The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Deep in a loathsome dungeon's twilight gloom,
Which scarce received a dubious gleam of day,
Where many a wretch had found a living tomb—
Pining for home,—a prisoned patriot lay.
As the rich hues of sunset waned away,
And land and sea with rosy radiance shone,
Through the barred lattice came the evening ray,
Beaming in beauty on the wall of stone,—
And lingered, loth to leave the Captive sad and lone.

That brief reflection of the summer skies,
Sent from the happier region of the spheres,
Caught the poor mourner's dim and drooping eyes,
And stirred the slumbering fountains of his tears;
For all the rapture of his boyish years,
And all his ardent youth's romantic spell,—
All that fair freedom—all that love endears,
Came like the sad tones of a vesper bell,
While thus the Captive woke the echoes of his cell:—

“Blest was my boyhood! when I wandered free,
Fearless and far, o'er mountain, moor, and vale;

When every season brought its share of glee,—
Life in the sun and gladness in the gale;
When the young moon that rose serenely pale,
Looked like a fairy bark through cloud-waves driven,
And the rich music of the nightingale
Sank like a spirit's voice which God had given
To teach the listening soul the melody of heaven!

“Lured by the genial freshness of the hour,
With buoyant step I bounded forth at morn,
And hied away to some familiar bower
To pluck the wild-rose from the dewy thorn;
Or roved through fields of undulating corn—
Or watched the winding of some wizard stream—
Or lay beneath some beetling rock forlorn,
Wrapt in the quiet ecstasy of dream,
Till Phœbus flushed the west with his departing beam.

“Around the precincts of my tranquil home,
I knew each barren spot, each cultured nook—
The pathless wild, the wood's umbrageous dome—
The tumbling torrent, and the dimpling brook;
And ever and anon my way I took
Through scenes, alas! which I shall view no more;
For Nature was my ever-open book,
Whose peaceful, pleasant, and exhaustless lore,
Gave to my craving soul the choicest of its store.

“When time, at length, had knit my growing form,
And shaped my spirit in a manlier mould,
I loved to share the grandeur of the storm,
As its vast billows o'er the welkin rolled:
Oft have I borne the midnight gloom and cold,

In contemplation of those worlds on high
Which men call stars—those drops of heavenly gold
Which burn and brighten o'er the slumbering sky,
Like gems which cannot fade—like flowers which cannot die!

“All that is lovely, tender, and serene,—
All that is wild, and wonderful, and strong,—
All that is free as it hath ever been,
Spoke to my spirit with a trumpet's tongue:
The rush of winds—the roar of waves—the long
Reverberated thunder—the far boom
Of ever restless Ocean—the glad song
Of birds and bees in sylvan haunts—the bloom
That sleeps in buds and blossoms, cradled in perfume;—

“The opening splendour that Aurora yields,
Deep Noon, rich Eve, and philosophic Night;
The harvest waving on the peaceful fields—
The billowy forest on the mountain's height;
The rainbow's arch, prismatically bright—
The Summer music in the air that rings—
The sweeping cloud—the eagle's sunward flight—
The joyous flutter of a thousand wings,
And all the boundless range of universal things!

“Oh! I was calm and happy, though, as yet,
In all my gladness I had been alone;
But heaven was round my footsteps when I met
One gentle soul congenial with my own.
Like chords that thrill in harmony of tone,
Our thoughts, words, looks, and feelings were the same,
And o'er my heart so sweet a spell was thrown,
That e'en the poet's glowing words were tame,
To paint the gush of joy that o'er my being came!

“And I was blest, if man be blest below,—
The favoured father of as fond a child
As e'er brought gladness in a world of woe;
My household sprite, fair, frolicsome, and wild—
The Ariel of my home, whose voice beguiled
My darkest hours—my peace-preserving dove,
Whose young affections, fresh and undefiled,
Gushed from his heart in syllables of love,
And winged my prayers for him unceasingly above.

“Alas, for all my joys! in evil hour
I yearned to mingle with my fellow-men;
Left the calm pleasures of my cottage bower,
Never to taste tranquillity again:
I found the city a tumultuous den,
Where crime, oppression, ignorance, and strife,
Made up one mass of misery—a fen
Where every vicious weed grew rank and rife,
And flung a withering taint on all the flowers of life.

