 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
1
MISCELLANIES.
THE WIDOW.
—“Mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd wither'd.
And o'er her crook'd shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnant of an old stripp'd hanging,
Which could not keep her carcase from the cold.”
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd wither'd.
And o'er her crook'd shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnant of an old stripp'd hanging,
Which could not keep her carcase from the cold.”
Otway.
Why sighs yon wretched being, whose patch'd weeds
Shield not her shrivell'd body from the blast,
Who oft along the pathway's frozen side,
In vain for fuel seeks?—Why from her eyes,
That languid turn to Heav'n, imploring rest,
Adown their well-known course fall the big tears?
Shield not her shrivell'd body from the blast,
Who oft along the pathway's frozen side,
In vain for fuel seeks?—Why from her eyes,
That languid turn to Heav'n, imploring rest,
Adown their well-known course fall the big tears?
She weeps not at her growing poverty,
Nor envies e'er the splendour of the world;
But, mourning, sighs for long departed joys:
Alas! her all is gone!—No monarch's wealth
Can to her mind lost happiness restore;
Since he, her only hope, her only pride,
Her only son, her age's sole support,
Torn from his home, soon fill'd a wat'ry grave.
Nor envies e'er the splendour of the world;
2
Alas! her all is gone!—No monarch's wealth
Can to her mind lost happiness restore;
Since he, her only hope, her only pride,
Her only son, her age's sole support,
Torn from his home, soon fill'd a wat'ry grave.
An aged Widow, much she lov'd to gaze
On him, a father's image. He, in youth,
Regardless of all else, save one, would toil
With his companion, chearfulness, the day;
And oft the mountain's rugged brow he'd climb,
To mark his distant dear-lov'd humble cot,
And think with pleasure on his boyish years,
Life's happy morn, when care gives way to mirth:
Then would he anxious cull each wild-flow'r fair,
Type of her beauty that had fir'd his breast;
And proud was he at evening to behold
A parent's fondness in a parent's smiles;
A cot, the humble dwelling of content;
And one, the sharer of his infant sports,
His Mary; child of innocence, whose face
Was fair, and seem'd the index of a mind,
Pure as the unsullied snow-drop, gentle flow'r,
The timid harbinger of welcome Spring,
That drooping, chides dull Winter as it dies.
On him, a father's image. He, in youth,
Regardless of all else, save one, would toil
With his companion, chearfulness, the day;
And oft the mountain's rugged brow he'd climb,
To mark his distant dear-lov'd humble cot,
And think with pleasure on his boyish years,
Life's happy morn, when care gives way to mirth:
Then would he anxious cull each wild-flow'r fair,
Type of her beauty that had fir'd his breast;
And proud was he at evening to behold
A parent's fondness in a parent's smiles;
A cot, the humble dwelling of content;
And one, the sharer of his infant sports,
His Mary; child of innocence, whose face
Was fair, and seem'd the index of a mind,
Pure as the unsullied snow-drop, gentle flow'r,
The timid harbinger of welcome Spring,
That drooping, chides dull Winter as it dies.
3
Robb'd of her William, she would sit and weep,
And think of him, and vainly try to sing;
Then gaze with tears upon the braided hair:
Now stop her wheel, and with an anxious look,
Enquire of many a wand'rer by her home,
The news, heart-rending news, of murd'rous war;
And if perchance some letter'd hind should read
With joyous stare, full of anxiety,
The list of bloodshed, gazetted bombast,
Then would poor Mary tremble, with deep sighs,
While down her cheek roll'd many a pearly tear;
For she had learn'd to feel for others' woe.
Oft while the villagers at ease were laid
In sleep's soft lap, she'd listen to the wind,
Whose hollow murmurs chill'd her heart with fear;
Then think of dangers he'd to undergo,
And sleepless, welcome morning's slow approach.
But soon the rose fled from her beauteous cheek,
And left the lily mourning for its loss;
A prey to sorrow Mary ling'ring fell,
Wept and lamented by the rustics round.
Sad was the slow procession; dull each look,
As thro' the lanes they bore this wither'd bud,
To the low house whose steeple points to Heav'n:
And when the coffin to the earth was giv'n,
At “dust to dust,” the Curate, pious guide,
Let fall a tear.
The Sexton, grey in years,
Whose look observ'd he'd long forgot to feel,
Reclining on his spade, e'en heav'd a sigh:
And as the sprig of box flew to the grave,
The village train, the feeble, and the young,
Blest Mary, virtuous maid, for ever gone.
And think of him, and vainly try to sing;
Then gaze with tears upon the braided hair:
Now stop her wheel, and with an anxious look,
Enquire of many a wand'rer by her home,
The news, heart-rending news, of murd'rous war;
And if perchance some letter'd hind should read
With joyous stare, full of anxiety,
The list of bloodshed, gazetted bombast,
Then would poor Mary tremble, with deep sighs,
While down her cheek roll'd many a pearly tear;
For she had learn'd to feel for others' woe.
Oft while the villagers at ease were laid
In sleep's soft lap, she'd listen to the wind,
Whose hollow murmurs chill'd her heart with fear;
Then think of dangers he'd to undergo,
And sleepless, welcome morning's slow approach.
But soon the rose fled from her beauteous cheek,
And left the lily mourning for its loss;
A prey to sorrow Mary ling'ring fell,
Wept and lamented by the rustics round.
Sad was the slow procession; dull each look,
As thro' the lanes they bore this wither'd bud,
To the low house whose steeple points to Heav'n:
And when the coffin to the earth was giv'n,
At “dust to dust,” the Curate, pious guide,
4
The author cannot help lamenting, that the custom of reading the funeral service, so prevalent throughout England, should not be equally attended to in the sister countries. There is not surely a more proper time for impressing on the minds of our fellow-creatures a just sense of their duty, than when they witness the frailty of life, and follow a departed relative or friend to the house appointed for all living.
The Sexton, grey in years,
Whose look observ'd he'd long forgot to feel,
Reclining on his spade, e'en heav'd a sigh:
And as the sprig of box flew to the grave,
The village train, the feeble, and the young,
Blest Mary, virtuous maid, for ever gone.
The tidings never reach'd her William's ear,
For he too fell; unwilling sacrifice
To wild ambition, and ere death's cold hand
Snatch'd from his youthful cheek its wonted bloom,
In falt'ring accents, with uplifted eyes,
He call'd to Heav'n a parent to defend;
Then prostrate on the deck, midst comrades brave,
Sunk, oft repeating his lov'd Mary's name.—
Thus fall our hardy brethren, innocent,
To please ambition in its foul career!
For he too fell; unwilling sacrifice
To wild ambition, and ere death's cold hand
Snatch'd from his youthful cheek its wonted bloom,
In falt'ring accents, with uplifted eyes,
He call'd to Heav'n a parent to defend;
Then prostrate on the deck, midst comrades brave,
Sunk, oft repeating his lov'd Mary's name.—
Thus fall our hardy brethren, innocent,
To please ambition in its foul career!
'Tis she, his mother, who, with tott'ring steps,
Unknowing whither, o'er the wild heath strays,
And, to the flocks, and tenants of the groves,
Talks many an hour away. One comrade still
She keeps, a fond, half-starv'd, but faithful brute.
Tray was her William's once, and leaves her not;
But licks the hand which seldom holds him food.
In roofless cot, alas! poor Margaret lives,
A joy-forsaken, faded, mark of woe;
Unknowing whither, o'er the wild heath strays,
And, to the flocks, and tenants of the groves,
Talks many an hour away. One comrade still
She keeps, a fond, half-starv'd, but faithful brute.
Tray was her William's once, and leaves her not;
But licks the hand which seldom holds him food.
In roofless cot, alas! poor Margaret lives,
A joy-forsaken, faded, mark of woe;
5
Of reason reft, and robb'd of ev'ry stay,
Save Him who registers pale misery's cry,
And marks each hour of anguish. Oft with tears,
She to the stranger tells a broken tale;
Amidst her sighs pouring to Heav'n a pray'r,
To shed its vengeance on their guilty heads,
Who glory in destruction. Happiness,
She knows the world, unfeeling, cannot give
To her pain'd bosom; and for charity,
The mourner asketh never.
