter'd round!

Is this the land where all things noble smile?
Can this belong to thee, my native Isle!
O Britain! in pre-eminence of worth,
Who sit'st a queen o'er all the realms of earth?
With stately mansion, and meandering stream,
Mid temples meet for an Elysian dream,

Whose rich champaigns on every side present
Peace, join'd with health, and labour with content;
Cots, flocks, and herds, which he who sees must love,
With many a spire that points to worlds above?
In all the good, the generous, and refined,
In all that moves the heart, exalts the mind,
Bounding to heights, while others coldly climb;
Thy princely institutions, hoar with time,
Never by man, in happiest age, surpass'd,
(Heaven long protect them from the scathing blast
Can this be Albion?—views like these pertain
To that sweet clime where beauty holds her reign,
And all the Graces, all the Virtues shine,
Arts, friendship, genius, visitants divine?
The spell is burst? on Albion's ground I stand:
Out, in the distance far, lies Ocean's strand!
There England's Navy in her Hamoaze rides,
With Neptune's self that equal sway divides;
The wooden bulwarks to Britannia dear,
Which the whole world alternate laud, and fear.

Twice have I travers'd Dartmoor's hills and plains,
But still the curse, the barren curse, remains;

Spring scarce can thaw the rigours of her sky,
And, without offering, Autumn passes by;
Yet charms there are in shapeless tracks like these,
Distemper'd wilds possess their power to please.
Here, varied as the visions of the night,
Earth's fractured elements my gaze invite;
Views of dark horror, yet, that lustre shed,
And prospects which commingle joy with dread.

Said I, that all was barrenness alone,—
Vales, boundless spread, with summits strew'd with stone?
Prepared no vestige of mankind to see,
No features rose but wide sterility;
Now, through the grander lineaments, my eye
Perceives, with wonder, kindlier objects nigh.
So, haply, deeds at which our hands we raise,
Survey'd with closer scan might challenge praise;
So oft in foes, beheld through passion blind,
Virtues despair'd of, Charity might find.

Estranged, long time, from every human trace,
At glimpse of man, smiles kindle in my face;
For, mid the winding road that lies below,
One traveller journeys on, with footsteps slow,

Oft pausing some disruptured clift to view,
Till home-allurements prompt his pace anew.

Now I behold, upon the subject plain,
The black peat-hillocks, and the pannier-train,
Bearing the winter store to dwelling green—
In some far dell, by none but hunter seen,

When, bounding on through perils manifold,
He tracks his scent, from crag, from hold to hold,
Till sudden check'd; the game and chase have flown;
He stops, a hallow'd sympathy to own:
The light blue vapours, from the chimney rude,
(In that wild scene of waste and solitude,)
Rising toward Heaven in many a circle fair,
Speak to his heart, of social life, e'en there.

Objects, to human notice scarce reveal'd,
In times like these, some hues attractive yield.
Welcome, ye ants! that with the dawn appear,
Welcome, ye filmy insects! sporting near;
(Childe's solitary tomb, in this lone place,
Might prove a link to bind me to my race;)

Welcome, ye sheep! far off that herded lie,
Screen'd by some mouldering bank from sun or fly;
Welcome, ye birds! that there your gambols take;
What shapes are those, that wildering thoughts awake,
Discern'd upon yon prominence of stone,
In hour of sport grotesque by Nature thrown?
So sagely grave, the mane half worn away,
Trailing to earth, with coats of iron grey—
Their chests a forest, and their haunches bare,
Their shapeless legs, masses of shaggy hair,
With downcast look, still as the rock beneath?
Colts! Dartmoor Colts! the roughest forms that breathe!

Ah! there, till now unkenn'd, in cheerful white,
A cot, amid the marshes, meets my sight.
O memory! why so treacherous, once so true;
Sweet recollections crowd upon my view:
The self-same cot, at which, in season past,
I call'd, and, hungry, broke my lengthen'd fast;
Converse indulged, reciprocal and kind,
(The “splendid shilling” duly left behind,)
The very Dame who spread her homely fare,
And earnest press'd the stranger, lo! is there:—
For ever busy, though, as sunk the Sun,
Deploring that so much remain'd undone,
Yet who, true wisdom! still could time afford
To read her Bible, ever on her board.
In kersey-coat, by gales uncourteous fann'd,
With neat white bib, and basket in her hand,
I see her on the scatter'd furze present
Her garments to the bleaching firmament.
And there appears the hospitable sire,
Rearing the turf-pile for his Christmas fire,

While rosy children, with their flaxen hair,
Loose to the wind, officious burdens bear:
Bless'd Ignorance! who, as their mountains, free,
Deem the whole world comprised in what they see.

Some stunted trees before the dwelling grow,
Bent from th' Atlantic blast, their bitterest foe.

A strip of corn, the time-worn stones among,
Waves slowly to the breeze that sweeps along,
While near it, skirting a tumultuous stream,
Herbage, long mown, invites the sun's warm beam;
Nor these alone discreet remembrance show
Of Autumn's wind, and bleak December's snow;
Around the crazy door, which mounds defend,
Potatoes thrive, the poor man's greatest friend.
Though their lean kine, perverse, too far have stray'd,
Or in their garden floods have ravage made;
Though oft they watch the Heavens, and oft retire,
Chill'd still with rains, to stir the ember fire,
Forbear your pity! let the current flow,
Here wasted, in behalf of real woe!
Many, in ermine clad, oppress'd with cares,
Rest not, at night, with hearts so light as theirs,
With them solicitude has slender range,
They know no contrast, and they fear no change;
And though hard fare, their birth-right, they endure,
Pleasures their hearth surround, if humble, pure:
The mountain winds conspire to brace and cheer,
And brute intemperance is a stranger here:
Theirs are the wants which men unpamper'd crave,
And theirs the hopes that stretch beyond the grave.

Beholding hills, upon whose iron breast,
A permanence of being seems imprest;
The same through ages past, and still to be,
The earthly emblem of eternity;
Th' excursive thought, (whilst these unmoved remain,)
Traces the shifting scenes of mortals vain;
Man's little great concerns, kings' rise and fall,
While Dartmoor downward looks, and scorns it all.
The spirit, free as is the ambient air,
Throws back her glance upon the times that were;
Dwells on the years, by mental night o'ercast,
When skins preserved our fathers from the blast;
When the barbaric faith of ancient days,
Shone here with direful and concenter'd blaze.
What crowds upon the very sward I tread,
Once reverenced idols, bending low the head,
As they survey'd their stone-gods drench'd in gore;
Or heard their voices in the thunder's roar;
Or drown'd with shouts the agonizing cry
From peopled-wickers, kindling wide the sky—
But these deform'd prostrations of the mind
Have to oblivion's gulf been long consign'd;
Or lightly float on memory's tranquil stream,
The shadowy vestige of a morning dream.

Disastrous hour, when Hell, our race to cheat,
First sanctified the forest's dark retreat;
That once, as Heaven's vicegerents, Druids led
To seek these wilds, with tangling trees o'erspread;
To brave the mountain-torrent, foaming by,
And here prefer their curs'd idolatry:

100

On yonder beacon of dismantled stone,
To raise the altar, hear their victims groan;
And hope, delusive dream! by deeds like these,
Avenging heaven to deprecate or please,
Up yon tall crags e'en now the sign appears,
Steps coarsely wrought, the work of unknown years,

101

By which the priests ascended, hosts in sight,
To the rock-basin on the loftiest height,
And there perform'd, while Pity's eyes o'erflow,
Rites! Moloch rites! o'er which the veil we throw.

Did ever Science, on her blazon'd throne,
(Worshipp'd by some, who worship her alone!)
Did ever Learning, to the stars allied,
Glory of man, by none but fools decried;—
Did ever Nature, whose ecstatic praise,
Crowds echo, who no higher thought can raise;
Did ever Genius, in her flights sublime,
Spurning the narrow bounds of space and time;
Did ever these, with being's endless form,
Summer's mild breeze, or Winter's driving storm,
Revolving seasons, e'en the midnight sky,
Proclaiming, “thunder-tongued,” a deity!
Subdue the harden'd, cruelty restrain,
Or turn the wandering heart from idols vain?
See Druids in their reeking vestments bound,
While cliffs and rills, and sylvan scenes surround!
View Bramah's swarthy sons, 'mong genial skies,
Offering to demons nightly sacrifice!

102

See Vishnoo, Boodh, and Moslem devotees,
Framing their sensual Heavens, mid rocks and trees!
Witness the sages, boasts of elder time,
Who dared, save one, all hills of knowledge climb,
And, failing there, the record left behind,
That none, “by wisdom,” God, might seek and find.

What hallowed Being here directs her flight?
Her flowing robe of pure and pearly white;
With radiant chaplets, borrowed from the Sun,
Bearing the olive wreath on Calvary won?
Her brow benignant; meek, her look divine,
As Love, when pleading at Devotion's shrine?
Wheree'er the form angelic wings her way,
Harpies, which feed on man, resign their prey!
All deeds of darkness vanish, that consume,
Life, just expanding, hurried to the tomb!
Or Juggernaut, or Shivu's orgies vile!
Infanticide, the widow's blazing pile,
Remorseless, “red-eyed” superstition wild,
Feasting the famish'd tigress with his child!
Or bearing onward (still the passion, blood!)
His sire, to gorge the shark in Ganges' flood!
These all, the brood of Erebus, retire
At her approach, abash'd, to dens of fire!
Celestial Visitant! o'er this dark earth,
Enlarge thy triumphs! give that kingdom birth,
Which only can the powers of Hell restrain,
And consummate, O Peace! thy righteous reign.

In days, less rude, when War his banners rear'd,
How may these wilds, by turns, have awed and cheep'd.

103

Perchance, in all their martial pomp array'd,
Some chieftains, high in fame, might here have stray'd;
Bold to explore, the prelude to possess,
Who fear'd, at this sepulchral wilderness!
Not so the Britons! Vanquish'd by the foe,
These heights they reach, whose windings well they know,
Nor pausing to survey the trackless waste,
Up, earnest up, the “steep, rough” sides they haste,
Braving the lone recesses of the Moor,
Behind them Death, but Liberty before!
At length, escaped beyond this belt of stone,
Round them they gaze, and call one spot their own,
Joy in their breasts, and transport in their eyes,
Save when, with scorpion sting, the thoughts arise
Of wrongs, oppressions, ever fresh, though past,
Chiefly, when Britain's mothers shriek'd aghast;
Beholding, dread precursors of despair!
Assassins' daggers gleaming in the air!
Sons, brothers, husbands, as with wounds they reel,
Imploring mercy from the hearts of steel!
The purple tide, there from the banquet ran,
Wide-spreading, stain indelible on man!
As slaughter closed, what perfidy began!

104

Whence yonder glittering rays, far off, that beam,
Like noon-tide lustre, on some restless stream?
Faint sounds are heard! a motion slow is there!
A shout imperfect vibrates in the air!
The Saxons haste! List to their sturdy tread!
The shining helms flash terrors from their head!

105

Buckler, and sword, intenser glare display,
While ravenous Death, impatient, waits his prey.
Check'd, not dismay'd, at Dartmoor's base they stand;
Silent they mark the view on every hand;
Parch'd herbage, hill-tops in their dreariest form,
With vales, perpetual haunt of wind and storm.

106

Yet, not to Nature they their homage pay;
Far other aims their hearts obdurate sway:
Theirs is one thought, the same straight road to tread,
By which, so late, the routed Britons fled.
They see the path, clear in the broken ground,
And, like the roebuck, up the mountain bound.
Hour after hour, the foe his toil sustains,
Till Eve's last streak retires, and midnight reigns.

Heaven always just, though in his own wise way,
Sometimes o'erwhelms th' oppressor with dismay:
A season this might lion-hearts confound,
Such soul-distracting tempests rave around:
The drenching rain beats through the hour of sleep,
Whilst o'er the Saxons winds unpitying sweep.
The burst of elemental sounds austere,
Prolong'd by darkness, deafening, strikes the ear.
Fresh foes augment the horrors of the night!
Flashes, the Peaks invest, with forked light,
And such portentous peals prevail on high,
Each fears the “final doom” is drawing nigh.

Morn dimly breaks, at length, the twilight grey,
Reluctant long, her empire yields to day.
The warrior chief, projecting conquests wide,
Upbraids the tardy moments as they glide.
A rugged point before him towers serene,
Thither he speeds to trace the circling scene.
What sudden palsy on his sinew preys,
As slowly he the neighbouring realm surveys!

107

No human dwelling! Wastes, or crags up-piled,
And all beyond, more desolate, more wild,
“Back, back!” he shouts, rage beaming from his eye,
“Here storms may thrive, but living thing must die!”

O Earth! what changes on thy face appear,
Through man, the Lord of this sublunar sphere!
There, land he tills, where once the waters roll'd,
Here, guides new rivers, there, arrests the old;

108

Ranges o'er Alpine rocks, on courser fleet;
Prostrates Hercynian forests at his feet;

109

Joins sea with distant sea, in confluence wide,
Or barrier rears to ocean's raging tide!

110

These very mounts, that cheerless thus expand,
To man have bow'd, or Time's transforming hand,

111

For here, of old, oaks, sweeping tempests braved,
The deep gloom hung, the wood impervious waved;

112

And, soon their ancient glory to restore,
Mildew and death may triumph here no more.

113

Must fancy still, with ever-varying dye,
Obtrude her airy shadows, flitting by?

114

Can Dartmoor breathe a spirit not her own,
Where tyrant Desolation broods alone?
Can scenes like these, to penury resign'd,
Bursting the sleep of ages, teem with mind?
These arid wastes submit to Ceres' reign,
Hills wave with corn, and flocks adorn the plain?
No idle vision, changing with the sun,
Behold the work, with blessings fraught, begun!
View the first vict'ry fair of human toil!
See the young team invade the virgin soil!
There houses long and large, unseen till now,
Smile like the firs on some Norwegian brow,
Th' inspiring pledge of that auspicious day,
When Dartmoor's reeds and fens shall pass away;

115

Summer's deep-foliage clothe her mountains bare,
And harvest-home reward the reaper's care.

Are there some men, amid a world so vile,
Upon whose paths admiring angels smile?
Some spirits who to earth have found their way,
Some souls ethereal, form'd of purer clay,
Who love to break the child of sorrow's chain,
To whom the orphan never pleads in vain?—
The stay of lonely widowhood opprest,
On whom ten thousand beams of blessing rest?—
Whose “light,” diffuses round a “ray serene.”
Yet whose best deeds by Heaven alone are seen?
My country! many such in thee are found,
Whose unbought praise both hemispheres resound;
Who prove for Britain (not to sight reveal'd!)
Her strongest bulwark, and her firmest shield!
And who, at length, at the last trumpet's call,
Will hear “Well done!” from God, the Judge of all.
These, pondering with divine benignity
On lisping outcasts, London! own'd by thee,
Deserted, naked, destitute, forlorn,
No hand to guide, no Mentor to forewarn,
Projected plans of mercy, when the place
Where lonely captives pined, or brave, or base,

116

Expands her hundred doors, and Dartmoor yields
Her blasted heaths to labour, fruits, and fields!