“But why was this? the earth was passing fair,
Flinging rich gifts from her prolific breast;
The ocean, with its mighty bosom bare,
Wildly magnificent in storm or rest;
The heavens with wondrous beauty were impressed,
Whether in summer's noon, or winter's night!
Lovely, their varying splendours of the west—
Sublime their wilderness of starry light—
Hours when the soul had wings to take unbounded flight.

“A God of wisdom, harmony, and love,
Was seen and felt in all things, from the round
Of burning worlds that wheel their course above,
To the mute glow-worm on the dewy ground:
Where'er I roved, my eager spirit found

Things which reflected Hope's inspiring beam;
Some shape of beauty—some melodious sound,
Which touched my heart with joy; and could I deem
That Man was made to mar Creation's perfect scheme?

“I raised my voice imploringly aloud,
And wicked men were startled into fear!—
Nor vain my cry, for soon a gathering crowd,
Haggard and worn with misery, drew near;
Some came to scoff, and some to lend an ear,
With wondering eyes and faces sadly pale;
My heart waxed warmer, and my voice more clear,
Till soft, persuasive Reason did prevail,
To make the thousands feel my true yet fearful tale.

“Fired with the earnest eloquence of Truth,
My words warmed every listener to the core,
Inspired old Age, and in the soul of Youth
Aroused those energies which slept before:
I strove to teach them, from the sickening lore
Of Europe's annals—dark with many a stain—
How much of human tears and human gore
Had fallen unheeded as the summer rain,
That selfish man might reap unprofitable gain.

“I bade them scan the universe and see
What God had done for man; I bade them seek
That virtuous knowledge which adorns the free,
Softens the strong and dignifies the weak;
I bade them deeply think, and calmly speak,
And promptly act at love or duty's call;
I urged them to be patient, mild, and meek,
But fearless, firm, and watchful; and withal,
To keep heart, mind, and limb, secure from slavish thrall.

“I bade them leave those haunts of vice and gloom,
Where they profaned the Sabbath's holy hours;
To go abroad, and revel in the bloom
That blushed in beauty on a thousand flowers!
To scale the mountains, thread the tangled bowers,
And by the brinks of brawling brooks repair;
To catch the freshness of the summer showers,
And breathe the life of unpolluted air;
Till the wrapt soul was filled with all of pure and fair.

“I prayed that they would strengthen and employ
Each wiser, nobler faculty of mind;
Gather the gems of Science, and enjoy
Those flowers of thought which Genius had entwined;
I bade them walk with Charity, and bind
The stricken heart by sin or sorrow riven;
Succour and serve the feeblest of their kind,
Moved by those sympathies which Love hath given
To soothe the ills of Earth, and win the joys of Heaven.

“Had I been swayed by selfishness, and built
My hopes of glory on a rebel's name,
I could have led my followers into guilt,
And blown the sparks of Discord into flame;
But no; I had a higher, holier aim—
And well my hallowed mission was begun—
To rouse my country from her slavish shame,—
To do what human effort could have done,
To make her free and blest;—and lo! what I have won!

“A felon's fare, and worse than felon's doom,
With fetters rusting on my fleshless bones:
This narrow prison of perpetual gloom—
This cold damp pillow of unyielding stones!
Far from Affection's gentle looks and tones,

My wife's fond smile—my child's rich voice of glee,
With none to silence or to soothe my groans.—
Father of Mercy! let me turn to thee,
I feel thy spirit here, and bow to thy decree!”—

The manly victim of Oppression's law,
Faint with the nightly vigils he had kept,
Sunk down supine upon his couch of straw,
And, lapped in brief forgetfulness, he slept.
Enchanting visions through his memory swept,
Flushed his pale cheek, and heaved his weary breast;
Fair forms and faces round his pillow crept,
Which he in early youth had loved and blest;
And voices such as these stole through his troubled rest:—

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

“Come, Captive, come, let us joyfully roam
O'er the green and reviving earth;
While the skies are fair, and the vocal air
Resounds with the voice of mirth:
The dew-drop lies in the violet's eyes,
And the primrose gems the grass;
On verdurous brinks, the cowslip drinks
Of the brooklets as they pass:—
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!