Save Him who registers pale misery's cry,
And marks each hour of anguish. Oft with tears,
She to the stranger tells a broken tale;
Amidst her sighs pouring to Heav'n a pray'r,
To shed its vengeance on their guilty heads,
Who glory in destruction. Happiness,
She knows the world, unfeeling, cannot give
To her pain'd bosom; and for charity,
The mourner asketh never.
Woe-worn wretch!
Like thee what numbers drink the cup of grief,
And sorrow ever nurse; perchance to feed
The growing evils of a falling state:
Or pamper purple pride, who, callous grown,
With eye abhorrent, scowls on wretchedness.
Like thee what numbers drink the cup of grief,
And sorrow ever nurse; perchance to feed
The growing evils of a falling state:
Or pamper purple pride, who, callous grown,
With eye abhorrent, scowls on wretchedness.
Peace to thy bosom, poor unfortunate!
O may the friendly arm of death strike soon!
And soon it must, to set thy sorrows free.
They, too, who fatten on the spoils of war,
Like thee, must fall a prey to kindred worms.
Thus all things have an end. The proudest state,
With the rude cottage, in their turns must fall;
And Prince and Peasant mingle with the dust!
O may the friendly arm of death strike soon!
And soon it must, to set thy sorrows free.
They, too, who fatten on the spoils of war,
Like thee, must fall a prey to kindred worms.
Thus all things have an end. The proudest state,
With the rude cottage, in their turns must fall;
And Prince and Peasant mingle with the dust!
6
STANZAS ON VISITING A MOTHER'S GRAVE.
A strain of egotism is surely allowable, when the most tender emotions of the heart are forced into action, by a visit to the tomb of an affectionate parent. Then, and only then, the dearest scenes of life are recalled to imagination—scenes that occurred long ere sorrow had occasioned us to suspect the wily deeds of man: delighted with the retrospective glance, we proudly exclaim, such things were, but never must return!
Adjoining St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle, in the north west corner, behind every one, are interred many of my ancestors and relatives. No sculptured tale of truth or falsehood marks the place; for alas! they had to struggle against poverty, and toil their day of life “unknowing and unknown.”
These simple stanzas were written after an absence of many years from my native place, and can only be acceptable to such readers as cherish the remembrance of a mother's solicitude.
A strain of egotism is surely allowable, when the most tender emotions of the heart are forced into action, by a visit to the tomb of an affectionate parent. Then, and only then, the dearest scenes of life are recalled to imagination—scenes that occurred long ere sorrow had occasioned us to suspect the wily deeds of man: delighted with the retrospective glance, we proudly exclaim, such things were, but never must return!
Adjoining St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle, in the north west corner, behind every one, are interred many of my ancestors and relatives. No sculptured tale of truth or falsehood marks the place; for alas! they had to struggle against poverty, and toil their day of life “unknowing and unknown.”
These simple stanzas were written after an absence of many years from my native place, and can only be acceptable to such readers as cherish the remembrance of a mother's solicitude.
“View the tomb with sculpture splendid,
View the sod with briars bound;
There the farce of finery's ended,—
All are equal under ground:
Wise men, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Britain's sons and Afric's slaves!”
View the sod with briars bound;
There the farce of finery's ended,—
All are equal under ground:
Wise men, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Britain's sons and Afric's slaves!”
G. A. Stevens.
I, to the Church-yard went to see
The spot where my poor Mother's laid,
When quick the tears gush'd from my eye;—
I hung my head like one afraid;
And thought of all the anxious days,
And restless nights for me she bore;
A puny thing, ill worth her care,
Then did I sigh, and weep the more.
The spot where my poor Mother's laid,
When quick the tears gush'd from my eye;—
I hung my head like one afraid;
And thought of all the anxious days,
And restless nights for me she bore;
A puny thing, ill worth her care,
Then did I sigh, and weep the more.
7
'Twas sorrow's luxury to see
The sod that wrapp'd a parent's clay,
And on that narrow spot of earth,
O, I could weep the hours away!
I tore a nettle from her tomb!
Why should a rank weed flourish there?
O'er one who virtue made her guide,
Pale prey to sickness, want, and care.
The sod that wrapp'd a parent's clay,
And on that narrow spot of earth,
O, I could weep the hours away!
I tore a nettle from her tomb!
Why should a rank weed flourish there?
O'er one who virtue made her guide,
Pale prey to sickness, want, and care.
Oft do I mark the humble shed,
Where blythe was spent life's op'ning day;
And oft, at eve, I trace the fields
Where she would fondly with me stray;
And oft I seek the place of graves,
Where one I water with a tear;
And still her spirit seems to say,
Prepare in time to rest thee here!
Where blythe was spent life's op'ning day;
And oft, at eve, I trace the fields
Where she would fondly with me stray;
And oft I seek the place of graves,
Where one I water with a tear;
And still her spirit seems to say,
Prepare in time to rest thee here!
And oft I think of that sad hour,
When she was to the dust consign'd;
Soon eager beat my guileless heart
To seek the world, to know mankind:
The world I saw, mankind I loved,
And heedless sail'd down pleasure's stream:
Now, busy mem'ry loud proclaims,
Life's morning's all a fev'rish dream!
When she was to the dust consign'd;
Soon eager beat my guileless heart
To seek the world, to know mankind:
The world I saw, mankind I loved,
And heedless sail'd down pleasure's stream:
Now, busy mem'ry loud proclaims,
Life's morning's all a fev'rish dream!
8
Near to that little mound of earth,
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,
And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To-morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,
And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To-morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!
I think of eve's long wish'd-for hours,
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,
'Midst poverty content was giv'n,
And all that wealth or wisdom boast,
Are nought without this boon of Heav'n!
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,
'Midst poverty content was giv'n,
And all that wealth or wisdom boast,
Are nought without this boon of Heav'n!
Still could I find a haven of rest
On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd;
And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss,
Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:
Her lessons led to virtue's path;
Her num'rous sorrows were made mine;
And ever present is her look,
When now I welcome life's decline.
On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd;
And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss,
Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:
Her lessons led to virtue's path;
Her num'rous sorrows were made mine;
And ever present is her look,
When now I welcome life's decline.
9
Long ere ten times I'd seen blythe spring
Spread o'er the earth her fost'ring dews,
Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,
And I was told heart-rending news.
Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,
While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,
All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.
Spread o'er the earth her fost'ring dews,
Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,
And I was told heart-rending news.
Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,
While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,
All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.
10
INSCRIPTION WRITTEN AT CORBY CASTLE,
THE ROMANTIC SEAT OF HENRY HOWARD, ESQ.
“Let others praise the Leasowe's plains,
Where Shenstone tun'd his love-lorn strains—
What, tho' he sung of groves, and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murmuring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.”
Where Shenstone tun'd his love-lorn strains—
What, tho' he sung of groves, and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murmuring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.”
Reader, if rocks, woods, waters, lawns, and meads,
Or aught of nature's captivating dress,—
If warbling hymns in the Creator's praise,
Pour'd all around from many a balmy brake,
Thy mind can charm; thrice welcome to these shades,
Where peace and mild content for ever dwell.
Now while thy wearied limbs at rest are laid,
In some sequester'd bow'r free from all noise;
Save melodies from many a woodland choir,
Or Eden murm'ring o'er his rocky bed:
Bethink thee, as the waters glide along,
So pass thy days; but never to return.
Or aught of nature's captivating dress,—
If warbling hymns in the Creator's praise,
Pour'd all around from many a balmy brake,
Thy mind can charm; thrice welcome to these shades,
Where peace and mild content for ever dwell.
Now while thy wearied limbs at rest are laid,
In some sequester'd bow'r free from all noise;
Save melodies from many a woodland choir,
11
Bethink thee, as the waters glide along,
So pass thy days; but never to return.