117

Here is the promise verified, e'en here,
The plough and sickle form'd from sword and spear!
Oh, spot! on which our anxious hopes repose;
Here let the desert “blossom like the rose!”
To age mature, may Heaven's especial care
Watch o'er thy charge! protect from ev'ry snare!
And on their heads, to friendless want the friend,
His choicest gifts, in copious showers, descend.

Visions before me burst, in long array,
Bright as the winged harbingers of day.
Here, blooming like some palm on Lybia's waste,
Among these wilds, (half from the earth erased,
So spurn'd of man, scarce seen but by the skies,)
I mark the Infant Town progressive rise,
Destined, perchance, nor distant far, to throw
Her stately shadow o'er the plain below:—
I view the smiling hamlet lift her head;
Expanded meads, in vest luxuriant, spread;
Trees flourish where so late huge torrs were found,
Whilst many a church casts sanctity around.
Haste on to eminence, like some pure spring,
Small at its source, at length, a lord, a king,
Pouring his mass of waters to the sea,
And gathering, as he flows, fresh royalty.

118

While thus, to thee, the passing note I raise,
Oh, Dartmoor shall thy Parent find no praise?
Devon! whose beauties prove, from flattery free,
The happy theme where wranglers all agree!
When troubles press, or health, that blessing, fails,
What joy to range thy renovating vales;
“England's Montpelier!” o'er thy downs to stray,
Thy logans, camps, and cromlechs huge, survey;

119

Thy rivers to their mountain source explore,
Or roam refresh'd beside thy craggy shore;
To track thy brooks, that, to the passer by,
Babble their airs of liquid melody,
Winding through glens, where seldom suns have shone,
Like life, through all obstructions, gliding on;
Thy distant offspring with th' enthusiast's zest,
Extol thee still, in charms perennial drest;
Trace, and retrace each haunt of childhood sweet,
And, “Oh, my country:” in their dreams repeat.
And, if at length, when years are on their wane,
Surmounting bars, and bursting every chain,

120

To their “dear Devon” they return once more,
What pleasure to renew the joys of yore,
(Now mellow'd down, by time, to calm delight,
Like eve's broad orb, retiring from the sight;)
To mount thy wood-crown'd hills, and there to stand,
Creation blooming round, a Tempe land!
Shrubs, rocks, and flowers, voluptuous in attire,
Whatever eye can charm, or heart desire,
And in the distance, through some opening seen,
Old ocean, in his vast expanse of green.

Nor Devon, must thy honours linger here;
Though thou wast made to wake the rapturous tear,
And grant thy children, down to life's last close,
Forms fair on which their spirits might repose,
Yet higher claims are thine, in which the heart,
The germ eternal, bears conspicuous part;
Thine is the region large, the pale renown'd,
Where “Worthies” dwelt of old, and still abound;
In thee, congenial element, we find
The great! the liberal! the ennobling mind!
Virtues retired, that shrink from public gaze,
And genius, which demands a nation's praise.

Dartmoor! at length, the parting word to thee!
I leave thy borders not from sorrow free;
But all things here, successive, pass away
In storm, or sun-shine, like an April day:
Heaven's gorgeous clouds the night advancing tell,
“Mother of many rivers,” now, farewell,

121

PRINCE LEÉ BOO.

ARGUMENT.

Lee Boo, and his Father Abba Thule conversing. Time, the evening before the Prince departed with the English.—Scene, the sea shore.

125

“GO! dauntless, go!” the Sire of Pèlew cried,
“These gallant Strangers be thy guard and guide!
“Long have I rear'd thee with unsleeping care,
“Child of thy Father's love! but now prepare
“To leave these arms, and, o'er the billows green,
“Sail on secure, while oceans roll between.
“For know, my son, beyond the isles I sway,
“Of Oroolong, and Keth, and Corooraa,
“Nations there are, invincible as wise,
“And other oceaus sweep reclining skies.—
“I see thy young eye sparkle at the tale!
“Yes, with these daring English thou shalt sail;
“With them direct the Bark of towering form,
“And ride, like them, triumphant through the storm.

126

“King of these isles, a long and glorious reign!
“Has Abba Thule liv'd, nor liv'd in vain!
“His envying foes behold his empire vast,
“And from his arm uplifted — shrink aghast.
“The wisdom which his far-famed Sires possest
“Has long and amply Abba Thule blest;
“None better know the Plantain grove to rear;
“To cleave the tree, or launch the massy spear;
“Yet from the lore these unknown Whites display,
“Your father's high-prized wisdom dies away!”

Th' astonish'd youth awhile his thoughts supprest;
Then, roused by wonder, thus his Sire addrest:
“What! does the world a distant land contain,
“That has not learn'd great Abba Thule's reign?
“Methought, for thee, the Sun resplendent shone,
“And that the stars were form'd for us alone:
“Hadst thou not told me other parts there were,
“With seas as spacious, and with lands as fair,
“Viewing these blue-vein'd strangers on our earth,
“I should have judged the waves had giv'n them birth!
“But though no Bones, like ours, their arms array,
“Nor healthful brown their sickly forms display;
“Yet why should colour change the feeling mind?
“In being men, I love my fellow-kind: —
“Fearless, and calm, I quit my father's throne
“To brave the dangers of a world unknown.—
“But, to my Dorack, now the news I bear,
“Receive her blessing, and her gladness share.”

And now the youth, enraptured, urged his way
To where the Damsel's distant dwelling lay;

127

When thus he cried, “Dorack! I tidings bear,
“Which thou, best friend, with bounding heart wilt hear,
“Soon shall I ocean's furthest waves explore,
“And search, untired, the world's remotest shore!
“And when, returning to my native isle,
“Wearied with toil, I seek thy cheering smile,
“Whilst all I have lies prostrate at thy feet,
“Transport will mark the moment when we meet.”

“When dost thou go? and how?” the maiden cries;
Pale turn her cheeks, and wildly beam her eyes.

When thus the youth, “E'en now I wait to share
“Thy fervent blessing, and thy parting prayer.”
Dorack replied, “What phantom of the brain
“Lures thee to death? Thy wandering steps restrain!
“Do not, hereafter, for thy rashness weep!
“Nor seek to taste the perils of the deep!
“Let these strange white men from our coast retire,
“And thou, contented, sojourn with thy sire.”
(She paused, when from the tumult of her soul
Adown her cheek the tear unconscious stole.)

To her the youth, “O cease that bitter woe,
“Not for myself, but Pèlew's realms I go.”

The maiden thus preferr'd her soft reply;
“Live with thy friends, nor from thy Dorack fly.
“Ah! why desire to leave thy peaceful home,
“And through the world with pale-faced strangers roam?
“Who, like thy race, such ponderous spears can throw?
“Where can such Yams regale, or Chinham grow?

128

“What clime, like ours, her plantain grove can boast?
“Her palm-tree forest, and her shell-lined coast?
“To cure the restless wanderings of thy mind,
“Thou seek'st on distant shores that peace to find,
“Which only thrives by Friendship's hallowed side;
“Where souls, congenial, stem misfortune's tide.”

The Prince replies, “Ere long, I thee shall meet,
“And lay my humble offerings at thy feet.”

Faintly, and slow, the drooping maiden cried,
“Flower of thy race! I would, but cannot chide;
“Yet, should'st thou hence, with vain delusion roam,
“And chance conduct thy storm-beat vessel home,
“No Dorack's eye shall live to see the hour,
“And faded wreaths shall deck thy favourite bower!”

“Forbear that thought!” the shivering youth replied,
“Nay! more I tell thee,” urged the promised bride,
“If, sway'd by folly, thou these counsels spurn,
“Never, ah never, shall thy feet return!
“When, wand'ring on the beach, mid evening's gloom,
“Must not conflicting cares my heart consume,
“Thinking how thou thy little bark shalt save,
“Amid the driving blast, and mountain wave?
“I mark thy grief! I hear thy bursting sigh
“I see thy cold corse float before mine eye!”

After a pause, to sacred feeling dear,
The Prince replied, “My Dorack, dry thy tear!
“What though thy Leé Boo wander far away,
“And thou, awhile, deplore his long delay,

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“Think, for what cause, he leaves a love like thine,
“And, for thy country, meaner thoughts resign!”

“Vain are thy words,” replied the weeping maid,
“We want no stranger's artificial aid;
“What though no barks, like theirs, protect our coast,
“Nor Thule's sons their varying knowledge boast;
“Yet, humbler arts our humbler minds possess;
“Yet, still we know enough for happiness.
“Ah! little thinks the youth, who leaves his friends,
“And, far from home, his heedless footstep bends,
“What deep conflicting pangs his heart may know;
“What tears, unnumber'd, from repentance flow!
“Then shall he learn his rash resolves to mourn,
“And bear the pressing anguish they have borne.”

When thus the Prince. “I must thy smiles deplore,
“Though thee I love, I love my country more!”

“Then! if to please thee in an evil hour,”
The maiden cried, “thou brave the ocean's power;
“If, heedless of thy drooping Dorack's pain,
“Thou spurn her counsels, and her tears disdain,
“Talk of delights thy search shall never find,
“And boast of honours, fleeting as the wind!
“Go! heedless, go! this heart can nurse its care,
“Silent in woe, and calm amid despair,
“And, when its friends enquire the reason why,
“Tell with a tear, and answer with a sigh!”
She said, and, slow retiring, in amaze,
Left the desponding youth awhile to gaze;
When, starting from a dream, he smote his breast,
And, downward pondering, sought the tent of rest.

130

Now, on the eastern verge of earth, arose
Morn's doubtful light; and now it feebly glows
With solitary beam; extending far,
The rising glories veil the morning star:
Cloud heap'd on sapphire cloud, the gazer cheers,
Till, in his pride, the Lord of Day appears.

Dorack, upstarting from her short repose,
Beheld that sun his earliest beam disclose,
Wont to inspire, but now, whose cheerless light
Sent back her heart to solitude and night.

Upon the shore a numerous host appear;
Chieftains and Rupacks to the bark draw near,
Far o'er the watery waste who cast their eyes,
While hopes, and fears, for Leé Boo's safety rise.
When Pélew's king, firm-hearted, near them drew
To hail his friends, and bid the last adieu.

Though far removed from Learning's fostering sway,
Pass'd Abba Thule's circling years away;
Though nursed in realms where Science never shone,
And of mankind unknowing and unknown,
Yet, Heaven enrich'd him with a princely mind,
Her noblest gift — the milk of human kind.
He lived his country's pride, her evening star,
Whose cheering ray descended wide and far;
Spread o'er his land a little stream of light,
Though twinkling, constant; and though humble, bright.

Ah! now his son, with pensive look, draws near;
Solemn his step, and on his cheek a tear.

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“Why weep'st thou thus?” the father, anxious, cried,
“My Dorack mourns,” the downcast youth replied.
“Torn is my bosom, and my purpose wild,
“Must love, or duty, triumph o'er thy child?”
To him the monarch, “Thee, my son, I prize!
“Yet I repress the thoughts that fain would rise.
“Haste with these strangers; toils should but invite,
“While visions, glorious, dance before the sight.
“The grandest principle on man bestow'd,
“The noblest journey, though the roughest road,
“Is — to toil onward in our country's good;
“So much profess'd! so little understood!
“Be this thy task. If not one cross arise,
“One fond hope blasted, or one sacrifice,
“Where is the patriot's praise? Prepare thy mind
“Conjuncture dark, the storm-vex'd sky to find;
“Tempests, though fierce, will leave the brighter day,
“And toils, surmounted, pass, like clouds, away.
“The vessel waits — one last glance dart around—
“Leap to the bark, and be with glory crown'd.
“Suppress that tear — thy native valour show—
“Men should disdain to deal in women's woe.”

Firmness may worlds subdue! but still, 'tis hard
To keep, for ever keep, o'er Nature, guard;
The monarch's eyes the soft infection caught,
And what his tongue condemn'd, his actions taught.
Faltering he cried, striving to hide his pain,
“I count the moons till we do meet again!”

The youth, o'erpower'd, in silence bow'd his head,
Then waved his hand, and to the vessel sped.

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When, from the deck, he spied his Dorack's form,
Bending, in calm submission, to the storm;
Casting a look to Heaven, whose glimmering light
Scarce forced a passage through her flooded sight.
The sails were raised, when swift the maiden ran
Down to the Ocean's brink, and thus began,
“Go, youth, beloved! impelled by Folly's sway!
“Go, voyage safe, and prosperous be thy way!
“But, as these eyes no more with joy must shine,
“And never meet the answering glance of thine;
“Let not this last fond moment from us glide,
“And the stern bark our kindred souls divide,
“Without one word, our souls with joy to fill,
“One fix'd resolve, that Love shall triumph still.
“The mutual wish, oh, let contention cease!
“And, if thou must depart — depart in peace!”

Scarce had she said, and as the youth arose
To lull the maiden's anguish to repose;
The lifted canvas courts the rising gale,
And from her aching eye conveys the lingering sail.

Ah! never more to Pèlew's happy isle,
Returning with a fond and artless smile,
While crowds receive thee from the ocean green,
Shalt thou recount the wonders thou hast seen!—
Ask for thy Dorack, prove her groundless fear,
And wipe, with conscious pride, Affection's tear!
Ah! hapless youth, soon shall thy race be run!
Thy light withdrawn, untimely set thy sun!
And, when at last the mortal debt thou pay,
Far from thy home, poor blossom of a day!

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Thy bursting heart shall on thy Dorack dwell,
And parting with the world, exclaim, “Farewell!”

The little toys which pleased thy opening mind,
Ere o'er thee pass'd distemper's ruthless wind,
And which thou fondly hopedst to display,
When back returning to thy Corooraa,
These shalt thou leave behind! The poet's eye
Weeps, as he writes, to think that thou should'st die!

Thy kindred sad shall deem their Lée Boo slain!
Thy sorrowing sire call after thee in vain!
And, when perceiving at the promised time,
No son returning to his native clime;
Days of unceasing pain his heart shall know,
And gloomy nights of still-augmenting woe;
Till Grief shall dash him with her poison'd wave,
And his grey hairs go sorrowing to the grave.

Thy Dorack too shall o'er her Leé Boo pore!
Each evening wander on the lonely shore!
Each morning roam with heart-corroding pain,
And count the crags so often pass'd in vain!
Still, maiden, still, thy hapless path pursue;
Still, to affection, prove thy spirit true;
And dwell with all a lover's fond delight,
When the proud bark shall crowd upon thy sight;
But never more shall Leé Boo call thee dear,
And never more his voice thy bosom cheer!
The bond of death his once-loved corse detains;
A foreign country holds his cold remains!
Ah! why that sudden start? that heaving sigh?
Didst thou, in fancy, see thy Lée Boo nigh?

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No! 'twas the wind, at which thou stood'st aghast,
The fearful howling of the midnight blast.
Poor maiden, grieve not! he shall ne'er complain,
Though storms and tempests heave the raging main;
Peaceful, his bones beneath the valley lie,
Whilst the fierce whirlwind sweeps unheeded by!

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WAR, A FRAGMENT.