“The lark sings loud in the silvery cloud,
And the thrush in the emerald bowers;
The rainbow expands o'er the smiling lands,
And glows through the twinkling showers;
The breeze, like a thief, from the bud and the leaf
Steals odours newly born,
And wantonly flings, from its viewless wings,
The breath of the blooming thorn—
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!

“There is freedom on the hill, there is freshness in the rill—
There is health in the cheering gale;
And the stream runs bright, like a path of light,
Through the maze of the folding vale;
The wildest glen hath a charm again,
And the moor hath a look less stern;—
The cool, clear well, in the woodland dell,
Is fringed with the feathery fern:
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!

“Glad Childhood strays through tangled ways,
In solitudes green and lone,
And Youth frolics free, with unwonted glee,
To music's inspiring tone:
Old Age with his staff, and a merry, merry laugh,
Goes forth in my bright domain:
Man, maiden, and boy, feel the spirit of joy,
That comes with my gladsome reign:—
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!”

THE VOICE OF SUMMER.

“Come away from the gloom of thy dungeon forlorn,
And escape from the thraldom of sorrow and sleep:
Come, and catch the first hues on the cheek of the morn,
From the pine-covered mountain's precipitous steep:
For the lark hath its matin hymn newly begun,
And the last star that lingered hath melted away;
Every shadow falls back from the face of the sun,
And the world is awake in the fulness of day.

“Come away in the pride of my glorious noon,
And retire to some old haunted forest with me,
While the skies are unrobed, and the air is in tune
With the call of the cuckoo—the boom of the bee:
Where the brook o'er its pebbles runs drowsily by,
And green waving branches bend gracefully o'er,
In a trance of sweet thought thou shalt quietly lie,
And dream all the poet hath told thee before.

“Come away in the silence and softness of eve,
When dimly the last tints of sunset appear;
When daylight and darkness commingle, and weave
A mantle of beauty o'er mountain and mere:
When the breath of the woodbine floats richly about,
And the glow-worm begins its pale lamp to relume:
When a star here and there looketh fitfully out,
And a spirit of tenderness steals through the gloom.

“Come away while the shadowy pinions of night
Brood over the earth, like a bird in its nest;
When the mind seeks to soar to those planets of light,
Which fancy hath made the abodes of the blest.
What heart can resist the deep spell of that hour,
When the moon goeth forth on her journey above,
And the nightingale, hid in the depths of her bower,
Pours abroad her full soul in the music of love!”

THE VOICE OF AUTUMN.

“Thou lonely man of grief and pain,
By lawless power oppressed,
Burst from thy prison—rend thy chain,
I come to make thee blest;
I have no springtide buds and flowers,
I have no summer bees and bowers;
But oh! I have some pleasant hours,
To soothe thy soul to rest.

“Plenty o'er all the quiet land
Her varied vesture weaves,
And flings her gifts with liberal hand
To glad the heart that grieves:
Along the southern mountain steeps,
The vine its purple nectar weeps,
While the bold peasant proudly reaps
The wealth of golden sheaves.

“Forth with the earliest march of morn,
He bounds with footstep free:

He plucks the fruit—he binds the corn,
Till night steals o'er the lea;
Beneath the broad, ascending moon,
He carries home the welcome boon,
And sings some old remembered tune,
With loud and careless glee.

“Then come, before my reign is past,
Ere darker hours prevail,—
Before the forest leaves are cast,
And wildly strew the gale:
There's splendour in the day-spring yet—
There's glory when the sun is set—
There's beauty when the stars are met
Around night's pilgrim pale.

“The lark at length hath left the skies
The throstle sings alone;
And far the vagrant cuckoo flies,
To seek a kinder zone;
But other music still is here,
Though fields are bare and woods are sere—
Where the lone robin warbles clear
His soft and plaintive tone.