If e'er the lofty pine attract thine eye,
'Twill lead thy thoughts to Heav'n. In musing mood,
The wide-stretched mountain, the proud oak-crown'd rock,
The wood of many hues, the far-heard stream,
The sportive flock that graze the velvet lawn;
Nay ev'n the grassy turf o'er which we tread,
Green habitation of the insect world,
Each speaks in silent eloquence of God.
'Twill lead thy thoughts to Heav'n. In musing mood,
The wide-stretched mountain, the proud oak-crown'd rock,
The wood of many hues, the far-heard stream,
The sportive flock that graze the velvet lawn;
Nay ev'n the grassy turf o'er which we tread,
Green habitation of the insect world,
Each speaks in silent eloquence of God.
Perchance, in quest of rural nook thou stray'st,
A stranger to these much-lov'd scenes; then know,
The virtuous owners of this blest abode,
By justice, charity, and boundless love,
Endearing man to man, examples great,
Give lustre never-fading to the spot.
A stranger to these much-lov'd scenes; then know,
The virtuous owners of this blest abode,
By justice, charity, and boundless love,
Endearing man to man, examples great,
Give lustre never-fading to the spot.
If in thy bosom beats a patriot's heart,
Indignant at the threats and murd'rous deeds
Of him, thy happy country's high-swol'n foe;
Lo! Howard hails thee, welcome to his seat.
But should cold apathy enslave thy mind,
And thou of England's weal regardless roam'st;
Or feel'st not for thy brethren, Afric's sons,
By Europeans torn from friends and home,
Exil'd for ever for thy luxuries;
Weak votary to pleasure, pride, or pow'r,
Hence, laugh with folly in the noisy town!
Indignant at the threats and murd'rous deeds
Of him, thy happy country's high-swol'n foe;
Lo! Howard hails thee, welcome to his seat.
But should cold apathy enslave thy mind,
12
Or feel'st not for thy brethren, Afric's sons,
By Europeans torn from friends and home,
Exil'd for ever for thy luxuries;
Weak votary to pleasure, pride, or pow'r,
Hence, laugh with folly in the noisy town!
July, 1803.
13
MAN WAS NOT MADE TO MOURN.
“'Tis better to be cheerful, than indulge in weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.”
“Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours;
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night!”
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night!”
Shakspeare.
The sinking sun, aslaunt the hill,
Bade labour quit the plough;
And now in monie a window keek'd
To bid mankind adieu:
When musing on towards a wood,
Where joyous youth was spent,
Beneath an oak a carle stood,
Whase body time had bent.
Bade labour quit the plough;
And now in monie a window keek'd
To bid mankind adieu:
When musing on towards a wood,
Where joyous youth was spent,
Beneath an oak a carle stood,
Whase body time had bent.
His locks were silver'd o'er wi' years,
His claithing coarse and bare;
But cheerfu' seem'd his honest heart,
That had known mickle care:
Life's spark, tho' drawing near its end,
Yet cheerfully did burn;
In him, I read an aged friend,
Wha had forgot to mourn.
His claithing coarse and bare;
But cheerfu' seem'd his honest heart,
That had known mickle care:
Life's spark, tho' drawing near its end,
Yet cheerfully did burn;
In him, I read an aged friend,
Wha had forgot to mourn.
14
“Stranger,” quoth he, “where wander'st thou,
Amid the dews of eve?
Thine eye, methinks, is wet wi' woe,
Why shun the world to grieve?
O hear a wight, whom age has taught!
Nor mock his years wi' scorn;
Be not in youth by sorrow caught—
Man was not made to mourn!
Amid the dews of eve?
Thine eye, methinks, is wet wi' woe,
Why shun the world to grieve?
O hear a wight, whom age has taught!
Nor mock his years wi' scorn;
Be not in youth by sorrow caught—
Man was not made to mourn!
“For me, I'm puir as puir can be,
Wha ance cou'd boast o' wealth;
And wan and wither'd is this cheek,
Whare late sat blooming health:
On earth I am but fortune's sport,
And wander here forlorn;
What then, life's journey is but short,
And why shou'd mortals mourn?
Wha ance cou'd boast o' wealth;
And wan and wither'd is this cheek,
Whare late sat blooming health:
On earth I am but fortune's sport,
And wander here forlorn;
What then, life's journey is but short,
And why shou'd mortals mourn?
“'Tis hard to lose a partner dear,
Or parent fondly kind;
'Tis hard to lose a friend sincere,
Of independent mind:
Tho' sweet's the tear by pity shed,
O'er gentle virtue's urn,
Yet be not sorrow's captive led—
Man was not made to mourn!
Or parent fondly kind;
'Tis hard to lose a friend sincere,
Of independent mind:
Tho' sweet's the tear by pity shed,
O'er gentle virtue's urn,
Yet be not sorrow's captive led—
Man was not made to mourn!
15
“Hast thou been robb'd of a' thy kin,
That thus thou heav'st a sigh?
Or griev'st thou for a faithfu' friend,
On whom thou cou'd'st rely?
A friendless brother here behold;
Death a' frae me has torn;
Yet something bids me ay be bold—
Man was not made to mourn!
That thus thou heav'st a sigh?
Or griev'st thou for a faithfu' friend,
On whom thou cou'd'st rely?
A friendless brother here behold;
Death a' frae me has torn;
Yet something bids me ay be bold—
Man was not made to mourn!
“Hast thou by hope been aft beguil'd,
Or sail'd down pleasure's stream?
And started back frae ruin's brink,
Like ane wak'd frae a dream?
Tho' monie cares on pleasure wait,
Frae which 'tis wise to turn;
Repentance never is too late,
Then why shou'd mortals mourn?
Or sail'd down pleasure's stream?
And started back frae ruin's brink,
Like ane wak'd frae a dream?
Tho' monie cares on pleasure wait,
Frae which 'tis wise to turn;
Repentance never is too late,
Then why shou'd mortals mourn?
“Or enviest thou yon pamper'd lord,
Wha rules at pleasure's ball?
Let plenty smile upon his board,
And numbers wait his call;
That wealth is giv'n him but in trust,
Tho' he at puirtith spurn;
The man wha puir dares to be just,
Hath little cause to mourn!
Wha rules at pleasure's ball?
Let plenty smile upon his board,
And numbers wait his call;
That wealth is giv'n him but in trust,
Tho' he at puirtith spurn;
The man wha puir dares to be just,
Hath little cause to mourn!
16
“The pow'r wha rules yon rising orb,
And sits abuin the sky,
Hath giv'n to man an angel form,
But wills that he shall die:
Then what avails all earthly bliss,
Since we to dust return?
A better world there is than this,
And why should mortals mourn?
And sits abuin the sky,
Hath giv'n to man an angel form,
But wills that he shall die:
Then what avails all earthly bliss,
Since we to dust return?
A better world there is than this,
And why should mortals mourn?
“A' nature view:—The herds that graze
Alang the meads, rejoice;
The sangsters chaunt their gratefu' lays,
Wi' one accordant voice:
To lordly man is reason giv'n,
Yet oft the poor forlorn,
By madd'ning passions wildly driv'n,
Hopeless, lives but to mourn.
Alang the meads, rejoice;
The sangsters chaunt their gratefu' lays,
Wi' one accordant voice:
To lordly man is reason giv'n,
Yet oft the poor forlorn,
By madd'ning passions wildly driv'n,
Hopeless, lives but to mourn.
“Howe'er on life's rough sea thou'rt crost,
'Tis folly to despair;
The feeblest bark, when tempest-tost,
Some kind relief may share:
Still cherish hope, that peacefu' guest,
Nor from Religion turn;
Then will no tumult swell thy breast,
Nor thou have cause to mourn!”
'Tis folly to despair;
The feeblest bark, when tempest-tost,
Some kind relief may share:
Still cherish hope, that peacefu' guest,
Nor from Religion turn;
Then will no tumult swell thy breast,
Nor thou have cause to mourn!”
17
Here ceas'd the sage; and sought his way
Along the dark'ning vale;
But oft his meek instructive voice
Seem'd passing on each gale.