IF the whole tract of WAR dense ills afford,
What are your crimes, ye guardians of the sword!
At whose dread summons countless scabbards fly,
While murders fill the earth, and shrieks, the sky!
What are your crimes, ye lords of wealth and power!
Who loose your “war-dogs” in Ambition's hour,
And, heedless, view your subjects bleed and groan
To add some bauble to a burden'd throne!
The searching hour shall come, nor slowly creep,
When Justice, starting from her couch of sleep,
Shall seize the long-neglected sword of fate,
And call to vengeance earth's mistitled Great!

Amid the brave, the generous, and the pure,
Thy name, O Kosciusko! shall endure:
And, though to gain a people equal laws,
Thy weary limb a clanking fetter draws,
Yet, what sustains the good man's suffering breast,
Shall, though endungeon'd, give thy spirits rest.
Still smile, undaunted smile, though tempests lour;
Still, in thy greatness, scorn her boasted power,

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Whom neither laws of God or man can bind!
Who wars, as interest serves, on all mankind.
For thee shall sound Compassion's softest dirge,
Thy name descend to Time's remotest verge
With growing honours crown'd; and o'er thy grave
The bay shall bloom, the verdant laurel, wave.

Why in our annals shines the hero's name?
What are his claims to greatness and to fame?—
The wasters' rude of Chili's happy land—
The blood-drunk conquerors of Indostan's strand—
And all the train of warriors, as they rose,
Feasting, from age to age, on human woes?
What the fierce rival's of Moscovian Czar?
Or His, who tore Darius from his car?—
Scourgers of earth! and heralds of dismay!
Pests of mankind! and whirlwinds of their day!
From whose example blushing History rakes
Her nest of scorpions, and her brood of snakes!

What countless pangs to such have owed their birth!
What blood, and sweeping rapine, fill'd our earth!
To grant these tyrants unexplored domain,
How many a fruitful clime has desert lain!
And to delight these monsters' lordly pride,
How many an eye hath wept, and bosom sigh'd!

The hostile chief, in conquest's honours drest,
Sporting the trophy'd car, and nodding crest,

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But little thinks, or, thinking, little cares
How hard the inmate of the cottage fares;
How many widows mourn, with sorrow vain;
How many orphans weep their fathers slain:
He heeds not that, where slaughter'd thousands lie,
Each left a friend sincere to heave the sigh;
That each, while crush'd by Ruin's ponderous car,
Cast a fond glance on relatives afar,
And, as he dropp'd the tear for those behind,
Curst, in his pangs, the murderers of mankind!—
E'en while his limbs look ghastly in their wounds,
And victory's shout, from hill to hill, resounds,
He faintly hears a daughter's frantic cry!
A son's pale image swims before his eye!
Ah, fond delusion! these shall live to tell
The far-off country where their father fell;—
What blazon'd warrior led him to his doom,
To gain, he knew not what, to fight, he knew not whom!

Amid the scenes, we hear, but to abhor,
Which follow still the gory heels of War,
Who shall recount the tales that once inspired
The heart with pity, or the bosom fired
With indignation? Many a Winter's snow
And many a lengthen'd Summer's sultry glow
Have pass'd between! No more they move the breast,
Lost in the lapse of time, with Heaven they rest!—

Perchance, of maiden o'er the hostile plain,
Seeking her lover, mid the ghastly slain,
Till, in the slaughter'd heap, she views his face,
And, dying, clasps him in her last embrace.

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Or, of the youth, from peaceful home who stray'd
To learn in evil hour the warrior's trade.—
Stretch'd, wounded, on the field, behold him there!—
Heaving, in agony, the fervent prayer,
Whilst, with faint-glimmering eye, and visage pale,
He marks the screaming vulture round him sail.
Or, of the cottage-child that pines for bread,
And lisping calls upon his father—dead!
At whose approach, when eve her shadows threw,
To meet his sire he oft with gladness flew;
Saw with delight the loaf his arm sustain'd,
And shared the meal his honest toil had gain'd;
Now, in the wars laid low, mid hunger's pain
He sobs to see his father's face again,
Whilst the rack'd mother hides her anguish deep,
And, weeping, bids her baby cease to weep.

Methinks I hear some frowning Warrior cry,
‘We live inglorious, or we nobly die.
‘Let Women thus their timid spirits goad,
‘And weep o'er Emmets crush'd in Glory's road;
‘Men love the sound of arms; the tale of war;
‘To hear its bold achievements from afar;
‘To see the martial ranks retire, advance;
‘Now view with furious rage the charger prance;
‘Now hear rich music fill the ambient air,
‘And now behold the sun-bright falchion's glare;
‘And though, mid conflict dire, by fate decreed,
‘All cannot triumph, some must bravely bleed,
‘Yet, in their parting hour, disdaining dread,
‘The hero's pride shall raise their drooping head;
‘They leave a name, by valour, deathless made;
‘They leave a nation grateful for their aid;

139

‘They dare, with triumphs crown'd, resign their breath,
‘And, mid their country's glory, smile in death.’

140

These senseless words, as baits, to folly thrown,
May charm the multitude, to thought unknown;

141

Yet, with indignant spirit, Truth disdains
To crouch in silence, bound by Falsehood's chains;

142

The poet, in such numbers as he may,
The spoils of war, unshrinking, dares display.
Where are the thousands, and ten thousands slain?
How, in fame's annals, do they live again,
Who, following some proud captain to the chase
Of man and murder, closed their mortal race?
The victors perish with the ranks o'erthrown!
The slayer and the slain are both unknown!

143

The peaceful peasant, lured by War away,
Weeps through the night, and sorrows through the day.
He little dreams, whilst number'd with the brave,
What dangers lurk to sink him to the grave!
He little knows what fierce opponents wait
To hand the chalice at the hour of fate!
Few are the favour'd breasts who sudden feel
The gun's swift ruin, or the murderous steel;
Too often, wounds, the sinking frame, oppress,
Torpid and pale, with hopeless wretchedness:
Or, if from wounds protected he remain,
Distemper's venom swells his burning vein:
A foe's damp prison bounds his feeble view,
Whilst on his brow sits Death's untimely dew:
Or, in the bark that bore him to the fight,
He breathes the air of pestilence and night;
Upon his scanty hammock, rests his arm,
And, sighing, asks for War's seductive charm,
For which he left a father's house, alone,
To pine unnoticed, and to die unknown;
Whilst, thick around, expiring veterans lie;
His sad participants in misery!
These are no scenes, in Fancy's clothing, drest,
Framed with strange cares to pierce the feeling breast;
But true, too true, for, ere they bade farewell,
Thus, oh, ye mothers! thus your children fell!

On foreign soil, while conflict raged around,
These ears have heard the martial clangor's sound;
These eyes have witness'd Briton's sons deform'd,
From field ensanguined, or from fortress storm'd;
Beheld the villagers, with pallid cheek,
Wait for the news, their hearts too full to speak;

144

The mother, clasp her baby to her breast,
Crying, “Ere long, we both in peace shall rest.”
These feet have strayed, some office kind to pay,
Where the brave soldier on his pallet lay;
Explored War's Hospitals, by pity led,
Where the maim'd veteran lean'd his aching head!
No spirit loved, to hear his parting vow!
No friend, to wipe the dew-drop from his brow!
Cold, damp, and dark the place, dismember'd, mean,
And the long range, the same funereal scene!
Where silence reign'd, companion of despair,
Save, when some groan disturb'd the sleeping air!
The vacant glance, proclaiming woe supreme,
The haggard look, still haunts my midnight dream:
Still, some I see, with supplicating eye,
Implore compassion from the passer-by;
While e'en Humanity, to love awake,
Stood doubtful where her earliest choice to make!

145

MARKOFF.

A SIBERIAN ECLOGUE.

AMID Siberian wastes and trackless ways,
The Cossack, Markoff, pass'd his happy days:
No rapturous hope or rankling care he knew,
His means were simple, as his wants were few.
When summer clothed the hill, and deck'd the plain,
He well prepared for winter's cheerless reign;
And, when the wintry snows the scene o'ercast,
He thought of summer, and endured the blast.
Thus life roll'd on, and thus he soothed his breast,
Freedom his guide, and cheerfulness his guest;
Till restless thoughts, and vain desires, arose
To break his calm and long-enjoy'd repose.

Musing, beside his hut, the Cossack stood,
And listen'd to the sound of neighbouring wood,
Whose slow and solemn murmurs fill'd his ear,
Through all the changeful seasons of the year.
The dark Uralian hills before him rose;
December's wind, around, impetuous blows:
Dreary the view! the frost o'erspreads the ground,
And the loud brook with fetters fast is bound.
He mark'd the clouds, from Arctic mountains roll'd,
He call'd to mind the tale by traveller told;

146

He thought of distant scenes, of realms unknown,
Where, through all ages, tempests held their throne,
Sounding their ceaseless wrath, whose awful reign
No mortal foot had ever dared profane.—
The fix'd resolve is made! aloud he cried,
“These feet shall dare yon wilds, whate'er betide;
“These eyes explore th' extent yon regions spread,
“Where the young North-wind dwells, the Storm is bred.
“I, who in caves of ice have oft reclined,
“And braced my sinews in the fiercest wind,
“May smile at danger! dangers but invite,
“And storms and tempests were my first delight.
“But if no bound appear, and as I go,
“Wild rocks increase, and mountains veil'd in snow;
“On all sides round more gloomy wastes prevail,
“And, as I journey, bleaker gusts assail;
“Still, shall I learn to brave the polar storm,
“And gaze on Nature in her rudest form.”

Through the thick mists no cheering sun-beams shone;
His sledge prepared, his winter garb put on,
Heedless, he cried “Adieu!” and urged his deer;—
The mother and her children dropp'd the tear!
Now the bold Cossack many a hill had past,
Though each appear'd more threat'ning than the last;
Whilst all befcre, far as his eye could strain,
Seem'd Ruin's ancient unexplored domain.

With heart too proud to temporize with fear,
The hardy Markoff pass'd each mountain drear;
He cross'd the long continuous waste of plain,
He reach'd each distant summit, but, in vain;
Beyond him still, bounding his utmost sight,
Hills rise o'er hills, clad in eternal white.

147

And now he came where not a guide was nigh,
Save (mid the valley bare, or crag on high,
From certain death the wanderer's step to warn)
Some solitary Pine by tempests shorn.
He stood, and mark'd the desolation wide;
His mild companions tremble by his side!
And whilst he strives the chilling blast to bear,
And hears the whirlwind thund'ring through the air;
Fear shakes at length his frame, he dreads his fate,
He sees his rashness, but, alas, too late!
With resolution warring with dismay,
Back he returns to trace his devious way;
But, now the scene seems wilder than before,
The Smoke-frosts rise, the cracking Iceburgs roar!
Weary, the patient deer their path pursue,
Where never man abode, or herbage grew.
The prospect round appear'd one yawning grave,
And, mid each pause the fitful tempest gave,

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No howl from starving wolf invades his ear,
To soothe him with the thought that — Life is near.

Now, thicker shadows gather o'er his head;
New terrors rise, till hope itself is fled;
And, to augment Despair's o'erwhelming tide,
His faithful beasts fall frozen by his side!
From succour far, chain'd to the icy ground,
With phrensied look the Cossack gazes round;
Longs on the clouds that southward take their flight
To seek again his dwelling of delight;
“Ah, vain desire!” he cries, “no more mine eye
“Shall mark that calm abode, that tranquil sky!
“The wrathful elements around me rave;
“No friend to comfort me! no power to save!
“Why did I seek mid wilds, like these, to stray?
“And why forget the perils of the way?
“My children now shall mourn no father near!
“My wife shall drop the unavailing tear!
“Cold chills of death creep through my shivering form!
“Markoff, thy hour is come! thou ruthless storm,
“Spare me one moment! keep thy wrath above!
“'Tis hard to die, far from the friends we love!”
Once more he thought upon his home, and sigh'd!
Once more he cast a look — on every side!—

What forms are those, which, through the plain below,
Speed undiverted, scattering wide the snow?
It is a band of Sable Hunters, bold!
Rise! Markoff, rise! shout, ere thy heart be cold!

149

He calls! they heed him not! again he calls!
They hear a voice! the sound each breast appals!
They pause! they look around! they see his face!
They haste the lonely wanderer to embrace!
Safe in their sledge he seeks his native vale,
And warns each venturous traveller by his tale!

150

THE HOME-SICK SHEPHERD.

A PASTORAL.

Young Shepherd.
WIND and Rain, your fury hot
Makes the tall Larch round me bow;
Wind and Rain, I heed you not,
I am hastening homeward now.

Old Shepherd.
Stranger, from the driving storm,
To my friendly cot repair;
With a British welcome warm,
Rest and food await thee there.

Young Shepherd.
I have travell'd wide and long
Through gloomy skies and lonely ways;
And a sickness, deep and strong,
Now upon my spirit preys.

Old Shepherd.
Poor youth! thy sorrows, half, I share,
I'll call the Doctress, old and grey;
With her simples, cull'd with care,
She shall chase thy pains away.

Young Shepherd.
Nothing here can ease my ailing,
Forest simples will not heal;
Know the cause of my complaining,
'Tis Home-Sickness which I feel.

151

Old Shepherd.
Home! what home is half so sweet
As my cot, and field, and fold?
Hear the lambkins, how they bleat!
This clear babbling brook behold!

Young Shepherd.
My father's home, my father's tillage,
His fields, his flocks, his herds I see;
And the brook of my own village
Is the sweetest brook to me.

Old Shepherd.
View yon hill, so bleak, and bare,
Oft it mounts above the sky;
Whilst, around, the clouds of air
Float in silver majesty.

Young Shepherd.
We have clouds and mountains too,
Lovely clouds and mountains steep,
And from our door the evening view
Oft makes me on my pillow weep.

Old Shepherd.
This cottage, deck'd with flowers so gay,
My home from youth to age hath been;
Nor would I quit, for princely sway,
The loveliest spot that sun hath seen.

Young Shepherd.
Around my cot, with breath serener,
The winds their bowers of perfume leave;
The very leaves and lawns are greener,
And richer is the blush of eve.

152

Old Shepherd.
Ardent Shepherd, thee believing,
Thy home must breathe celestial spice;
To call it Earth is but deceiving,
'Tis a Rosy Paradise.

Young Shepherd.
Oh! 'tis Earth, the more I love it!
Thy brook is sweet, thy cot is fair,
But my home is far above it,
Joy is here, but transport there.

Old Shepherd.
Tell me! art thou near thy door,
Where first thou heard'st the torrent's sound,
And, with intemperate joy, didst pore
On forms, thy heart, with cords, that bound?

Young Shepherd.
A few more hills, my steps impelling,
A few more vales, O rapturous dream!
And I shall rush into my dwelling,
Mine own dear cot, beside the stream!

Old Shepherd.
Thy transports rise above all measure;
The sun must there perpetual shine;
What else can give such boundless pleasure,
To this wond'rous home of thine?

Young Shepherd.
Sweet it is beyond expression,
There I laugh'd in infancy;
There I lived to man's discretion,
And my home is dear to me.

153

Old Shepherd.
Hast thou those (their wish obeying)
Whom to greet, thy heart doth burn?
Hast thou those who chide thy staying,
And, round their hearth, thy absence mourn?

Young Shepherd.
I have a father, good and tender,
Brothers prized, and sisters kind;
I have a mother, heaven defend her!
And one other love behind.

Old Shepherd.
Ah! thy sickness I discover!
Shepherd Youth, my blessing take;
And may happiness, for ever,
In thy breast her dwelling make!