“While heaven is blue, and earth is green—
Come, at my earnest call,
Ere winter sadden all the scene
Beneath his snowy pall;
The fitful wailing of the woods—
The solemn roar of deepening floods,
Sent forth from Nature's solitudes,
Proclaim my coming fall.”

THE VOICE OF WINTER.

“Lone victim of Tyranny's doom,
Bowed down to his pitiless will,
I come o'er the earth with my grandeur and gloom,
And though I have nothing of freshness and bloom,
I know that thou lovest me still.

“With a spirit unwearied and warm,
Thou hast sported with me from a child;
Thou hast watch'd my career on the wings of the storm—
Thou hast fearlessly followed my shadowy form
Over mountain, and valley, and wild.

“In the depths of some desolate vale,
Thou hast given thy breast to the blast,
As I built up my snow-drift, and scattered my hail;
Thou didst hear my stern voice in the sweep of the gale,
And shouted with joy as I passed.

“Young Spring may be tender and bland,
With her flowers like the stars of the sky;
Bright Summer may breathe his warm soul o'er the land,
And Autumn may open a bountiful hand;—
But none are so mighty as I.

“Through the silent dominions of Night
I go to my wonderful play;
While the tremulous pole-star burns piercingly bright,
I cover the earth with a mantle of light,
To dazzle the dawning of day.

“There's a silvery crisp on the grass,
And a cluster of gems on the thorn;
The boughs of the forest grow still as I pass,—
The reeds stand erect in the frozen morass,
Unstirred by the breath of the morn.

“On the uttermost verge of the year,
As I sit on my crystalline throne,
I send out my frost-spirit, cloudless and clear,
And the rivers are stayed in their onward career—
The cataracts stiffen to stone.

“But when my vast power hath begun
To lessen the comforts of men,
I withdraw my dim veil from the face of the sun,
And the floods, and the streams, and the rivulets run,
On—on to the ocean again.

“But though I am savage and strong,
And though I am sullen and cold,
I have hearth-stones encircled by many a throng,
Who awaken the jest, and the dance, and the song,
As if they would never grow old.

“Sad Captive, awake from thy thrall,—
Come back to the home of thy birth!
Festivity ringeth in cottage and hall,
Where the holly and mistletoe garland the wall,
And shake to the music of mirth.

“Fair forms which thou canst not forget—
Fond hearts with affection that burn—
The true and the tender are cheerfully met,
Where the wine-cup is filled, and the banquet is set
To welcome thy happy return.

“The face of thy father is bright—
Thy child is awake on his knee—
The wife of thy bosom is mad with delight,
Oh! fly to her faithful embraces to-night,
For liberty waiteth for thee!”

Such were the visions that his grief beguiled;
And as the last voice to his fancy spoke,
He sprang to clasp the mother of his child—
And in the frenzy of his joy—awoke!
Brief was that joy! for on his senses broke
The dread, dark, cold reality of pain;
He heard the midnight bell's discordant stroke—
He heard the clank of his unbroken chain,
And knew that he had dreamed of liberty in vain!

He spoke not, for his feelings kept him dumb;
He did not weep, for sorrow's fount was dry;
He could not move, so faint had he become,—
He only felt how gladly he could die!

Calm was his aspect, though his languid eye
Had something of a wild imploring look;
Without a word, a struggle, or a sigh—
Stretched in the darkness of his dungeon nook,—
He lay till his pure soul her tenement forsook.

Day dawned in splendour, and the summer heaven
Shone with a blue serenity of light;
To the rich bosom of the earth was given
All that is blooming, bountiful, and bright;
Birds hailed the morn, and breezes in their flight
Swept fragrance from the flowers; rejoicing waves
Sang to the ear, and sparkled to the sight;
The world, too lovely for a race of slaves,
Seemed at that pleasant hour as though it held no graves.

But Death had been his latest, kindest friend,
And snatched the Captive from his earthly thrall;
Though brief his course, and desolate his end,
Freedom was strengthened by her martyr's fall.
Ten thousand souls have answered to his call,
And sown the seeds of truth, which soon shall grow
To fair and full maturity for all;
And Man that hour of happiness shall know,
When universal love shall blend all hearts below!