Ne'er may I from these rules depart,
Till down to earth I'm borne;
But think, in spite of learned art,
Man was not made to mourn!
Along the dark'ning vale;
But oft his meek instructive voice
Seem'd passing on each gale.
Ne'er may I from these rules depart,
Till down to earth I'm borne;
But think, in spite of learned art,
Man was not made to mourn!
18
OUR SAILORS.
“O protect the hardy Tar,
Be mindful of his merit!
And when again you're plung'd in war
He'll shew his daring spirit!”
Be mindful of his merit!
And when again you're plung'd in war
He'll shew his daring spirit!”
Rushton.
Sing, Muse, tho' feeble be thy strain,
Those who our liberties maintain,
Who fearless triumph on the main—
Our Sailors!
Those who our liberties maintain,
Who fearless triumph on the main—
Our Sailors!
When freedom, property, and laws,
Are threaten'd by tyrannic foes,
Who first espouse the glorious cause?
Our Sailors!
Are threaten'd by tyrannic foes,
Who first espouse the glorious cause?
Our Sailors!
Who scorn the despot stain'd with blood,
And scare his navies o'er the flood—
Destroy them, for our country's good?
Our Sailors!
And scare his navies o'er the flood—
Destroy them, for our country's good?
Our Sailors!
19
Who act thro' life an honest part?
Who always shew the gen'rous heart?
Who're dup'd by many a villain's art?
Our Sailors!
Who always shew the gen'rous heart?
Who're dup'd by many a villain's art?
Our Sailors!
Who ever dry misfortune's tear,
Nor sorrow's tale refuse to hear;
Each helpless outcast proud to cheer?
Our Sailors!
Nor sorrow's tale refuse to hear;
Each helpless outcast proud to cheer?
Our Sailors!
Who guard our coast, protect the fair?
Who death and danger nobly dare?
Who bravely conquer, but to spare?
Our Sailors!
Who death and danger nobly dare?
Who bravely conquer, but to spare?
Our Sailors!
Who still supply our groaning boards,
With ev'ry dainty earth affords?
Who pity Gallia's vaunting hordes?
Our Sailors!
With ev'ry dainty earth affords?
Who pity Gallia's vaunting hordes?
Our Sailors!
Who brave hidd'n rocks, and dang'rous seas?
Who bear the pestilential breeze?
Who taste not luxury nor ease?
Our Sailors!
Who bear the pestilential breeze?
Who taste not luxury nor ease?
Our Sailors!
20
Who mid' the tempest's threat'ning blast,
Toil, fearless, on the giddy mast,
Or, cheerful sing, of dangers past?
Our Sailors!
Toil, fearless, on the giddy mast,
Or, cheerful sing, of dangers past?
Our Sailors!
Who death can face, without alarm,
In battle's rage, terrific storm,
When light'nings blue Heav'n's face deform?
Our Sailors!
In battle's rage, terrific storm,
When light'nings blue Heav'n's face deform?
Our Sailors!
Who, shipwreck'd on a foreign coast,
When many a merry comrade's lost,
Still happy Albion make their boast?
Our Sailors!
When many a merry comrade's lost,
Still happy Albion make their boast?
Our Sailors!
To them we owe whate'er we prize,
Domestic pleasures—social ties—
Woe unto him who dare despise
Our Sailors!
Domestic pleasures—social ties—
Woe unto him who dare despise
Our Sailors!
Indignant, let the Muse reveal,
Nor deeds oppressive dare conceal,
But tell the pangs they're doom'd to feel,
Our Sailors!
Nor deeds oppressive dare conceal,
But tell the pangs they're doom'd to feel,
Our Sailors!
21
Eager to hail their native land!
Eager to press some kindred hand,
While friendship greets along the strand,
Our Sailors!
Eager to press some kindred hand,
While friendship greets along the strand,
Our Sailors!
A wife's embrace, a prattler's smile,
An honest welcome, free from guile,
These make forgetful of past toil
Our Sailors!
An honest welcome, free from guile,
These make forgetful of past toil
Our Sailors!
Oh! mark the ruthless fiends appear,
And from each dear connection tear
Men, who should be their country's care,
Our Sailors!
And from each dear connection tear
Men, who should be their country's care,
Our Sailors!
Blush! Britons, blush! to have it told,
That to the tender's putrid hold
Fell hirelings, cow'rdly, force the bold,
Our Sailors!
That to the tender's putrid hold
Fell hirelings, cow'rdly, force the bold,
Our Sailors!
Peace to thy bosom, feeling Bard!
Who suff'ring brethren didst regard;
And call'd on Britons, to reward
Our Sailors!
Mr. Edward Rushton, of Liverpool, Bookseller. The Poems of this Author discover extraordinary powers of mind, and genuine feeling. During the years of youth, he served as Doctor, on board a Liverpool trader; and it was owing to this circumstance, that he felt so deeply the cruelties inflicted on our brethren, the Sons of Africa. He was unfortunately deprived of sight, on the coast of Guinea; and for upwards of thirty years laboured under that melancholy calamity, respected and pitied by all ranks of mankind. During this period, he used every exertion for the suppression of that disgraceful traffic, the Slave Trade. In a letter to General Washington, he pays him every praise for his talents shewn in the field or the senate; but censures his conduct with great severity for being a dealer in Slaves. This letter, which went through many editions, gained him the esteem of all who could boast a spirit of independence. His love of mankind dictated to him, as a proper subject for his Muse, the horrid custom of impressing seamen—a custom which has long thrown a foul stain on the British government. It is but justice to this philan-thropist to declare, he has written some of the most interesting songs of which our language can boast.
Posterity have a right to consider themselves deeply indebted to our British Cicero, the Right Honourable Charles James Fox. The last public act of that illustrious statesman, was the abolition of the Slave Trade; an inhuman traffic, by which the world was long degraded.
Who suff'ring brethren didst regard;
And call'd on Britons, to reward
Our Sailors!
22
While British Tars are dear to fame
So long thy song shall praises claim;
And grateful will they bless thy name,
Our Sailors!
So long thy song shall praises claim;
And grateful will they bless thy name,
Our Sailors!
23
MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS.
“Night on the earth pour'd darkness; on the sea,
The wakesome sailor to Orion's star
And Helice turn'd heedful. Sunk to rest,
The traveller forgot his toil; his charge
The centinel; her death-devoted babe,
The mother's painless breast. The village dog
Had cas'd his troublous bay. Each busy tumult
Was hush'd at this dead hour; and darkness slept,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.”
The wakesome sailor to Orion's star
And Helice turn'd heedful. Sunk to rest,
The traveller forgot his toil; his charge
The centinel; her death-devoted babe,
The mother's painless breast. The village dog
Had cas'd his troublous bay. Each busy tumult
Was hush'd at this dead hour; and darkness slept,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.”
Apollonius Rhodius.
“Night mounts her curtain'd wane;
The dancing stars compose her filial train;
Black muffl'd sleep steals on with silent pace,
And dreams flit fast, imagination's race.”
The dancing stars compose her filial train;
Black muffl'd sleep steals on with silent pace,
And dreams flit fast, imagination's race.”
Now o'er the face of nature, night has thrown
Her sable mantle. Cynthia's silver beam
Shews not the distant bay, the vessel's course,
On which I love to ponder, from this height:
Pale empress, pleasing ever, she illumes
Some clime far distant. There, on giddy mast,
How many a seaman views that cheering orb;
Then thinks of parents, kindred, wife, and friends.
Perchance, hope whispers how a faithful fair
May sighing, trembling, view the bright expanse;
While oft she prays for his long-wish'd return.
He toils submissive, scorning to complain;
And laughs at danger.
Her sable mantle. Cynthia's silver beam
Shews not the distant bay, the vessel's course,
On which I love to ponder, from this height:
Pale empress, pleasing ever, she illumes
Some clime far distant. There, on giddy mast,
24
Then thinks of parents, kindred, wife, and friends.