THE AFFECTIONATE HEART.

LET the great man, his treasures possessing,
Pomp and splendour for ever attend;
I prize not the shadowy blessing,
I ask—the affectionate friend.

Though foibles may sometimes o'ertake him,—
His footstep from wisdom depart;
Yet my spirit shall never forsake him,
If he own the affectionate heart.

Affection! thou soother of care,
Without thee unfriended we rove;
Thou canst make e'en the desert look fair,
And thy voice is the voice of the dove.

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Mid the anguish that preys on the breast,
And the storms of mortality's state;
What shall lull the afflicted to rest,
But the joys that on sympathy wait?

What is fame, bidding envy defiance,
The idol and bane of mankind;
What is wit, what is learning, or science,
To the heart that is steadfast and kind?

Even genius may weary the sight,
By too fierce, and too constant a blaze;
But affection, mild planet of night!
Grows lovelier the longer we gaze.

It shall thrive, when the flattering forms
Which encircle creation decay;
It shall live mid the wide-wasting storms
That bear all, undistinguish'd, away.

When Time, at the end of his race,
Shall expire with expiring mankind;
It shall stand on its permanent base!
It shall last till the wreck of the mind!

THE WINTER ROBIN.

SWEET Robin! I hail thy appearance once more,
Come sing in my garden, or peck at my door;
Though an ingrate for favours so often conferr'd,
I still view with pleasure my favourite bird.

155

When the last winter's tempest rushed down from the sky,
Thou appear'dst at my window with pitiful eye!
The bread from my table unsparing I cast,
And thought that one friend might be faithful at last.

Thy contemplative look, 'twas my joy to behold,
Thy flight, long repressed, and thy plumage of gold;
And the oftener thou cam'st from thy dwelling unknown,
The more welcome thou wast to the crumbs I had thrown.

The mild breath of spring, from their covert profound,
Call'd the leaves into light, and bespangled the ground,
Ah! then, mid the blaze of prosperity's reign,
I sought for my Robin, but sought him in vain!

Now that summer is pass'd, and the forest is bare,
At my window thou stand'st, a sad spectacle there;
Cold and shivering my pardon thou seem'st to implore,
And to ask for the hand that once fed thee before.

Come, banish thy grief, nor past folly bewail,
My love is a store-house that never shall fail;
At evening, at morning, at noon, and at night,
To feed my sweet bird shall still give me delight.

Ah! why should I thus thine inconstancy chide?
Have I no conviction of crimes deeper dyed?
Though of reason possess'd and instruction divine,
My spirit is far more ungrateful than thine!

From the moment since first I this vital air drew,
One friend has preserved and supported me too;
Yet how often have I, while I sumptuously fared,
Forgotten the hand that my banquet prepared!

156

WRITTEN, (1793) WITH A PENCIL, ON THE WALL OF THE ROOM IN BRISTOL NEWGATE, where SAVAGE died.

HERE Savage linger'd long, and here expired!
The mean — the proud — the censured — the admired!

If, wandering o'er misfortune's sad retreat,
Stranger! these lines arrest thy passing feet,
And recollection urge the deeds of shame
That tarnish'd once an unblest Poet's fame;
Judge not another till thyself art free,
And hear the gentle voice of charity.
“No friend received him, and no mother's care
“Shelter'd his infant innocence with prayer;
“No father's guardian hand his youth maintain'd,
“Call'd forth his virtues, or from vice restrain'd.”

Reader! hadst thou been to neglect consign'd,
And cast upon the mercy of mankind;
Through the wide world, like Savage, forced to stray,
And find, like him, one long and stormy day;
Objects less noble might thy soul have sway'd,
Or crimes, around thee, cast a deeper shade.
Whilst poring o'er another's mad career,
Drop for thyself the penitential tear:
Though prized by friends, and nurs'd in innocence,
How oft has folly wrong'd thy better sense!
But if some virtues in thy breast there be,
Ask, if they sprang from circumstance, or thee!
And ever to thy heart the precept bear,
When thine own conscience smites, a wayward brother spare!

157

EMMA.

(JUVENILE.)

EMMA! thou art a peerless maid,
To every virtue plighted;
And, in each winning grace array'd,
That fancy e'er delighted.

Thou hast a dimple on thy cheek,
Of white, and blushing roses;
And, in thine eyes, that pleasure speak,
The Soul of Love reposes.

Thou hast a smile, the whole to crown,
Which fills all hearts with gladness;
But, Oh! sometimes thou hast a frown,
Which turns our joy to sadness.

Dear maid! one boon I ask of thee,
Whose voice deceived never;—
It is, that thou wilt smile on me,
And banish frowns for ever!

THE WELCOME SUMMONS.

THE SONG OF MONTALTO THE BRAVE, ADDRESSED TO MATILDA.

COME Matilda, blooming fair,
Hear thine own Montalto call;
With the lark will we repair,
To the loud rough waterfall.

158

Who can view the woodbine wreathe,
Lovely guardian, round the bower;
Who the early perfume breathe,
And not hail the balmy hour.

Now, wandering through the meadow wide,
With the wood-note warbling loud;
Now, by the clear meandering tide,
Gliding, like a monarch proud.

Oh! who can view the yellow corn,
To the reaper bending low,
Or the ruby cloud of morn,
Nor the grateful heart o'erflow!

What with Nature may compare,
To awake the lofty thought?
Nature, ever new and fair,
Now to pomp of glory wrought.

Before the fervid noon-tide ray,
Mark the air with quiet deep;
While yet the ruddy dawn delay,
And with dew the flowret weep;

All alone will we retreat,
Far from every prying eye;
And beguile the moment fleet,
With delightful colloquy.

Come! improve the happy time,
While we think, the whole may fade;
In the morning hour of prime,
Come, Matilda, blooming maid!

159

ELLEN AND EDWARD.

(JUVENILE.)

REGARDLESS of the boisterous scene,
Upon the cold and rocky shore;
The wretched Ellen stood serene,
Nor heard the troubled Ocean's roar.
She look'd upon the evening star,
And, whilst the waves approach'd, she cried,
“Oh Edward! Edward! why so far
“From me, thy sad, and plighted bride?”
She look'd upon the twilight ray,
That linger'd in the western sky,
And cried, “Oh Edward! wherefore, say,
“That slighted Ellen thus should sigh?
“Dost thou now thy promise rue?
“Art thou false, as I am true?

“Chief of all on earth I prize!
“What should keep thee from my arms?
“Hast thou found, mid other skies,
“Fonder maid, or brighter charms?
“Brighter charms thou may'st have found,
“Where thy roving feet have strayed;
“But never, never, earth around,
“Wilt thou find a fonder maid.
“Cruel Edward! why deride me?
“Why forget thy vows sincere?
“Cruel Edward! I could chide thee,
“But, though false, thou yet art dear!
“Heart, be still! thy anguish smother!—
“He is wedded to another!”

160

Upon a rock the maiden stood,
And to the Ocean told her tale;
She saw not the advancing flood;
She heard not the tempestuous gale.
And now the foaming waters rise!
They swell! they reach the maiden's feet!
She gazes round with startled eyes!
She looks, but there is no retreat!
She calls for aid! the waves reply!
Her shriek is mingled with the storm!—
She saw a Spirit beck'ning nigh!
'Twas her own True Lover's form!
“Ellen, to my arms!” he cried,
“Cease to sorrow! cease to chide!”
While the howling tempests rave,
See! they sink beneath the wave!

DESTINY.

I

WAS it for a few short hours
Of fancied joys, but real pain,
That man was giv'n his lofty powers,
And made to drag affliction's chain?
Man! who with a daring eye
Can count the etherial worlds of fire,
Or, gazing at earth's tempests, cry,
I heed you not! — can then retire—
To his own Mind, and there converse
With himself, an universe!

161

II

Vain and impotent conceit,
Which Vice may cherish, Virtue dread!
A low and gentle whisper sweet,
Bids us raise our drooping head;
Bids us prize our highest boast,
A future hope, that friend to care,
And respect ourselves the most
Of all in earth, or sea, or air;
Striving for a prize so high,
Our immortal destiny.

III

Fair and tranquil is the scene,
The shadowy wood, the meadow gay:
The azure sky, the ocean green;
But these will quickly fade away:
For, like the sun, that, in the morn,
Rises full and fair to view,
Man with flattering hope is born,
And all is bright, as all is new:
But soon the fairy landscape flies,
And the whirlwind sweeps the skies.

IV

If life be but an April day,
Where pleasure at a distance sings;
If manhood, and if youth display
But airy forms, and shadowy things;
Yet let us, whilst the clouds o'ercast
Our prospect, think with rapture true
That if our joys a moment last,
Fleeting are our sorrows too;
Joys and sorrows soon will lie,
In oblivion silently!

162

V

Why was consciousness bestow'd,
Of the beautiful and chaste?
Why, beside life's rugged road,
Fruit, to charm, but not to taste?
Why have feelings fired the breast
Of purity, and worth refined,
By Fancy in her dreams carest,
Which we may seek, but never find?
Faith, in silence, casts her eye
To man's future destiny.

VI

Then let the storms of sorrow rave,
Let the lurid lightnings blaze,
Let Dismay her banners wave,
And few and sad be mortal days!
Soaring on Religion's pinion,
This shall chase misfortune's night;
And, whilst we grope through earth's dominion,
Yield a pure, and constant light.
Fill'd with transport we may cry,
Speed, oh speed our destiny!

SORDID AGE AND ARTLESS YOUTH.

AGE.
TALK not thus, unthinking youth,
Darting the enthusiast eyes,
Of your justice, and your truth,
And the liberty you prize;

163

You are now to manhood risen,
Cast your cloister'd dreams away;
You must burst your mental prison,
And endure the light of day.

YOUTH.
Must I ever bid adieu
To the hopes I long have known,
And in sorrow find, like you,
That the dreams of youth are flown?
Must I check the glow of anguish
For a world so lost and blind?
And, beholding virtue languish,
Heap my praises on mankind?

AGE.
What is virtue but a name?
Phantom of the hermit's cell!
Those who covet wealth and fame,
Must with other beings dwell;
For the God whom men adore,
And whose laws alone can chain;
Interest is, as was before,
And for ever will remain.

YOUTH.
I will never meanly swerve
From the deed my heart allow'd,
I will never interest serve,
God of the ambitious crowd!
Wealth and fame, if these forsake me
For the loves my heart beguile;
Though at eve the storm o'ertake me,
In the morning I shall smile.

164

AGE.
What an infantine decision!
Think how all men will despise;
Can you bear the world's derision?
Can you meet their scornful eyes?
You may talk and you may blame,
Till with talking you are old;
In a world so dead to shame,
Virtue must be bought and sold.

YOUTH.
Never, never, ancient father!
Virtue must not stoop so low;
Truth and freedom I would rather
Honor, than all forms below;
These the spring of life shall nourish
When the wintry tempests sound;
Like the bay-tree, these shall flourish
Greener for the waste around.

AGE.
Thoughtless youth! you little know
What delusions round you throng;
You may feel your bosom glow,
At the sound of freedom's song;
You the rainbow tints may cast
O'er the forms that please your eye;
But, experience will at last
Show that all was vanity.

YOUTH.
Can it be that scenes so fair,
Marshall'd in their proud array,
Like the gorgeous glories are,
That follow on the parting day?

165

Must the youth whose heart aspires
To the beautiful and good,
Quench his first and best desires,
In Corruption's deadly flood?

AGE.
Yes, the youth must in the stream,
Plunge and leave them all behind;
Nor in manhood idly dream
Of friendship true, and justice blind.
From the first it was the rule
That strength should hold the sov'reignty,
All, are either knave or fool,
Such they were and still will be.

YOUTH.
Let me then awhile enjoy
Prospects that so soon must fade;
Why should gloomy fears annoy?
Why, the future, now invade?
Why should mariners, who gaze
At the blue and tranquil sky,
Looking on to stormy days,
Lose the pleasure that is nigh?

AGE.
I am fearful, you are bold,
And wish perpetual Spring to reign;
You are young, but I am old,
And tell you Winter must remain:
The fire of youth will soon subside,—
Its airy castles come to naught;
Then will you, with conscious pride,
Others teach as I have taught.

166

YOUTH.
Justice, teach, to treat with laughter!
Virtue, scoff at! vice pursue!
I have heard of an hereafter,
And believe that it is true!
But, if living, I must free
My nature from its Spring divine—
Father! may I never see
The Winter of an age like thine!

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ARBOUR AT TOCKINGTON.

ARBOUR! form'd for meditation,
Where I, musing, now recline;
Friendship's lays thy walls encircle!
Fragrant woodbines round thee twine.

Here, the zephyr, gently breathing,
Wafts its balmy sweets along;
Here, the distant wild-note warbling,
Charms the ear with nature's song.

Life! thou mystery of creation!
Whilst we see thy myriads fly;
Buzz around, or more aspiring,
Range the blue expanse of sky.

When we gaze with growing wonder
On the tall o'erhanging tree;
Or behold the nodding flowret
Robed in humbler majesty;

167

Reason asks, perplex'd, revolving,
Whence they came, in fair array;
And if chance, for ends uncertain,
Gave them to the light of day.

Was it a delusive whisper,
That approach'd me soft and clear?
Hark! again the soothing accent
Gently steals upon mine ear;

“Nature through her wide dominion,
“Audible to every mind,
“Calls on man to praise his Maker,
“Ever bounteous, ever kind.

“He, the universe upholding,
“Smiles when spirits upward tend;
“In the varied works around thee,
“Read thy Father! see thy Friend!”

LINES ON RE-VISITING THE SAME ARBOUR.

IS this the arbour, this the place,
Which twenty years ago I view'd;
And left upon its walls some trace
Inspired by thoughtful solitude?

Is this domain the magic region
Which oft in youth I paused to bless;
And deem'd the rose-encircled dwelling,
The home of earthly happiness?

168

The lays which friendship strew'd are vanish'd,
The flowers are dead, the walls decay'd;
And on this spot, most spots excelling,
Her wasting hand hath ruin laid!

The garden now hath lost its beauty,
The orchard near its dainty store:
The thistle triumphs o'er the lilly,
And all that charm'd now charms no more!

Shall I again yon mansion enter,
Where smiles so oft the welcome told?
Ah no! its hospitable owner
These eyes must never more behold!

The loveliest form of human nature,
There ran her angel-like career;
But she hath pass'd to joys unfading,
And fragrant is her memory here!

Receive, my soul, the solemn warning!
Gird up thy loins, prepare to go!
Friend follows friend in quick succession,
For resting-place hath none below!

THE MISANTHROPE.

AND are there men, with hate oppress'd,
Self-centred, lonely, stern, forlorn;
Who gaze around, from east to west,
With eyes that only look to scorn?

169

Who hates his race must hateful be,
A thing of Saturn, wandering here!
This is a world of sympathy;
Back to thine own benighted sphere!

EPITAPH

FOR A PROPOSED MONUMENT TO CHATTERTON, AT BRISTOL.

PAUSE, Stranger! this recording marble bears
The name of Chatterton! Few sons of woe
E'er past Life's sojourn, press'd with heavier cares,
Or felt, more oft, the tear, in darkness, flow.