Perchance, hope whispers how a faithful fair
May sighing, trembling, view the bright expanse;
While oft she prays for his long-wish'd return.
He toils submissive, scorning to complain;
And laughs at danger.
Think, ah! think ye proud,
From midnight revels freed, what he endures,
To store your groaning boards with pois'nous sweets,
That make you oft the hardy peasant's scoff.
Ne'er let ingratitude to him give pain,
Who, shame on man, oft torn from all he loves,
Braves sultry climes, hidden rocks, and pow'rful foes,
Proud of his country.
From midnight revels freed, what he endures,
To store your groaning boards with pois'nous sweets,
That make you oft the hardy peasant's scoff.
Ne'er let ingratitude to him give pain,
Who, shame on man, oft torn from all he loves,
Braves sultry climes, hidden rocks, and pow'rful foes,
Proud of his country.
Silence reigns around,
Save the rain patt'ring on the casement rude,
Driv'n by the breeze. It seems the voice of Heaven,
And still should make us mindful of the cause.
Save the rain patt'ring on the casement rude,
Driv'n by the breeze. It seems the voice of Heaven,
And still should make us mindful of the cause.
Oft at this hour, methinks 'tis sweet to muse,
On perils we've encounter'd, and escap'd;
Of sicknesses, too soon, alas! forgot:
Then dive into futurity's dark womb,
And lead the mind to death's sure, near approach.
To me, when wearied with day's studious toil,
It seems betimes life's luxury supreme,
Self-exil'd from the land which gave me birth,
In nook retir'd, far from the hum of man,
To think of youthful friends, for ever lost;
Of parents, relatives, sunk to the dust:
To trace with sages o'er my taper dim,
The various changes on life's busy stage,
Of states and mortals. Nor mispent the time,
Giv'n to the Muse; tho' woo'd too oft in vain.
Rear'd on the lap of humblest poverty,
By those who vainly sought coy fortune's smile,
The rays of learning ne'er illum'd my mind:
Yet, though debarr'd the joys of wealth and science,
While virtue dictates for another's weal,
The song that soothes a brother on his way,
My pipe shall not hang idly 'gainst the wall;
Tho' feeble be its tone. The simple rhyme,
The moral thought, of one unknown to fame,
An ear may please, and turn a mind from vice.
On perils we've encounter'd, and escap'd;
Of sicknesses, too soon, alas! forgot:
Then dive into futurity's dark womb,
25
To me, when wearied with day's studious toil,
It seems betimes life's luxury supreme,
Self-exil'd from the land which gave me birth,
In nook retir'd, far from the hum of man,
To think of youthful friends, for ever lost;
Of parents, relatives, sunk to the dust:
To trace with sages o'er my taper dim,
The various changes on life's busy stage,
Of states and mortals. Nor mispent the time,
Giv'n to the Muse; tho' woo'd too oft in vain.
Rear'd on the lap of humblest poverty,
By those who vainly sought coy fortune's smile,
The rays of learning ne'er illum'd my mind:
Yet, though debarr'd the joys of wealth and science,
While virtue dictates for another's weal,
The song that soothes a brother on his way,
My pipe shall not hang idly 'gainst the wall;
Tho' feeble be its tone. The simple rhyme,
The moral thought, of one unknown to fame,
An ear may please, and turn a mind from vice.
Not reft of feeling—now the clock hath told
The noon of night—O! I could weep for those,
The houseless wand'rers 'mid the savage blast,
Poor wretched outcasts of society!
Torn by our faithless sex from virtue's seat;
Reflecting never—making vice a trade.
—Ah! nature shudders at the dark-wrought scene!
The noon of night—O! I could weep for those,
The houseless wand'rers 'mid the savage blast,
26
Torn by our faithless sex from virtue's seat;
Reflecting never—making vice a trade.
—Ah! nature shudders at the dark-wrought scene!
He sleeps not, now, the helpless wretch, immur'd
Within yon gloomy prison's dark dank cell,
Th' insolvent debtor, from his friends exil'd.
Health smiles no longer on him; and alas!
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Prompt daily sighs, and break the night's repose.
His partner, offspring, driven to penury,
Woe-worn, and sickly, begging oft in vain,
For ever haunt him on his scanty straw.—
But 'tis the will of proud relentless man,
Whose heart, “flint to the core,” ne'er learn'd to feel;
And law's loud voice must own such deeds are just.
Bear light thy sorrows, heartless son of want;
Let christian fortitude soothe each distress;
Thy country boasts the wealthy and the good,
Who feel indignant at a brother's woes;
And still may such enjoy the suff'rer's praise.
—Still be this truth engraven on each mind;
Life's but a prison! Princes breathe enchain'd—
Death to the virtuous only, freedom gives!
Within yon gloomy prison's dark dank cell,
Th' insolvent debtor, from his friends exil'd.
Health smiles no longer on him; and alas!
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Prompt daily sighs, and break the night's repose.
His partner, offspring, driven to penury,
Woe-worn, and sickly, begging oft in vain,
For ever haunt him on his scanty straw.—
But 'tis the will of proud relentless man,
Whose heart, “flint to the core,” ne'er learn'd to feel;
And law's loud voice must own such deeds are just.
Bear light thy sorrows, heartless son of want;
Let christian fortitude soothe each distress;
Thy country boasts the wealthy and the good,
Who feel indignant at a brother's woes;
And still may such enjoy the suff'rer's praise.
—Still be this truth engraven on each mind;
Life's but a prison! Princes breathe enchain'd—
Death to the virtuous only, freedom gives!
27
How many, reckless of this solemn hour,
In yon proud town of commerce, idly waste
The time in riot, and intemp'rate joys!
The midnight ball, the splendid shew of pride,
The costly viands, or the mazy dance,
To them alone have charms. Thrice happier he,
The peaceful peasant, who from hardy toil,
Asks but the frugal meal nature requires.
—Man's real wants are few. From luxury,
Spring countless cares, that poison life's few years!
In yon proud town of commerce, idly waste
The time in riot, and intemp'rate joys!
The midnight ball, the splendid shew of pride,
The costly viands, or the mazy dance,
To them alone have charms. Thrice happier he,
The peaceful peasant, who from hardy toil,
Asks but the frugal meal nature requires.
—Man's real wants are few. From luxury,
Spring countless cares, that poison life's few years!
The cottage children of this straw-roof'd shed,
In sleep's soft arms, dream o'er their little sports.
Blest cherubs!—Ah! what bitter storms may blight
Such op'ning buds, exceeds proud mortals' ken.
Rest on. Peace to your slumbers, happy boys!
Rest on. A few short years may see you drawn
Into the wily snares of wicked men.
Or, ere another moon lights these brown hills,
Perhaps you're doom'd to hasten to the grave;
And sorrow-sunk, your parents leave in pain.
—God's will be done!—'Tis weakness to repine!
In sleep's soft arms, dream o'er their little sports.
Blest cherubs!—Ah! what bitter storms may blight
Such op'ning buds, exceeds proud mortals' ken.
Rest on. Peace to your slumbers, happy boys!
Rest on. A few short years may see you drawn
Into the wily snares of wicked men.
Or, ere another moon lights these brown hills,
Perhaps you're doom'd to hasten to the grave;
And sorrow-sunk, your parents leave in pain.
—God's will be done!—'Tis weakness to repine!
How different those stretch'd on the bed of death,
Who count each lazy minute as it flies;
Praying for morn's approach, and mourning still.
Hope tells, another day may bring them ease;
But hope too oft deceives the giddy brain.
Be patient, sons of sickness; mindful still
That virtuous deeds, though scorn'd by Mammon's train,
Will meet a sure reward. Remember, too,
The Ruler of the winds can only grant
A healing balm to sorrow or disease.
Who count each lazy minute as it flies;
Praying for morn's approach, and mourning still.
28
But hope too oft deceives the giddy brain.
Be patient, sons of sickness; mindful still
That virtuous deeds, though scorn'd by Mammon's train,
Will meet a sure reward. Remember, too,
The Ruler of the winds can only grant
A healing balm to sorrow or disease.