Though Genius nursed him as her darling child,
And, round his brow, her choicest wreaths entwined,
Neglect turn'd, heedless, from his warblings wild,
And, far from friend and home, with want he pined!

Sighs now avail not! yet, a grateful age
Bestows the last poor meed that still remains,
This Tablet, less enduring than his page,
And gives him back his own transcendent strains.

170

SEVERN,

SUNSET, WRITTEN AT KING'S WESTON POINT, NEAR BRISTOL.

IF hour there be when pleasure fills the breast,
As Nature, robed in beauty, sleeps profound;
When woods and streams, in fairy vision round,
Reflect the peaceful splendours of the west,
That hour is this.—In pomp austerer drest,
Now Severn kindles through his ample bound,
And Cambria's lordly hills in glory lie,
O'er-canopied by clouds of gorgeous dye;
Whilst sea-birds sport amid the sapphire wave,
Rolling the line eternal to the strand;
And many a distant skiff, and vessel brave,
Glides glowing on, by fostering zephyrs fann'd.
Our Empress Isle, profuse of pearl and gem,
Here wears her proud, and matchless diadem.

SEVERN,

IN A STORM.

SEVERN! thy billows lash the rocky shore,
Heard, terrible, through midnight reigning round;
The winds imperious give their loftiest sound,
While thunders, fierce, from Nature's awful store,
Traverse wide heaven, with loud and lengthen'd roar,
Till, crash on crash, convulsive, shakes the ground.
Voices faint mingle with the troubled sky!
It is the shipwreck'd crew who aid require!
In pity to the drowning seaman's cry,
Clouds! check your fury! Tempests! stay your ire!
That fervid blast of elemental fire!
Ah! there the vessel sinks beneath the eye!
The winds are hush'd, the thunders cease to rave,
And all is still, but the dark-rolling wave!

171

TO CHARITY.

OH, Charity! while fame with lightning car,
Flashes brief splendour o'er the hero's grave,
Thou sitt'st upon thy rock, amid the wave,
Calm as the silver moon, and evening star,
(That o'er the billow throw their image far,)
Like them, unmoved by storms that round thee rave.
Ah, from thine eye, I mark the tear descend!
Thou thinkest of the woes that man dismay;
Upon the crowd, who have no home, or friend;
Upon the orphan, worn by want away,
The lonely widow, lingering out her day;
And, though too poor to succour, thou dost send
The look benign, that oft has care beguiled,
Soothing, in silence, sorrow's drooping child.

ELEANOR DE MONTFORD's LAMENT.

ADDRESSED TO LLEWELLYN, THE LAST PRINCE OF CAMBRIA.

Llewellyn was attached to Eleanor, the daughter of Simon de Montford, Earl of Leicester. Eleanor being a guest at the court of Philip, King of France, Llewellyn transmitted to him a request, that Eleanor might be sent to Cambria. “The French King granted his request, and sent the Lady Eleanor, under the conduct of her brother Amoury, to be conveyed into Wales, to Llewellyn, but ere they approach to Wales, at the Isles of Scilly, both the brother and sister were taken prisoners by some ships from Brystow.” Holinshead.

172

ELEANOR, thy promised bride,
From thine arms, is torn away;
By old Severn's rapid tide,
She is sad, who once was gay,
Desolate as maid may be,
Yet, Llewellyn! true to thee.

At the summons Love convey'd,
To the waiting bark I sped;
In the breeze the streamer play'd;
The sun, around, his glories shed;
Birds chanted loud their carols wild,
Whilst heaven, and earth, and ocean smiled.

Ah! little thought I of the fate,
So soon to whelm me in despair;—
That I should to my prison grate
Fly, to breathe the balmy air,
And ever, mid tumultuous fear,
Find friend, nor soothing parent near!

Down to the beach my mother came,
Cheerful, as she strove to be;—
I saw her turn, dear sainted name,
And shed a tear, a tear for me!
Of her captive daughter's woe,
May she never, never, know!

O'er the curling billows borne,
Fast I left the Gallic shore;
Thy Eleanor forgot to mourn,
For Love, inviting, sailed before:
Joy proclaim'd her jubilee—
I, Llewellyn, thought of thee!

173

A sudden cloud o'ercasts the sky!
At hand, two hostile ships appear!—
The scenes are past, and I will try
To check the unavailing tear!
Born to grief, and sorrow's heir,
I, alone, my portion bear!

The best of brothers, good, and kind,
From my side, nor succour near,
He, by war, with fury blind,
Was dragg'd to dungeon, dark, and drear:
His frantic grief, his last adieu,
Still, with shuddering heart, I view!

Amoury! thy life is sought;
All our promised joys are o'er;
I shall see, O piteous thought!
I shall see thy face no more!
Yet, thy memory, sweet to me,
Amoury! will ever be.

The dearest friend, of many, dear,
Thus, with me, I call to weep;
Yet, while thou drop'st affection's tear,
Still thy stately tenor keep!
Wield the sword of Roderi,
Till thy foes beneath thee lie!

Wherefore, from a maid like me,
Should these warlike accents flow?
I would not endanger thee,
For all the choicest gifts below.

174

Terrors, that new terrors wake,
Round, and round, their circuit take!

Mourn not, though the piercing blast
O'er my head, unshelter'd, flies;
May thy evil days be past!
May thy prosperous star arise!
Yet, sometimes, though vain it be,
Wilt thou, sighing, think of me?

At evening's still and solemn close,
I look toward Cambria's mountain bound;
And bless the river, as it flows
From meads and hills, where thou art found:
In its waters, hurrying by,
Oft Llewellyn's form I spy.

Must I, from my spirit cold,
Tear the last hope glimmering there?
Must I watch the hours unfold
With the fixed eye of despair?
Amid the bleak and wintry sky,
Expect no joy, no summer nigh?

Though it be delusion vain,
On which my faithless dreams recline;
I will banish grief and pain;
The dawn of fortune still may shine;
Hope, that glistens through my tear,
Whispers, Happier days are near!

Ah! I hear, mid Severn's roar,
A voice, as of a seraph mild;
Which says, that thou wilt never more
See De Montford's sorrowing child!

175

Farewell, Llewellyn! round my head,
Still deeper mists and shadows spread!

Yet, as before me, earth declines,
The sun, upon thy brow, appears!
His fairest beam, there, lingering shines!
Thou source of all my hopes and fears,
When I am dead, which soon will be,
I know that thou wilt think of me!

ELEANOR DE MONTFORD's PRISON SONG.

I

THE sun is up, the air is still,
The firmament is fair and glowing;
All things with joy their chalice fill,
And softly Severn now is flowing;
But what to me can joyance bear,
While bolts, and prison bars surround me?
Forms of delight, so sweet that were,
Like ghosts of long-lost friends, confound me.

II

The captive in a foreign clime,
Who on the breeze may waft his ditty;
Who chants, to soothe the tedious time,
The song which rocks might move to pity;
What are his cares compared with mine?
The sad, deserted, child of sorrow!
His prospects, with the morn, may shine,
But I expect no glad to-morrow.

176

III

The joys which once I call'd my own,
Like happy spirits, pass before me;
From anguish and the ceaseles moan,
Their fairy smiles again restore me;
Once more the sportive maid I seem,
Which late, thy groves, Montargis! found me;
Till, starting from the faithless dream,
A thousand terrors rise around me.

IV

Thy daughter, best of friends, and true!
Couldst thou behold her, O my Mother!
Oh! couldst thou now thy sister view,
Brave Amoury, my noble brother;
Alas! withhold your grief for me,
Oh! precious names! the one, the other,
I have a tear to shed for ye,
My Amoury! my wretched mother!

V

And, O Llewellyn! brave as free,
Above all spirits proudly soaring;
Shall I forget thy cause, and thee,
When other gifts, devout, imploring?
While 'tiring from the mortal fray,
Or on thy foes vindictive pressing;
My heart, O Prince! shall earnest pray
That thou may'st share heaven's choicest blessing!

177

THE SONG OF THE PATRIOT,

BY LHYRARCH, A CAMBRIAN BARD, SUNG, WITH THE HARP, BEFORE LLEWELLYN.

I

LHYRARCH's harp, unknown to guile,
In the Patriot's praise shall swell.
Every kingdom, every isle,
On the planet where we dwell,
Boasts its lords, in long array,
With titles high, and trappings gay,
But the proudest man is he,
Who, in slavery's evil hour,
Grapples with the tyrant's power,
And would set his country free.

II

The sun, that lights our earth, is fair,
And lovely is creation's face:
Wheree'er we look, on sea, or air,
Fresh beauties, rising still, we trace,
Whilst flowers, with their transcendent dyes,
On every side, spontaneous, rise!
Ah! who, when laughing life began,
E'er deem'd this world, so sweet, so mild,
The element of tempests wild,
Where man the torment is of man!

III

The strong, who should delight to bless,
Wring, from the weak, the bitter tear;
No little nook of quietness,
Where wrong and outrage disappear!
If, on the soil we call our own,
No blood-drunk despot fill the throne,

178

Some monster in the human form,
From far, with his ferocious band,
To strew with wrecks the happy land,
Advances, like the winter storm.

IV

High heaven, for all the ills that are,
Provides some cure, our Father kind!
He saw Oppression mount his car,
Vengeance before, and death behind;
And, to resist his baneful sway,
Call'd the Patriot into day!
He, warring with corruption's brood,
Heedless of calumny the while,
Moves on, with a disdainful smile,
And thinks, and speaks, and acts, for others' good.

V

The health and strength of every land
Are they whom truth and justice guide:
A small, but an intrepid band,
By frown, nor interest, turn'd aside;
Through mists, who, with an eagle's eye,
Their country's friend, or foe, descry;
And, oft as base-born sons appear,
With strenuous and effectual might,
Drag forth their victims to the light,
Scorning all perils in their great career.

VI

What gratitude to those we owe,
Who dared the roughest road to tread;—
Our valiant sires!—now mouldering low!
In many a strife, their blood who shed,

179

That we, their offspring, might be free,
And taste the sweets of liberty.
That gift, the purchase of the brave,
To all our children we will send;
Their heritage till time doth end!—
The blessings which their fathers gave!

VII

If men, in humbler station born,
Thus strew with gems their mortal way;
What clouds, refulgent, him adorn,
Who rises like the orb of day—
The Patriot Prince!—with liberal hand,
Who scatters blessings round his land;—
On equity who rears his throne;—
Disdains each low, each sordid end,
Proclaims himself his people's friend,
And from their happiness derives his own.

VIII

O prince! if I my ardour chide,
And curb what every string would tell;
It is, that thou art satisfied
In planning right, in doing well.
To fire thy spirit, nerve thy hand,
The noble dead before thee stand!
In elder days, when men arose
To quench old Cambria's hope in night,
Thy ancestors, in glory bright,
Triumphant scatter'd all her foes!

IX

Impetuous, as our torrents, rise!
Llewellyn! guardian of our name!

180

The Saxon, and his threat, despise,
And strengthen still our tower of fame!
Whilst England's slaves pollute our soil,
Thou scornest danger, scornest toil!
I see, aloft, thy scabbard thrown!
August, let Cambria yet appear,
Bulwak'd with the hero's spear,
Her genius, Thou; and all her praise, thy own!

SONG OF THE OCEAN.

I.

BENEATH this crag, that, huge and high,
Forms a proud rampart to the tide;
Serene, I mark the evening sky,
And sky-encircled waters wide.
The heavens, in all their pomp, recline,
Now, on the bosom of the sea,
And Nature wears the form divine
Of beauty in its sanctity.
While viewing thus the flood of fire,
Unearthly dreams my soul inspire;
I drink strange life, and, in amaze,
Round, with delirious rapture, gaze,
Till, rising, soaring, borne away—
I spurn this manacle of clay.
What crowds of every hue, and dye,
Now upon the waters lie!—
Amid the glow of radiance round,
A lordly line of light is found:

181

There the young waves, with lightning glance,
In their hour of pastime, dance
O'er their sleeping parents' breast,
Too light to break their peaceful rest.
Again as I look, it seems to be
A column of fire, that rises high,
From the fathomless depths of sea—
Faith-like, pointing to the sky!
O path of loveliness! O fair highway!
Through which, methinks, celestial beings run,
When they, in earnestness, and bright array,
Would overtake the fast-declining sun.

II.

Descending from the airy car,
Now, other objects fill my sight;
I view the first faint trembling star,
Leading on the train of night.
To charm the eye, to soothe the ear,
New sounds are heard; new forms appear.
To this inhospitable shore—
Whose dark-brow'd caverns ceaseless roar
To the stately trees on high,
Waving endless melody;
Whilst the billows at their feet,
Still the answering note repeat:
To this shore, the waves are bound,
(With foam, or floating sea-weeds, crown'd,)
Through the night, and through the day,
In an undisturb'd array:
Far as the aching eye can trace,
On they come, with solemn pace;
Wanderers wild from sea to sea,
Strangers to tranquillity.

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For everlasting, doom'd to roam—
To seek, but never find, a home.
Here, with earnest course they throng,
And bear their buoyant spoils along,
Where, having cast them, with disdain,
Again they plunge into the main,
Till they rise, with vigour new,
And their ancient course pursue.

III.

Upon the utmost verge of ocean,
A homeward-destined bark appears;
Though sailing fast—so slow its motion—
It emblems life's departing years!
What transport in yon vessel dwells!
While gazing on his native shore,
The seaman's ardent bosom swells
With happiness unknown before.—
Exultant, still, he lifts his hand;
Still bids the friendly gale arise;
And bear him swifter to the land
Which he has ever call'd the pride
Of earth, in her dominion wide,
But which, by absence taught, he now doth idolize!
Whilst the strain'd canvass courts the breeze,
His bosom labours with delight,
And pleasures dance before his sight,
As the long line of purple coast he sees:
Though sailing o'er the ocean green,
With many a rolling surge between;
Disdaining space, he sees! he hears!
No shape of fancy it appears!
He presses to his heart, the maid,
Who, bashful, to salute her lover flies!

183

Or, rushes through the geeen-wood shade,
Where his low cot of comfort lies!
The faithful wife, with triumph proud,
The hearty welcome pours aloud,
Whilst his young children clasp his knee,
And weep and smile, and smile and weep,
That from the dangers of the deep,
Their long lost sire they see!

IV.

Orb of glory! to the west,
Thou speedest fast thy stately form;
In robes of pearl, and sapphire, drest,
Whilst, starting from their bed of rest,
Th' imperious winds arouse the slumbering storm:
Yet, as Night erects her throne,
In one dark corner of the sky,
And voices, with portentous moan,
Sound on the gale that sweeps impetuous by;
O'er the vex'd and boundless tide,
Far-scatter'd sun-beams still delight to play,
And the fair departing day,
In silent grandeur, sends its lustre wide.
Earthly pageants! veil your head!
Here, behold, mid floods of light,
Heaven his gorgeous vesture spread!
Streaming fire, and liquid gold,
That, as they change beneath the sight,
New, and nobler forms unfold.

V.

Ah! what a change is here!
Fill'd with terror and amaze,
The scene grows darker as I gaze,
The vengeance of the deep is near!

184

While dark-blue clouds the heavens o'ercast,
The sun hath left the western sky;
And, sailing on the stormy blast,
The venturous sea-birds, hurrying, homeward fly.
The waves, that late disporting play'd,
Are now in ten-fold wrath array'd,
Darting quick flashes from their thousand eyes;
With anger, heighten'd by the Wind,
Which fain their giant limbs would bind,
When, to fierce strife, the Heavens and Ocean rise!
Lo! sounding their defiance far,
The ancient rivals rush to war!
Each, with fearful strength attired!
Each, with maddening fury fired!—
Dreadful, in unavailing ire,
Th' indignant Winds awhile retire!
Whilst the proud victor gazes round
For some new foe, on whom to pour his rage!
That other foe he now hath found!
See the combatants engage!
Ocean, collecting all his might,
With Earth proclaims a baneful fight,
And with inebriate reel, assaults the shore!
Earth, that many a shock hath stood
From wrathful sky and stormy flood,
Smiles in her granite strength, and braves his deafening roar!

VI.

No friendly moon, no stars appear!
From dreams of death, roused by the stormy tide,
The demons of the tempest ride
Triumphant, through the dark and troubled air;
Or, hand in hand,
A ghastly band,

185

Whilst the sinking wretch they spy,
With their songs of ecstasy
Pace the ocean-beaten strand.
To swell the horrors of the night,
Lightnings flash their forked light,
Quenching their fervour in the boisterous main!
Again! again!
And, what a sound,
Bursts in lengthen'd peal around!
Though fears, that spring from Nature, move my soul,
Terrific pleasures on that voice await!
Ye unseen powers, prolong the strain sublime,
Allied to neither earth nor time,
Which raise within me, as through heaven they roll,
The thought, in shadows dress'd, unutterably great!
When the elements conspire
To sweep their deep and awful lyre,
The rattling thunders, as they fly,
Complete the dreadful harmony!

VII.

Pity! whither art thou fled?
Hast thou left this stormy scene
For rivers smooth, and meadows green,
Where Peace reclines upon her roseate bed?
From thy haunt, wheree'er it be,
Darling child of sympathy!
Haste! th' afflicted heart to cheer!
Lo! a moving sight is here!
In this shuddering hour of need,
On thy swiftest pinion speed!
The bark, that long hath borne the beating wave,
And now beholds her haven near,
Trembles o'er the yawning grave!
Fly to succour! fly to save!

186

Amid the ravings of the main,
Thou oft art call'd, though call'd in vain!
Whilst “Help!” faint heard, that doleful sound!
Floats on the darken'd air, till with the tempest drown'd!

VIII.

The storm increases! by the light
Of heaven's fierce splendours, I behold
The mariners, late brave and bold,
Chain'd, steadfast, to the deck, in wild affright.
Through distraction's starting tear,
They view their wives and children dear,
Whom they had fondly hoped, ere long, to greet
With all a husband's, all a father's joy,
And feel domestic comforts sweet,
The end of all their toil, without alloy;
But now, (while those they love rejoice
In the bless'd interview at hand,
And every heart, and every voice,
Already hails them to their native land,)
They mark th' unruly sails disdain
The weak control of mortal rein;
Dissever'd, on the winds they ride,
Rent by ocean in his pride!
Whilst languid hope points to one glimmering star,
Forebodings dread, disclose their wretched state,
They view the sails, plung'd in the wave afar,
And read their own inevitable fate!
The lightnings, as they flash, display
The rocky shore, to which they onward drive!
In vain with destiny they strive,
Whilst ocean, bellowing loud, demands his prey.
Now swifter borne before the hurrying blast,
(Their last brave anchor vainly cast!)

187

They view, dismay'd, the white waves glare at hand,
Roaring o'er the rocky strand!
To the near cliffs their course they urge,
In dark funereal terrors drest!—
Ere long, and in the wrathful surge,
Each palpitating heart shall rest!
Still nearer, now, the vessel draws!
Fear suspends their labouring breath!
A horrid pause!
One moment more!
The strife is o'er!
Heard you that shriek? It was the shriek of Death!

THE SONG OF THE CAMBRIAN PROPHETESS.

ADDRESSED TO THE ENGLISH ARMY, UPON THEIR ENTRANCE INTO WALES.

I

“VENTUROUS Saxon! Tell me where
Edward, his proud falchion rears!
I have a song for him alone,
Which shall shake his reins on his iron throne.
Point thou the road
To thy King's abode,
Or I will call, with winged fears,
A thousand lightning-barbed spears,
One flash of which might, through the air,
Thy soul to the realms of Tophet bear.

II

Ah! 'tis Edward! Thou shalt know
Ere long the weight of Cambria's ire;

188

And, in thy last and great o'erthrow,
Whilst gallant men inflict the blow,
Crown'd with faded wreaths, expire.
Whilst mad furies dance,
No longer advance,
To the bleak hills, where Freedom sits laughing at Care,
Haste! Haste! Or, too late,
Thou shalt grapple with fate,
And leave to thy country disgrace and despair!

III

Edward! Edward! Back return,
Swifter than the passing ray;
A flaming cauldron now doth burn!
And my eyes devour the funeral urn,
Preparing for thy dying day!
Soon Arthur shall haste,
And, his country (laid waste)

189

Redeem from the Saxons, who vanquish'd retire;
Thou, Edward! shalt fly
At the glance of his eye,
And his sword, beaming vengeance, consume thee like fire.

IV

Arthur still doth being share,
Though none his warrior form may see;
Oft mid moonlight evening fair,
When the leaf hangs listless in the air,
He whispers solemn truths to me.
The moment hastes on;
The sun-beam hath shone
Of the morning, which lights him to glory anew;
The noon is at hand,
When from Cambria's land,
To destruction, his sword shall proud Edward pursue.

V

Other words, O Prince, attend!
Truths unwelcome thou must hear,
Before thy mortal course shall end,
And earth-worms hail their royal friend,
Crown'd, mid London, shall appear,

190

Like a ghost from his grave,
Llewellyn the brave,
Whilst crowds, thronging round, shall exult at the sight.
Fly! Fly! Or, too late,
Thou shalt grapple with fate,
And thy name, and thy glory, expire in night.

THE WELCOME.

CARADOC'S ADDRESS TO THE ENGLISH WARRIORS, UPON THEIR APPROACHING MONA.

HAIL! Ye sons of valour, hail!
Come, and learn our mystic lore;
Welcome to this forest pale,
Where the Druid dwelt of yore.
Mona's bards, with harp and song,
Here have found a peaceful home;
And, mid concords, loud and long,
Nightly watch the planets roam.

191

They have here a compact made,
With the harp and woodland shade.

Heroes! long to glory known,
Late, in the tumultuous hour;
Though not to idol terrors prone,
We saw our tranquil zenith lower;
Now, disdaining fears that were,
We the peaceful olive wave;
In the moment of despair,
We forgot that you were brave!
Welcome to this forest pale!
Sons of war, and valour, hail!

THE WARNING.

LHYRARCH, THE CAMBRIAN BARD'S ADDRESS TO THE ENGLISH CHIEFTAIN, EARL TALBOT, WHEN, SCATTERING DESTRUCTION AROUND HIM, HE HAD PENETRATED TO THE SACRED GROVES OF MONA.

WHENCE, O Warriors, clad in mail,
Thus our happy land assail?
Have we, witless, done you wrong?
Do you war with harp and song?

192

Or, have those who are no more,
Prostrate on the bloody shore,
Call'd you from your homes afar,
Thus to drive Destruction's car?
We are few, and peaceful, here,
And our hearths and homes are dear!

Know, O Warriors! clad in mail,
Where the stars through ether sail,
There is One, who looks below,
Greater than our mightiest foe!—
There is One, whom you should fear,
Wielding an Almighty spear!
Should you traverse Mona more,
Tracking thus your path with gore,
List, O Warriors, clad in mail!
Hear the threat, which cannot fail!
He who bids the thunders roll—
He whose lightnings scare the soul,
He, for Mona's children slain,
Will blast you with his fierce disdain.

193

You are men, though clad in mail;
Shall the voice of mercy fail?
Have you not, on Albion's shore,
Whom you prize, and whom adore?
Have you not, in order fair,
Father, mother, brother, there?
Do you not, while far you roam,
Oft, turning, linger round your home,
And homage pay, with bended knees,
To Nature's tender charities?
Do not your rosy offspring rise,
Nightly to a father's eyes?
By the love to these you bear,
Mona's happy children spare!

I see the tiger in your eye,
Slay me! I disdain to fly!
Did I talk, O Men! to you
Of peaceful joys you never knew?—
With sweet words that move the tear,
Father, mother, brother, dear;
Did I hope to make you feel,
Whose blood is ice, whose hearts are steel?
Hence! The milder word I scorn!
Demons, hence, of darkness born!
Lift once more the bloody spear!
See my breast! O plunge it here!
Infuriate, I will head the train,
The ghosts of thousands you have slain:
Swords of proof, and glittering mail,
What, O Men, shall then avail?
Our happiness shall be delay'd
To meet you in the land of shade!”

194

THE DISTRACTED MINSTREL.

THE SONG OF A SURVIVING BARD, AFTER THE SLAUGHTER OF HIS BRETHREN AT MONA.

LIKE a watch-tower, I stand, on the verge of the sea,
Whilst the tempest aroused in his vehemence raves;
The deep tones of ocean, how fearful they be,
When the storm wraps in darkness the mountainous waves!

What transports are these! like myself, in despair,
The white-headed billows dash madly the shore:
I love the rude tumult, the rocking of air,
And music to me is this perilous roar.

Behold! the red thunderbolt ranges the sky!
Beside, rides a Spirit! Ere beheld, he is past!
Ah! seize in thine anger the bolts as they fly,
And crush me, an atom, upwhirl'd on the blast.

I once dwelt with men; I have laugh'd o'er their tomb,
Ah, no, I have wept, and fresh tears I will shed.
What shadow is that—which still deepens the gloom?
I see it! It speaks! ah, the vision is fled!

Ye lightnings burst round me! your terrors I hail!
Come, drest in fresh vengeance, thou torrent of fire!
With destruction, o'erwhelming, all Nature assail,
And let the last gleam of existence expire.

The earth with foul spells hence to Demons is bound,
If I look to the sky, their dread legions appear;
If I mark the wide waters conflicting around,
Each wave is a car for the beings I fear.

195

My Harp! is it thou? hast thou seen me forlorn?—
In his anguish, one friend cheers old Caradoc's sight.
Thou art dearer to me than the blush of the morn
To the mariner wreck'd in the blackness of night.

Oppress'd, and forsaken, thy sympathies bear;
O come, whilst I lean on thy joys as I go,
I will strive to forget a vile world with its care,
And pluck from my heart the deep arrow of woe.

196

Off! Off! fiends accursed! In confounding array,
They have seized my sweet harp! From the clouds, dark and dread,
Lo! a whirlwind advances! O, bear me away
On thy wild wing of fury to rest with the dead.

CARADOC's SONG OVER THE SLAUGHTERED BARDS.

Scene, the Druid's Circle in the Island of Mona.

I.

GATHER fast, ye clouds of night!
Let no star this deed behold!
Be it blotted from the light!
Be it but to demons told!
Thy honor'd Bards, O Cambria fair!
Whose harps, so oft, have lull'd thy care,
And taught thy sons, to pity prone,
To make another's pang their own,
O friends revered! O brethren dear!
For you I shed the fervent tear!
In the hour supreme of woe,
Iron war hath laid you low!—
While I am left, forlorn, alone,
To heave the sigh, and pour the groan!

II.

Masters of the sacred lyre!
Spirits bathed in Fancy's fire!
On daring pinion born to ride;
Who only sojourn'd here awhile
Sorrow's children to beguile
With the songs to heaven allied:

197

When shall I again withdraw
My jarring chords to learn of ye?
When listen, lost in silent awe,
To your towering harmony?
In happier days, for ever gone!
Which memory loves to linger on,
Mid glittering hopes, and sunny dreams,
We haunted oft the dashing streams;
Or, wilds remote from human eye,
When lightnings flash'd athwart the sky,
And thunders, with long-lengthen'd sound,
In ghastly dread, the fearful bound:
Or the soul-enchanting mountains,
Stately rivers, hallow'd fountains,
While night, in panoply and prime,
Marshall'd her starry hosts sublime:
Hoary fathers! spirits pure!
To heaven's selectest treasures free,
Earth your like shall never see,
While the sun and moon endure!
Meads, and hills, and torrents rude,
Mourn your widow'd solitude!
Who shall now your praises tell!
They are dead who loved you well!
O my country! Cambria dear!
In deep silence drop the tear,
For never more at closing eve
Shall thy ancient woods receive,
While radiance lingers in the sky,
Thy loved, thy bards' sweet melody!
On the lonely willow-tree,
Shall their drooping harps be found;
And the winds that round them flee,
Wake, unbeard, the solemn sound!

198

III.

O, that in Oblivion's tide,
I could plunge, and wash away
The memory of this evil day,
And its deeds of darkness hide.
Though the mortal groan hath past;
Though is hush'd the raging blast;
Though my brethren all are slain,
Still, upon my burning brain,
The image rests! the shrieks arise!
The beaming spear affrights my eyes!
The hand is raised! the knee is bent!
And “Mercy!” throngs the firmament.
Why, in this vindictive hour,
Was I spared, a wretched end!
To behold the bloody shower
Thus, on Mona's Bards, descend!

IV.

Sons of innocence and song!
Shall o'er your fate no lofty spirits weep?—
Cambria shall bewail you long
When these weary eye-balls sleep!
While succeeding ages roll,
You shall move the feeling soul!
To this spot, thus holy made,
To this lone, and peaceful shade,
From a callous world, and proud,
Cambria's better sons shall crowd;—
They, upon this mound, shall stand,
And, whilst their labouring hearts expand,
They shall drop a tear for you,
And, faultering, cry,—“Sweet bards, adieu!”

199

V.

Grey my lock, and dim mine eye,
On another state I gaze!
The end of time, with me, is nigh,
Yet, in these my parting days,
Bitter is the cup of woe,
Which I must drink before I go!
The world, to me, is blank and dead,
All its vagrant joys are fled;
False and fleeting lights they gave,
Brief as the sun-illumined wave.
Confusion thickens! mists abound!
Forms, mysterious, gather round!
Like the stars that seem to fly,
When the clouds are sailing by,
All things swim before my sight!
Dreams of dread! and visions bright!
Oh! what lawless revels reign
In my strain'd, and labouring brain!
I see no home beneath the sky!
I hear no harp's sweet minstrelsy!
I view no bard a brother made,
All beneath the turf are laid!—
I am left, and left alone,
To heave the sigh, and pour the groan!
Hence, of happiness bereaved,
Still pursuing, still deceived!—
From the storms that round me rave,
There is a refuge in the grave!

VI.

Ah! a foe, for mortal fray,
Starts forth, in terrible array!
All must die! our earthly span
Oppress'd with ample grief is found;

200

But tenfold wretched is the man
Who dies with none but strangers round.
No friend to bid his anguish cease;
When terrors rise, to whisper peace;
To hang upon his parting breath,
And smooth the rugged road to death:
Whose head is laid, where all must lie,
Without a tear, without a sigh.
Pity near, when we complain,
Sorrow loses half its pain;
The feeling heart is not for me;
Mine is lonely misery!
They who would have rush'd to share
All my joy, and all my care,
(Their memory blessings rest upon!)
To their long, long home are gone!