The thousand cares which agitate frail man,
During the glare of day, are hush'd to rest.
Emotions dire of envy, pangs of pride,
Tortures of jealousy, and fears of want;
Doubts, sorrows, pains, fancied perplexities,
Loves ill-requited, friendships unreturn'd,
A while are all forgotten.
During the glare of day, are hush'd to rest.
Emotions dire of envy, pangs of pride,
Tortures of jealousy, and fears of want;
Doubts, sorrows, pains, fancied perplexities,
Loves ill-requited, friendships unreturn'd,
A while are all forgotten.
On his couch,
Encanopied with velvet, the proud Prince,
Who conquers kingdoms, millions keeps in awe,
And revels on the lap of luxury,
Tastes not more sweets than doth the wretch low born,
Who nestles in his straw.
Encanopied with velvet, the proud Prince,
Who conquers kingdoms, millions keeps in awe,
And revels on the lap of luxury,
Tastes not more sweets than doth the wretch low born,
Who nestles in his straw.
Then since 'tis thus,
That not ev'n honors, pow'r, or pride of birth,
Yea, all the wealth Golconda's mountains yield,
Can smooth the brow of care; why will frail man
Repining, fret his few short years away?
Let me, whate'er the ills I'm doom'd to bear,
Spite of the proud man's scorn, the wise one's sneer,
Be thankful, ever, to the King of kings!
That not ev'n honors, pow'r, or pride of birth,
29
Can smooth the brow of care; why will frail man
Repining, fret his few short years away?
Let me, whate'er the ills I'm doom'd to bear,
Spite of the proud man's scorn, the wise one's sneer,
Be thankful, ever, to the King of kings!
30
TEA.
Let Gripus ill-got gow'd ay hoard;
Let dainties deck ilk glutton's board;
Gie trinkums to yon pamper'd lord,
Ambition's slave!
Wi' hamely fare, a table stor'd,
Is a' I crave!
Let dainties deck ilk glutton's board;
Gie trinkums to yon pamper'd lord,
Ambition's slave!
Wi' hamely fare, a table stor'd,
Is a' I crave!
Heart-cheerin' bev'rage, weel-brew'd Tea,
Souchong—Imperial, or Bohea—
Or leel, or sad, I lo'e to see
Thy dark streams flow;
To young and auld, ay dear thou'lt be,
Care's welcome foe!
Souchong—Imperial, or Bohea—
Or leel, or sad, I lo'e to see
Thy dark streams flow;
To young and auld, ay dear thou'lt be,
Care's welcome foe!
Tho' slander raves, while o'er thee set,
An' maks weak heartless bodies fret;
Just sae, o'er dear-bought wines, when met
A drouthie crew,
Puir modest worth can seldom get
The tribute due.
An' maks weak heartless bodies fret;
Just sae, o'er dear-bought wines, when met
A drouthie crew,
Puir modest worth can seldom get
The tribute due.
31
Peace to his saul, wha brought thee o'er
First to auld Albion's craggy shore;
Ne'er dreamt the chiel, the shrub he bore
By cuifs despis'd,
While wild woods wave, and billows roar,
Will ay be priz'd.
First to auld Albion's craggy shore;
For some years after Tea was first brought to England, it was seldom used; and its qualities were by many considered exceedingly dangerous. The Author remembers hearing his mother relate the following:—At the first Tea party she visited, a quantity was put into a large porridge pot, and boiled, together with butter and salt. Each person was served with a horn spoon; but wry faces soon shewed their dislike to the mess. One opinion influenced all present, which was, if the broth was fat, it was unco bitter!
Ne'er dreamt the chiel, the shrub he bore
By cuifs despis'd,
While wild woods wave, and billows roar,
Will ay be priz'd.
While monie tuim the reemin stoup,
That thraws the strangest on his doupe,
How happy they, wha form a groupe,
Thy balm to share!
Thou, nor destroy'st the puir man's hope,
Nor adds to care.
That thraws the strangest on his doupe,
How happy they, wha form a groupe,
Thy balm to share!
Thou, nor destroy'st the puir man's hope,
Nor adds to care.
Thou serv'st for drink—thou serv'st for meat—
To king and cottar thou'rt a treat;
Frae tiny weeans, lispin' sweet,
To age bent down,
'Mid Norlan frosts, or Suthern heat,
Weel art thou known.
To king and cottar thou'rt a treat;
Frae tiny weeans, lispin' sweet,
To age bent down,
'Mid Norlan frosts, or Suthern heat,
Weel art thou known.
To fam'd Sam Johnson
thou wert dear!
The kettle's sang he lo'ed to hear;
Nae organ's swellin' notes cou'd e'er
Sic joy impart;
And warm'd by thee, his converse clear
Charm'd ilka heart.
thou wert dear!
The kettle's sang he lo'ed to hear;
Nae organ's swellin' notes cou'd e'er
Sic joy impart;
And warm'd by thee, his converse clear
Charm'd ilka heart.
32
Howard
to sordid int'rest blind,
Wha sought to succour a' mankind,
In thee cou'd ay a solace find,
When welcom'd hame;
For thou wert gien to soothe the mind—
Prais'd be thy name!
to sordid int'rest blind,
Wha sought to succour a' mankind,
In thee cou'd ay a solace find,
When welcom'd hame;
For thou wert gien to soothe the mind—
Prais'd be thy name!
O'er thee, I've studied monie a sang,
When blasts blew wild, and nights were lang;
Such, wisdom's chiels may ay think wrang;
Spite o' their lear,
Wha rhymes to gie grim vice a bang,
Has nought to fear!
When blasts blew wild, and nights were lang;
Such, wisdom's chiels may ay think wrang;
Spite o' their lear,
Wha rhymes to gie grim vice a bang,
Has nought to fear!
O'er thee, I've tasted luive's pure joy,
An' aft suppress'd the risin' sigh:
Nae mair the wee deceitfu' boy
Can cause alarms;
His powerfu' dart I dare defy,
An' beauty's charms!
An' aft suppress'd the risin' sigh:
Nae mair the wee deceitfu' boy
Can cause alarms;
His powerfu' dart I dare defy,
An' beauty's charms!
O'er thee, I've griev'd for monie a wight,
An' schem'd to mak his sorrows light:
While I hae pow'r R. A. to write,
Be this my plan,
The lave to help, but ne'er to slight
Puir luckless man!
An' schem'd to mak his sorrows light:
While I hae pow'r R. A. to write,
Be this my plan,
The lave to help, but ne'er to slight
Puir luckless man!
33
O'er thee, in youth, and now in age,
Mankind I've trac'd on monie a page;
The patriot bauld, the deep-learn'd sage,
The grave divine;
The pension'd tribe, wha vauntin rage,
But ne'er can shine.
Mankind I've trac'd on monie a page;
The patriot bauld, the deep-learn'd sage,
The grave divine;
The pension'd tribe, wha vauntin rage,
But ne'er can shine.
O'er thee, I pray to see the day,
When toil-worn man, o'er lang a prey
To star-clad brithers, shall be gay;
An' bless the hour,
When tyranny 'gan to decay,
An' lose his pow'r.
When toil-worn man, o'er lang a prey
To star-clad brithers, shall be gay;
An' bless the hour,
When tyranny 'gan to decay,
An' lose his pow'r.
O'er thee, I've thought wi' heartfelt scorn,
O' what ilk mortal yet shou'd mourn;
How Afric's sons frae hame were torn,
An' basely sauld;
Blush, Britons! at sic deeds, hell-born,
Whene'er their tauld!
O' what ilk mortal yet shou'd mourn;
How Afric's sons frae hame were torn,
An' basely sauld;
Blush, Britons! at sic deeds, hell-born,
Whene'er their tauld!
I mind what comfort thou cou'd'st gie,
Whan todlen roun my minny's knee;
An' lang as I hae pow'r to prie,
At morn and eve,
Be mine sax cups o' wholesome Tea,
I'll scorn to grieve!