VII.

Hope, farewell! thine end I view!
Pleasure! take my last adieu!
I, where tempests rave around,
In a lonely bark am bound:
From care to care, with none to save,
Toss'd, like a locust, on the wave.
As fix'd as repose, and as earnest as fear,
I will gaze at the sky, till the planets appear;
As passive my spirit, as dreary and chill
As the cloud, which December drives whither he will.
The past recedes, new prospects shine;
Farewell, O earth! O harp divine!
Soon must I attune my ear
To other cadence, soft and clear,
To songs that suit the upper sky,
To strains of immortality!

201

VIII.

God of majesty, and might!
Let thy winged lightning fly!
Let thy thunder-bolts alight
On the monster chieftains nigh!
At this hour of tears and sighs,
Hark! their horrid laughters rise!
Scorn'd of every heart and clime,
May they wither in their prime!
Hope, the balm of human care,
May they barter for despair!
May thy mercy, Judge of all!
Never to their souls extend,
But confusion on them fall!
And perdition, without end!
Anguish, like a flaming dart
Deeper let it pierce their heart!
And, when on life's tempestuous brink,
Whilst her wormwood dregs they drink,
Let them pass the torrent wild,
Not like Virtue's peaceful child,—
By their own uplifted hand,
May they perish from the land!
Or, Justice, with remorseless fang,
Tear them from these happy skies,
And the still-increasing pang
Be their worm, that never dies!—
Oh! I err! the storm within
My heart hath hurried on to sin!—
This sudden tumult in my vein
Hath dragg'd me back to earth again.
Anger! child of hell! away!
I will look to heaven, and say,
God of mercy! o'er the past,
Thy forgiving mantle cast!—

202

Now let me to the forests fly—
There to sorrow—there to die!

THE WARRIOR's GRAVE ON SNOWDON.

LHYRARCH'S SONG OVER THE GRAVE OF PRINCE DAVID, AND HIS FRIEND, THE GALLANT EDWALL.

I.

THOUGH sorrow mark no cheek but mine;
Though hostile spears around me shine;
Shall the Bard his thoughts dissemble,
Or at danger deign to tremble,
Whose presence (freedom-like) alone
Shakes the despot on his throne?—
Bard! who holds the sacred lyre,
Prodigal of earth's applause,
To whom, in Truth and Virtue's cause,
The Highest delegates his fire?
Shall he to idols lift his hands—
He, flattery to the abject breathe,
Who, mid the humble, humblest stands,
And on the proudest looks beneath?
Pretenders vile may touch the string,
And incense to the tyrant raise,
Who buys, for gold, his worthless praise;
But who, at Inspiration's spring,
Drinks deep, and feels the power within,
Mines, in vain, might strive to win.
Like the sun-shine and the sun,
Liberty and Bard are one.
He, while cowards feel despair,
The pinnacle of right shall dare.

203

If ever slavery should maintain
An empire, boundless as the main,
To his breast, no fortress higher,
Independence shall retire,
And, to a threatening world, reply
But with the disdainful eye.

II.

O Scorn! no more deform my brow,
Milder thoughts oppress me now.
This day hath closed the mortal span
Of a great, a gallant man;
Old in fame, though young in years,
For whom a thousand sighs arise,
Faithful, generous, valiant, wise,
For whom are shed a thousand tears.
Hark! the spirits of the air,
They, who weep o'er human woe,
With the hurrying hand or slow,
Wake by turns the note of care;
Now declining, now ascending,
With the gale of midnight blending,
For David is dead;
On the bier lies his head,
And his corse we convey to the home of the dead.

III.

Whilst on earth our friends we bear,
Whose sun below no more shall rise;
What so soothing, and so fair,
As the planet-spangled skies?
When, as the deepening shade prevails,
Night, her sister Silence, hails,
And Heaven's verge, in sober grey,
Lengthens long the closing day.

204

Such scenes profound instructions yield,
Deep truths are to our hearts reveal'd—
Soften'd, mellow'd, taught to feel
That Nature, Nature's wounds can heal.
While glows the concave, calm, and clear,
Our little mole-hills disappear;
We forget affliction's wave,
The worm, the mattock, and the grave.
Amid the hour, to mourning due,
A gentle joy the heart beguiles;
As around she scatters rue,
Sorrow, for a moment, smiles.

IV.

Tell me, men! who roam to see
Sights renown'd of majesty,
What so grand as here to bow,
Thus on Snowdon's awful brow,
Raised so high, scarce knowing where,
Suspended, like a lamp, in air,
When no forms arrest the sight,
But the sailing clouds of night,
Or, the countless orbs that shine
Through the canopy divine;—
Here some lonely planet fair,
Many a well-known cluster there:
Gems that stud the heavenly throne,
(Which speak of worlds beyond our own;)
View'd with rapture, oft of yore,
Yet now lovelier than before;—
Awe-inspiring as we gaze;—
While oft the vagrant meteors blaze,;
Some, darting far their lines of fire,
Which, ere we look, in night expire;

205

Some, like monarchs in their car,
Gliding, slow, from star to star,
To the subjects of their mind,
Paying visitations kind,
Downward then to cast our eye,
From our stand amid the sky,
And view the misty vale below,
Through which peaceful rivers flow,
Whilst upon the winding streams,
Day, expiring, faintly beams.
Fill'd with thoughts of amplest sweep,
We, a holy silence, keep,
And half, to our own selves, appear,
Beings of another sphere,
As we to Death had bent the knee,
And quaff'd our immortality.

V.

Roving Fancy, I abjure thee!
Now substantial tears shall flow;
O prince! before the grave immure thee,
I will pour the song of woe.
In her strength, for David's sake,
The bold, the trembling harp shall wake.
Why should friend the truth withhold,
The praise which from affection springs?
Thou art fallen, thou art cold,
Heir, and hope, of mighty kings!
When last the sun arose sublime,
We David saw, a mountain strong,
Beneath his shade we march'd along,
Nor fear'd the wasting hand of Time,
Him we thought ordain'd for praise,
Cambria, drooping, born to raise

206

To some eminence of power,
Great as when our Roderic reign'd;
That unwreath'd, immortal hour,
When we the loftiest foe disdain'd;
But our hero is fled,
On the bier lies his head,
And his corse we now bear to the home of the dead.

VI.

Earth hath still her charms to boast,
Some, abiding, short-lived, most;
Such as to the soul pertain,
Spurn at life's contracted chain,
Ocean, narrow'd to a span,
Germ of heaven abides in man—
One little light to cheer his cell,
One spark of his primeval mind;
Not all was lost when Adam fell,
For Friendship linger'd yet behind.
Edwall! in the prosperous day,
Thou didst well thy truth display;
And the adverse hour, for thee,
Was to shew thy constancy.
Thou, in battle fierce, wast torn
From the man whom now we mourn.
Here, friend from friend must be divided,
Like the sands on the sea-beat shore;
But in a world, far off provided,
They shall meet, to part no more!
O, hear and rejoice,
With your heart and your voice!
Blessings, and great,
For the good await,
After the storms of this mortal state!

207

VII.

Generous youth! so true, so brave,
We consign thee to the grave,
While the stifled groans reveal
That even foes for thee can feel.—
These are honours due to none,
But to high-born Valour's son.
Upon the bud that low doth lie,
We bestow the passing sigh;
But the youth, like morning red,
Adorn'd with virtue's choicest bloom,
Hurried to the silent tomb,
Who beholds, nor droops the head?
On the mound where he is laid,
The glow-worm, calm, and constant, shines,
The broken bull-rush slow declines;—
O'er the spot, so precious made,
The star of evening lingers long,
Whilst from the ancient yew-tree's shade,
Through the stillness, warbling clear,
Till the first faint dawn appear,
The bird of sorrow pours his song.
Village maidens, chaste, as fair,
Often bow in silence there;
And let fall, memento true,
Some sweet flower of tender hue.
E'en the old sexton, whom no common fate
Stops in his road, and leads to contemplate,
Here pauses sad—feels for a father's woe,
And wipes the tear that will, unbidden, flow.

VIII.

Bear the rich remains away!
As we march with solemn tread,

208

We will think upon the dead,
And for their souls devoutly pray.
Lo! the hallowed spot we reach!
The grave is deep! the grave is wide!
This lonely sepulchre might teach
Lesson stern to human pride.
Lay the heroes side by side!
They, in life, were friends sincere!
They, in death, are joined here!
Now place the sod beneath their head!
Whilst each restrains the faintest word,
While not a breath profane is heard,
Gently earth upon them spread!
Then, as the clods descending sound,
One by one, in order slow;
Let the warriors, crowding round,
With no idle pomp of woe,
While I mourn, securely feel
In their courage, and their steel,
For David is dead!
Oh! his spirit is fled!
And here, on the turf, rests his peaceable head!

IX.

What a bubble all things are,
Between this clod, and yonder star!
From youth to age we toil along,
Against a thousand currents strong,
Fierce to gain some gaudy prize,
Which the world doth idolize;—
Power—the source of killing care;
Fame—a column raised on air;
Wealth—at best, a golden chain,
Soon resign'd to men as vain;

209

Dear-bought honour; things which be
Weigh'd by wisdom—vanity!
Whilst our moments swifter fly
Than the cloud of jagged form,
Hurried fast before the storm,
Through the warring wintry sky!
Like the pageants of a day,
All earth's glories pass away!
Rode there not upon the wind
Warning notes, as mercy kind?
Again the utterance! Whispers mild,
Sent to Folly's thoughtless child!—
The tower on which the sun hath shone,
The restless vapour sailing on,
The falling leaf, the winged dart,
The friend who cheers us soon to part,
The blush of eve, the shadowy dream,
The reed that floats upon the stream,
The wave, rough foaming up the shore,
The voice of music heard no more;—
The lightning fierce, the thunder dread,
Of which remembrance long has fled;
The thought that once disturb'd the mind,
Now in the robe of twilight drest,
Calm as ocean sunk to rest;
The wind that leaves no trace behind,—
These have a voice! Where now are found
Names and nations once renown'd?
These emblem life—these all impress,
(In the hour of thoughtfulness)
The spirit, with mysterious force,
Like the unbound tempest hoarse,
Wrapp'd in midnight!—these declare
How frail is man, what grass we are,

210

Flowers, at morn, which charm the eye,
And, at even, fade and die.
Lo! to rouse our hopes and fears
For things, of small concernment, never,
Now secured, or lost for ever,
A silent monitor appears!
From the tomb, a hand I spy,
Pointing to Eternity!

X.

One leaf of cypress more I strew,
And then the long, the last adieu.
Sons of promise, your career
Terminates in darkness here;
Your rapturous joy, and your distress
In the grave's deep quietness!
If my heart might cease to swell,
For the cause in which you fell,
From life, its cares, its thorny bed,
Could I mourn that you are fled?
Brief is sorrow! brief is pleasure!
You have had your destined measure,
And to nobler life are born!—
Till the Resurrection Morn,
When our friendships we renew,
Take my long, my last adieu!

211

THE CAMBRIAN WAR SONG.

SUNG BY LHYRARCH, BEFORE LLEWELLYN, AND THE CAMBRIAN ARMY, AT THE MOMENT OF THEIR LAST CONFLICT WITH EDWARD.

TOO long the yoke hath Cambria borne;
Now, in patriot strength mature,
She wakes from grief! She scorns to mourn
What the warrior's sword may cure!
From our slumbers, lo! we rise!—
We will lay the lofty low;
And with our lightning-armed eyes,
Scare the iron-hearted foe!
Sons of valour! Sons of fame!
Roused from her abased state,
Cambria now shall vindicate
The honors of her ancient name.

In the days which are no more,
Cambria, oft her might display'd;

212

She reveal'd her glittering blade,
And from her rock-encircled shore,
Thick-cover'd with the vanquish'd slain,
Drove the Norman and the Dane.
Spake I, of the days—no more?
Manes of the mighty dead,
Pardon ye the word I said!
Till the rounds of time are o'er,
Like the planet of the sky,
Your glorious days shall never die!

What the nation of the earth,
That, in all her pride, hath given,
Like our Cambria, heroes birth,
Sent and sanctified of heaven?
From the realms of dazzling light,
Souls august, and ever dear;
From your empyrean height,
See! we march to launch the spear!
Arthur! we thy prowess own;
Thy sons, aspiring, think of thee;
Bulwarks of their father's throne,
Ten thousand Arthurs now I see!

Great and valiant were our sires;
Noble in the rolls of fame;
Whose memory, Cambria still inspires
To triumph, or to die the same.
Burst not from your marble rest,
With the fierce upbraiding eye!
We are now in vengeance drest,
And the hour of strife is nigh!
Foes, and great, before us rise!
Edward's daring hordes I see!—

213

Lo! the frighted lion flies,
Whelm'd in scorn and infamy!

Beneath the banners of the brave!
Fast, our valiant hosts advance,
To wield the sword and hurl the lance,
Whilst hovering wolves their banquet crave;
Dainty food they soon shall share,
With the carrion birds of air!
The day, so long'd for, now is nigh,
When, mid the rage of clashing shield,
To us the palm shall Edward yield!—
He, before our wrath, shall fly,
With wither'd hope, and blasted fame,
Sunk in everlasting shame!

O ye spirits of the brave!
High in valour's annals hoary,
While the beaming lances wave,
On, your children march to glory!
Warriors!—view your mortal foe!
Yonder see him pressing near!
He hastens to his last o'erthrow!
He comes to feel Llewellyn's spear!
Let the bloody pennon wave!
Now, the awful hour is nigh,
Cambria! when, thy all to save,
Thou must vanquish, or must die!

214

THE SONG OF THE UNION.

BY A CAMBRIAN BARD.

I.

ENDLESS changes, great, and small,
Time, on rapid pinion, brings!
Empires rise, and empires fall,
In the round of human things!

215

O, Cambria! Parent of the good and great,
Thy hour, so long protracted, now is nigh!
And whilst dim sorrow trembles in my eye,
I bid a last adieu, for shadows round thee wait:
Can I, from the light of day,
Thee behold, my mother dear!
Borne by hostile bands away,
Nor drop the fond, and filial tear?
When I forget thee, flower of earth!
Thou loveliest blossom in this world of blast,
Where innocence and playful mirth,
Have o'er thy scenes, so long, a lustre cast,
May the harp which still hath been
My solace, in the hour of care,
Hence, with its softest note, serene,
Plunge this my faithless heart, in horror and despair!

II.

Cambria! thou declin'st thy head,
Not like the sons of infamy and scorn!
They, for the abject fate, were born,
And sink, unwept, to their dishonor'd bed.
But when thou sought'st the land of shade,
And on the turf thy head was laid,
Whilst Sorrow, sad, upheld thy bier,
Pity dropp'd the pearly tear;
Valour, for thy braided hair,
Wove a chaplet, fresh and fair,
And all the Virtues, in a train,
Sigh'd around their Champion, slain.

III.

What voice is that of joyful measure?—
Bounding sport, and tuneful pleasure?