Whan todlen roun my minny's knee;
An' lang as I hae pow'r to prie,
At morn and eve,
Be mine sax cups o' wholesome Tea,
I'll scorn to grieve!
34
Wae wait the loons! few be their days,
Wha'd folk destroy wi' leaves o' slaes,
An' pois'nous weeds, their walth to raise,
Spite o' our laws!
May auld Nick on sic deadly faes
Suin fix his claws!
Wha'd folk destroy wi' leaves o' slaes,
An' pois'nous weeds, their walth to raise,
Spite o' our laws!
May auld Nick on sic deadly faes
Suin fix his claws!
Ye fair, wi' whom I've far'd fu' bra',
Peace to yer bosoms, ane an' a'!
An achin head ne'er may ye cla',
But lang be blest;
An' Tea yer troubles wash awa',
Till sunk in rest!
Peace to yer bosoms, ane an' a'!
An achin head ne'er may ye cla',
But lang be blest;
An' Tea yer troubles wash awa',
Till sunk in rest!
Ye chiels whom I hae cause to prize,
Wha Tea wi' me wou'd ne'er despise;
Wha wish'd me ay the wale o' joys,
An' sooth'd ilk care;
Leel be yer hearts, my merry boys,
When I'm nae mair!
Wha Tea wi' me wou'd ne'er despise;
Wha wish'd me ay the wale o' joys,
An' sooth'd ilk care;
Leel be yer hearts, my merry boys,
When I'm nae mair!
35
LOUISA, A BALLAD.
Where yon tall pine nods o'er the deep,
And murm'ring chides each passing gale,
Louisa oft would sit and weep,
And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.
And murm'ring chides each passing gale,
Louisa oft would sit and weep,
And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.
“What dost thou gaze at, village youth?
Why down thy cheek rolls the big tear?
Why press thy finger on thy mouth?
Louisa's tale, boy, would'st thou hear?
Why down thy cheek rolls the big tear?
Why press thy finger on thy mouth?
Louisa's tale, boy, would'st thou hear?
“The hips and haws are oft my food;
The nearest water drink supplies;
My bed is in the thickest wood,
But sleepless oft with morn I rise!
The nearest water drink supplies;
My bed is in the thickest wood,
But sleepless oft with morn I rise!
“Thou little girl, with rosy cheek,
To thee the villain man's unknown;
He'll woo thee, but thy ruin seek,
Then soon thy happiness is flown!
To thee the villain man's unknown;
He'll woo thee, but thy ruin seek,
Then soon thy happiness is flown!
“Art thou an only parent's care?
I, too, had once a mother dear!
Hie home! her smiles, her blessings share—
No more my sorrows shalt thou hear!”
I, too, had once a mother dear!
36
No more my sorrows shalt thou hear!”
Thus sunk a prey to want and grief,
The world no pleasure could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor pity heal a broken heart.
The world no pleasure could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor pity heal a broken heart.
With woe-worn looks, in wild despair,
Now she'd repeat a lover's name;
Now gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame.
Now she'd repeat a lover's name;
Now gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame.
Now in each feature, fondly trace
The look, that did her heart betray;
Then bending o'er his beauteous face,
Would weep the ling'ring hours away.
The look, that did her heart betray;
Then bending o'er his beauteous face,
Would weep the ling'ring hours away.
“Ah! pretty babe!” she oft would cry,
“Thy smile but deeper wounds my breast!
Where, where from mis'ry can we fly?
The grave's our only place of rest!
“Thy smile but deeper wounds my breast!
Where, where from mis'ry can we fly?
The grave's our only place of rest!
“Ah! pretty babe! no father hears
Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat;
No lover dries thy mother's tears,
Nor marks her painful bosom beat!
Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat;
No lover dries thy mother's tears,
Nor marks her painful bosom beat!
37
“Be sorrow poor Louisa's lot!
Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n,
That tho' by Henry now forgot,
His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n!”
Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n,
That tho' by Henry now forgot,
His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n!”
A stranger now to all repose,
No more the mourner hop'd for peace;
And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,
Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.
No more the mourner hop'd for peace;
And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,
Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.
Where yon tall spire o'er-tops the height,
And many a place of rest is seen,
There wanders one from morn to night;
Guilt marks his look and alter'd mien.
And many a place of rest is seen,
There wanders one from morn to night;
Guilt marks his look and alter'd mien.
He heeds no stranger's proffer'd aid,
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast;
But near the aged yew-tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast;
But near the aged yew-tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.
On one he looks, to one he speaks,
Whom oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;
And with his babe, the Maniac seeks
Wild flow'rs, to deck Louisa's grave.
Whom oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;
And with his babe, the Maniac seeks
Wild flow'rs, to deck Louisa's grave.
38
ODE TO POVERTY.
“'Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers, in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.”
And range with humble livers, in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.”
Shakspeare.
“The learn'd is happy, nature to explore;
The fool is happy, that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n:
The poor contents him with the care of Heav'n.
The fool is happy, that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n:
The poor contents him with the care of Heav'n.
Pope.
Hail Poverty! in tatter'd weeds array'd;
The scorn of wealth, and all the gay-deck'd crowd;
Oft by thy sons despis'd,
Who bow to pride.
The scorn of wealth, and all the gay-deck'd crowd;
Oft by thy sons despis'd,
Who bow to pride.
Tho' in thy train, the spectre, care, appears,
With wrinkl'd sorrow, pale-fac'd misery,
These haunt the costly pile,
Where grandeur dwells.
With wrinkl'd sorrow, pale-fac'd misery,
These haunt the costly pile,
Where grandeur dwells.
39
Then wherefore shall men shudder at thy name,
Unmindful of the fix'd decrees of fate?
To Him who rules on high,
We all must bow.
Unmindful of the fix'd decrees of fate?
To Him who rules on high,
We all must bow.
Death waits alike the portals of the great,
And the craz'd cottage. Virtue makes us blest;
And when she deigns to smile,
She ne'er deceives.
And the craz'd cottage. Virtue makes us blest;
And when she deigns to smile,
She ne'er deceives.
No foe art thou to genius. They whose names
Immortal live, high on the rolls of fame,
Companions were of thine,
Yet died in peace.
Immortal live, high on the rolls of fame,
Companions were of thine,
Yet died in peace.
What Bard than Dryden tun'd more sweet the lyre?
And who like Otway call'd forth pity's tear?
Still Butler's humour gives
To laughter birth.
And who like Otway call'd forth pity's tear?
Still Butler's humour gives
To laughter birth.
While seasons roll, and nature speeds her course,
While liberty shall swell the virtuous breast,
Still Thomson's classic lays
New praise will claim!
While liberty shall swell the virtuous breast,
Still Thomson's classic lays
New praise will claim!
40
While Scotia's sons shall harmony admire,
The mournful dirge sublime, the past'ral song,
The magic verse of Burns
Mankind shall charm!
The mournful dirge sublime, the past'ral song,
The magic verse of Burns
Mankind shall charm!
Erin, dear Isle! of courts the scorn, the scourge!
Long as the shamrock marks thy fertile vales,
Thy Goldsmith's name shall rise,
A country's pride!
Long as the shamrock marks thy fertile vales,
Thy Goldsmith's name shall rise,
A country's pride!
Hail Poverty! the wisest, and the best
Of Kings, to whom our dearest rights we owe,
With thee enjoy'd content,
In lowly guise.
Of Kings, to whom our dearest rights we owe,
With thee enjoy'd content,
In lowly guise.
The arts, the sciences, thou ne'er forsak'st;
Thy sons, industrious, claim our nation's care;
Their deeds on land and main,
The world well knows.
Thy sons, industrious, claim our nation's care;
Their deeds on land and main,
The world well knows.
Let not proud mortals cast a scornful sneer
At toil-worn brethren, still their chief support;
The lordling and the slave
Bow to the tomb!
At toil-worn brethren, still their chief support;
The lordling and the slave
Bow to the tomb!