216

Not from earth the cadence springs;—
Heaven unlocks her stately treasure!
Hark! again the concave rings!
Roused by the immortal strain,
I will list, and list again.
In sounds that melt the ravish'd soul,
Around, the wild-notes, warbling, roll.
Now, in lulling airs, they die;
Now, they wake bold harmony;
Now, to awful grandeur, rise,
Shaking the eternal skies!
While now, by gentler themes beguiled,
All again is soft and mild.
Music, Spirits bless'd, employ,
To tell their plenitude of joy,—
In this heart-inspiring hour,
They behold the demon, War,
From his pinnacle of power,
Chain'd to Discord's fiery car,
Both plunged in dark Oblivion's tide;
They swell the concord of the spheres,
Audible to mortal ears,
And, with ambrosial songs, thro' Heaven, exultant, ride.

1.

Fairer than the evening ray,
Who is she, with dove-like wing,
Rising from the ocean spray,
Whilst attendant angels sing?
To new delight and ardent joyance born,
With eyes, that pleasure beam, she mounts on high;
And by her side, whom starry robes adorn,
A kindred shape sublime, illumes the laughing sky.
By her lofty port, and mien,
I see a parent's image there!—

217

E'en Cambria, earth's transcendent queen!
With the noble England fair!
No more their eye-balls dart around,
Envy, and wrath, and killing scorn, and hate,
In bonds of holy friendship bound,
Each visage wears the smile of love sedate.
May they, to the verge of time,
Traverse, hand in hand, along;
And Bards of every age and clime,
Inspired with Albion's praise, chant the immortal song.

2.

While scenes, august, before my vision play,
And Cambria's new-born star of glory shines;
My spirit faints, my head declines,
And dark the hue of this auspicious day!—
Can I, from my memory tear,
The image, graven deepest there!
Llewellyn, and his bitter fate,
Brave, but fallen potentate!
His soul, so high! his heart, so true!
Where generous thoughts, luxuriant, grew!
Till in dust I lay my head,
I will weep Llewellyn, dead!

3.

Ye heroes, pride of future story!
Ye who fell, or young, or hoary,
I will not bewail you dead.
The blood that left your falchions gory,
In a noble cause, was shed!
O, earth! what higher praise below
Can thy loftiest children know,

218

Than, how to guard their fathers' laws,
Than, how to die in freedom's cause.
What fearful vision fills my eyes?
The murder'd Bards before me rise!
Borne from earth, and mortal care,
Their looks, their happier state declare;
Whilst each the golden lyre sustains,
Form'd for heaven, and heavenly strains!
From clouds they come!—a long array!
With the cloud, they pass away!
While sordid spirits leave behind
Names that perish but for scorn,
Your brows shall living garlands bind,
Fragrant, as the blushing morn.
Though never more your concords sweet
Shall raise the soul to ecstasy,
Precious shall your memory be,
Whilst, at the voice of song, a Cambrian's heart shall beat.

1.

O Eleanor! for thee I sigh!
Must I not thy tomb adorn?—
Fair as a wanderer from the sky,
That just beheld her natal morn!
While feeling holds dominion o'er the heart,
And sympathy the spirit bears along;
Thy fate shall bid the tear of pity start;
And sorrow oft, for thee, awake her tenderest song!
David! though thy crimes were great,

219

I, for thee, a sigh will yield;—
Rising from thy traitor state,
Thou, the patriot's sword didst wield.
Edwall, too, shall have his fame!—
Through life's brief morn, fair did thy planet shine,
Thy heart was warm'd with friendship's flame,
And David's dust shall mingle now with thine.
Llewellyn! yet a last adieu,
I bid to thee, thy country's pride!
Cambria, o'er thy grave shall strew
Her first, and latest flowers, striving the tear to hide!

2.

Although the Eternal Fiat, thus ordains
That Cambria's towering head, in dust should lie;
Ere long, and she shall lift her lofty eye,
Whilst her Own Prince, again, triumphant, reigns!
Let our ardent spirits glow!
Noble is our Victor Foe!
Not to alien power and pride,
We the island-helm confide!
Vanquish'd in the hard-fought field,
Not to coward arm we yield!
But to Edward!—dear to Fame,
England's hope, nor Cambria's shame!

220

3.

Ah! check the tear, unbidden, flowing!
Favouring winds around are blowing!
Soon will joy our prospects crown;
Heaven is richer gifts bestowing,
Though, awhile, he seems to frown!
England bold, and Cambria fair!
Now are join'd, a happy pair!
Whilst their progeny shall rise,
Great, as good, and brave, as wise!
Far off I gaze! as years advance,
Gallia wields the bloody lance!
The base she raises to renown,
Or tramples thrones, and sceptres, down.
I see her, in her rebel pride,
O'er plains of waste, and carnage, stride!
With one, her lord, deform'd with crimes,
(The Attila of after times)
Dealing, wide, his treacherous smile,
Who, ere he stabs, his victim blinds!
While, in this wave-sequester'd isle,
Affrighted Freedom refuge finds.
New visions burst! Mid rude alarms,
Firm in their strength, our children stand;
Proud spectacle, a Spartan band,
And, with the smiles of Heaven, defy a world in arms.

221

AN EXPOSTULATORY EPISTLE TO LORD BYRON.

230

WHAT days are these! in which the rabble rout,
At once, from Stygian realms, come pouring out,
Truth to subvert, and burst the social chain,
That chaos, and old night, once more might reign!

231

Amid ephemeral swarms of graceless things,
Now scoffing at the Highest, now at kings,
Who, wisdom, in her sanctity, despise,
Leagued close to do what evil in them lies,
(Seeking to undermine, assault, o'erthrow,
Whate'er of excellence is found below,—
The goodly Fane our virtuous fathers rear'd;
The Book they honour'd, and the God they fear'd,)
Some foremost stand, though not unknown to fame!
To wage th' assault on decency and shame!
Their keenest arrow urged, their stoutest spear
At each who dares the fainting Virtues cheer;
Their sworn and deadliest foes, whoe'er may strive
To keep the vestal spark of Faith alive.

Towering above the abjects, who surpass,
In size, and feature, all earth's morbid mass,
(Those who confound, in numbers, right and wrong,
And desecrate the sacred gift of song,)
Is there one man, of harsh plebeian mind,
On all his race, who wars with fury blind?
Of such perverted principles, and ways,
Whose praise is censure, and whose censure, praise;
With human sympathies, who scorns to dwell,
Proud as was he, who chose to rule in hell;
Disdaining, born to move in regions higher,
Whate'er the great, the good, the pure, admire;
The gaunt, and fearful aspect of whose soul
Bursts thro' his Tales, like peals, that round us roll?
One such there is, from Erebus, and Night,
Whom nobles blush to own, a waspish wight!
With spleen and gall, from infancy, who grew,
With henbane nurtured, not hymettian dew:
Who, though preferring deeds of darker dye,
Oft sports, in monstrous pastimes, none knows why;

232

Who, urged by instinct, follies to pursue,
“Exhausts” the old, “and then imagines new.”
O, Helicon, thy recreant son bewail!
O, deed, at which barbarians might turn pale!
He, spurn'd of Nature, callous more than dull
Can quaff libations from his Father's Skull!

Would, that to outrage decency and sense,
Shame to deride, and mock at penitence,
Were all the heart deplored in his career!
Yet, deeper shades, in long array, appear.
Impetuous, some in paths of madness run,
Each crime bewail'd the moment it is done,
But he, with spirit cold, and hard as steel,
In fostering ill, compunction cannot feel.
Through Tomes up-piled, with poison deep imbued!
(Advancing to terrific magnitude!)
He seeks all hallow'd precincts to invade,
Vice to exalt, and virtue to degrade,
And, whilst a thousand sighs to Heaven are sent,
Serenely sits in Moral Banishment!

Is there a man, how fallen! still to fall!
Who bears a dark precedency o'er all:—
Rejected by the land which gave him birth,
And wandering now an outcast through the earth;
A son, dismember'd, and to aliens thrown,
Corrupting other climes, but, first, his own?
One such there is! whom sires unborn will curse,
Hasting, with giant stride, from bad to worse;
Seeking, untired, to gain the sensual's smile,
A pander for the profligate and vile!
His head, rich fraught (like some Bazaar's sly stall,)
With “lecherous lays” that “come” at every call!

233

Who still at sacred things can gibe and jeer,
Loud-laughing at the nursery bug-bear, fear,
And, of the Scriptures, just enough retain
To quote them with flagitious heart profane!

Mangling, like some voracious tiger blind,
Whome'er he deems the humbler of his kind,
He next, for havoc, furious springs on high,
He must, like slander, stigmatize, or die!
Now, wrathful, he assails each letter'd Peer,
(The oak, to charm, must have no rival near!)
Insulting next — his Prince (by gnats unhurt)
With all a butcher's coarseness, “blood” and “dirt”!
(The kindred champion, hail'd, with savage smiles,
By all the bullying H---, and base C---!)
Then paints himself, with features that appal!
The least traduced, and most deform'd of all!

There is a man, usurping lordly sway,
Aiming, alone, to hold a world at bay,
Who, mean as daring, arrogant as vain,
Like chaff, regards opinion with disdain;
As if the privilege with him were found,
The laws to spurn by which mankind are bound!
As if the arm which drags a despot down,
Must palsied fall before a Byron's frown!—
That spectre fading fast, that tarnish'd gem,
Which those who most admire, the most condemn!

Spirit of Milton! and ye bards of old!
Great minds! who tinsel ne'er bequeath'd for gold!

234

What are his titles, his credentials strong,
Like you, to awe, when years have roll'd along?
With much, for which e'en scribblers will not plead,
Frothy, and vulgar, worthless as the weed,
Hath he the stately theme, the chaste design,
The thought that “breathes” and “burns” in classic line?
Is his the fabric rear'd for every age;
The intellectual being's heritage?
Though many a bellowing trumpet swells his fame,
Some sceptics will this “Liberal Don” proclaim,—
Meteor, at first, mistaken for a star,
A marsh-bred Ignis in inflated car!
The flimsy idol of a flimsy day,
Like monarch Thespis, hurrying fast away;
Predicting, spite of bays and parsley crown,
That, what so soon goes up, will soon go down!
Huns! Vandals! dead to the mellifluous line!
Treason against Parnassus and the Nine!
Of his substantial claims the doubt to raise,
When profligates pour forth such floods of praise!
More heterodox than rancorous Jew or Turk,
Let them peruse his Everlasting Work!
And, when the twelfth huge quarto! meets their eyes,
Their folly own, and, with the mob, be wise.

But now the muse on graver theme must dwell,
Or scorn'd, or not, before the word “farewell,”
Although the meeting want the courtier's grace,
We must draw near, in converse, face to face,

Receive from him the passing apothegm,
Who would rejoice to honour, not condemn.—

235

How poor is he, illumined, and yet dark,
Who trusts his genius to a crazy bark;
No star to guide, no pharos, helm, or chart,
Who owns a head, but cannot boast a heart.
Learn! and this trace let memory long retain;
The grand, the choicest inmate of thy brain!—
Worthless is song, alike in peer or clown,
(Doom'd not to wear Time's amaranthine crown)
If, on the strain, insulted Virtue frown.

Is there no moment, when, the storm at rest,
Reflection steals, like twilight, o'er thy breast?
No hour, relieved from revelry's loud din,
When chill misgivings shake thy towers within?
Is Retrospect no stern intruder rude?
No foe, with pointed dagger, Solitude?
Canst thou on night, in pomp of glory, gaze,
Her depths unknown, her congregated blaze,
Her starry voyagers, of high degree,
Sailing through oceans of infinity,
While silence holds her universal sway,
And earth, and man, like atoms, pass away?
Caust thou o'er scenes, like these, thy glance extend,
And hear no voice, which spirits comprehend,
Telling, in soft celestial cadence clear,
Of worlds beyond this low sublunar sphere?
With destinies before thee, so sublime!
Why pinion down thy soul to sense, and time?
Must never one, of all thy readers, rise,
Fresh from thy page, more purified? more wise?
No future mind, kindling with virtue's fire,
Look back on Harold's Bard, and bless his lyre?

From thy compeers in genius wisely learn:—
From which of Southey's lines must virtue turn?

236

(Who, bold, with Hell's vicegerents war to wage,
Brands the “Satanic School” to every age;
His visitings, Herculean, chief descending,
Upon the “Head and front of the offending”)

237

Which verse shall Wordsworth ever blush to own?
Or Coleridge? spirit still of height unknown!
What tongue of Scotland's Regal Bard shall say,
Poison, with pleasure, mingles in his lay?

238

When shall Montgomery baneful lines bewail?
Or Crabbe? who haunts us, like the nursery tale;—
Bowles? Rogers? Barton? rich in native store;
Or Campbell? (“Little?” whelm'd in night,) or Moore?

Were powers, to stir the passions, such as thine,
A wit so subtile, fancies so divine,
Entrusted to corrupt, and turn aside
Whoe'er may take thy fatuus for a guide?
Nor to one age confined, but (wave on wave!)
Prolong'd, when thou art moulder'd in thy grave!
As soon the marble crust thy head must hold,—
Eternity! so soon, her gates unfold!
Canst thou reflect, and stamp with firmer tread,
Upon that changeless state, so near! so dread!
Nor feel one rising wish, with those to dwell,
Who stemm'd the tide of ill, and practised well?
Names sent embalmed to every age and shore,
Like Howard, Thornton, Wilberforce, and More?
Prospect, diffusing sun-shine through the breast,—
To reign with spirits perfected, and blest!

Ah! thought of dread! thine is a shoreless sea!
Such vernal zephyrs never light on thee!
Climbing to heights the Gallic Fiend ne'er trod,
Thou lift'st thy front against the Throne of God!
Heading the Atheist crew! and, dost obtrude
Thy scoff of all that — moves the multitude!
Of hope, descrying better worlds afar!—
Of faith, still fixed upon her “morning star!”
Best Antidote! “which he who runs may read,”
Thy life, the lucid comment on thy creed;
Thy refuge, the drear trust, some, comfort call!
That endless sleep, ere long, will cover all!

239

Dost thou aspire, like a Satanic mind,
With vice, to waste and desolate mankind!—
Toward every rude, and dark, and dismal deed,
To see them hurrying on with swifter speed?
To make them, from restraint and conscience free,
Stretch, fiend-like, at new heights of infamy?

Sunk, but not lost, from dreams of death arise!
No longer tempt the patience of the skies!
Confess, with tears of blood, to frowning Heaven,
The foul perversion of His talents given!
Retrace thy footsteps! Ere the wish be vain,
Bring back the erring thousands in thy train!
Let none, at death, despairing, charge on thee
Their blasted peace, in shuddering agony!
Their prop, their heart's last solace, rent away,
That one long night might quench their “perfect day!”

Lest Shelley's fate be thine, or one more dread,
(Thy home associate, in one cradle bred!)
That Being who could raise his ghastly eye;
Encompass'd by the blaze of Deity,
And utter, whilst his blood serenely flows,—
“There is no God!”— whose terrors now he knows!
Lest in his wrath thy Maker's lifted hand
Brand thee, a spectacle to every land;
Or the portentous moment thou deplore,
When vengeance wakes, and mercy pleads no more;
Redeem the future! Cleanse the Augean sty!
Learn better how to live! and how to die!

[END OF VOLUME I.]