41
Unwelcome visitor, by millions deem'd,
Like day's bright orb thou'rt to no state confin'd;
Where'er man treads the earth,
There art thou found.
Like day's bright orb thou'rt to no state confin'd;
Where'er man treads the earth,
There art thou found.
My parents, kindred, still own'd thee a guest:
Thou rock'd my cradle; watch'd my youthful years;
And now, in life's decline,
Attend'st me still.
Thou rock'd my cradle; watch'd my youthful years;
And now, in life's decline,
Attend'st me still.
Tho' dark the prospect of my future days,
Unfriended traveller in this dreary vale;
Blest with the Muse and health,
I'll ne'er repine.
Unfriended traveller in this dreary vale;
Blest with the Muse and health,
I'll ne'er repine.
Then, hail! companion of life's chequer'd scenes,
Who ne'er forsook me, nor wert e'er despis'd;
With thee I've liv'd in peace,
With thee must die!
Who ne'er forsook me, nor wert e'er despis'd;
With thee I've liv'd in peace,
With thee must die!
42
INSCRIPTION FOR AN OAK SEAT
ON THE SUMMIT OF A HILL.
Stop, gentle traveller, on this rude Seat,
Rest thee awhile; and ponder on mankind:
Turn nature's volume o'er, with prying eye,
And in each page thou'lt find a sweet reward.
If thou hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God, by murmuring at his will;
But let religion ever be thy guide.
Remember what thou art; what thou must be;
How life's dull path is short, o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art on eternity's dread brink—
Eternity!—Ah! word but little weigh'd!
Rest thee awhile; and ponder on mankind:
Turn nature's volume o'er, with prying eye,
And in each page thou'lt find a sweet reward.
If thou hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God, by murmuring at his will;
But let religion ever be thy guide.
Remember what thou art; what thou must be;
How life's dull path is short, o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art on eternity's dread brink—
Eternity!—Ah! word but little weigh'd!
Now turn thine eye, yon mansion gay behold,
Its parks, its pleasure grounds, diverted streams,
Lakes, woods umbrageous, temples, and cascades,
Where art with nature almost dares to vie;
And if thou envy'st its proud pamper'd lord,
Whose pow'r and rich domains extend afar;
Check the vain thought. Know wealth is rapt in cares,
And but the virtuous are the truly great!
Its parks, its pleasure grounds, diverted streams,
Lakes, woods umbrageous, temples, and cascades,
Where art with nature almost dares to vie;
And if thou envy'st its proud pamper'd lord,
Whose pow'r and rich domains extend afar;
Check the vain thought. Know wealth is rapt in cares,
And but the virtuous are the truly great!
43
If fortune's favours, traveller, thou canst boast,
Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n;
Nor loiter here: time's ever on the wing!
Yet should thy panting bosom rest require,
Let what thine eye behold'st lead thee to Heav'n!
Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n;
Nor loiter here: time's ever on the wing!
Yet should thy panting bosom rest require,
Let what thine eye behold'st lead thee to Heav'n!
This Seat, thy wearied body that supports,
Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride;
It was the raven's cradle, rock'd by storms,
Where oft they tasted aldermanic bliss,
And caw'd, delighted, o'er an unfledg'd brood;
While many an humbler tree, and fragrant shrub,
And tender flow'r, emblem of innocence,
Its thick-wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast.
Oft too, the hind, to shun the fervid glow
Of Summer's noon-tide sun, has sought its shade;
Pleas'd with wild warblings from its topmost boughs,
While o'er his scanty meal, in peace reclin'd,
He envy'd no one. Now, time-rent, and fall'n,
Lo! its decay bespeaks the fate of man,
Fair lord of the creation, frail and vain!
Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride;
It was the raven's cradle, rock'd by storms,
Where oft they tasted aldermanic bliss,
And caw'd, delighted, o'er an unfledg'd brood;
While many an humbler tree, and fragrant shrub,
And tender flow'r, emblem of innocence,
Its thick-wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast.
Oft too, the hind, to shun the fervid glow
Of Summer's noon-tide sun, has sought its shade;
Pleas'd with wild warblings from its topmost boughs,
While o'er his scanty meal, in peace reclin'd,
He envy'd no one. Now, time-rent, and fall'n,
Lo! its decay bespeaks the fate of man,
Fair lord of the creation, frail and vain!
If pensive grown, thou hang'st a musing head,
One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And faded leaves that quiv'ring float around,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home!
One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And faded leaves that quiv'ring float around,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home!
44
Now deign to view yon cottage in the vale,
Where late content beam'd in each ruddy face;
See'st thou the ruins?—Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In sons, who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
One hope they have, the hope that virtue gives,
It leaves the poor man never: Heav'n's reward,
To suff'ring mortals, in this vale of tears.
Where late content beam'd in each ruddy face;
See'st thou the ruins?—Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In sons, who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
One hope they have, the hope that virtue gives,
It leaves the poor man never: Heav'n's reward,
To suff'ring mortals, in this vale of tears.
If thy young heart hath not yet felt a pang,
For those thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go! “Learn the luxury of doing good;”
But, if unmindful of a better world,
The phantom pleasure thou hast long pursu'd;
And self predominates o'er others' wrongs,
Hence, sluggard!—Know thou art not welcome here!
For those thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go! “Learn the luxury of doing good;”
But, if unmindful of a better world,
The phantom pleasure thou hast long pursu'd;
And self predominates o'er others' wrongs,
Hence, sluggard!—Know thou art not welcome here!
45
STANZAS WRITTEN IN AUTUMN, 1799.
“Now Autumn hath reviv'd the farmer's hope,
And the rich gifts of Ceres ting'd with gold;
Pleas'd with the bounteous gift,
Each field he views.”
And the rich gifts of Ceres ting'd with gold;
Pleas'd with the bounteous gift,
Each field he views.”
Anon.
Summer's verdure now is fled;
Faded are her fragrant flow'rs;
Savage Autumn strips the bow'rs,
While dull nature hangs her head.
Faded are her fragrant flow'rs;
Savage Autumn strips the bow'rs,
While dull nature hangs her head.
Songs of joy no more are heard
Thro' the winding valley float,
Save the redbreast's grateful note,
Fond, domestic, pleasing bird!
Thro' the winding valley float,
Save the redbreast's grateful note,
Fond, domestic, pleasing bird!
Yet, ere chilling snows decend,
He must quit each well-known wood;
And to hamlets driv'n for food,
Ask of faithless man a friend.
He must quit each well-known wood;
And to hamlets driv'n for food,
Ask of faithless man a friend.
46
Where, beneath the blooming thorn,
Blithe, the milk-maid with her pail,
Listen'd to the rustic's tale,
Softly told at early morn,
Blithe, the milk-maid with her pail,
Listen'd to the rustic's tale,
Softly told at early morn,
Fallen leaves now with'ring lie;
Faded moralists, that teach
Mortals much; tho' void of speech,
For, like them, soon all must die!
Faded moralists, that teach
Mortals much; tho' void of speech,
For, like them, soon all must die!
Deadly blasts now loudly blow,
Telling haggard Winter near;
Whose approach what millions fear,
Sunk by poverty and woe!
Telling haggard Winter near;
Whose approach what millions fear,
Sunk by poverty and woe!
Oh! that pleasure's sparkling train,
Wou'd their false-nam'd joys forbear!
And the gifts of Heaven share,
With each child of want and pain!
Wou'd their false-nam'd joys forbear!
And the gifts of Heaven share,
With each child of want and pain!
Reckless then of fortune's frown,
Man his loud complaints might cease:
Life would be a vale of peace,
Happy state, ah! little known!
Man his loud complaints might cease:
Life would be a vale of peace,
Happy state, ah! little known!
47
THE AUTHOR'S WILL.
Great Bards, in all ages, all countries, we find,
Whose works now delight and enlighten mankind,
Were scorn'd by dame fortune, and ofttimes despis'd;
When the foes of each country by monarch's were priz'd.
The prince of all Poets, old Homer, was poor,
And his ballads, unequall'd, would sing at each door;
Who the sigh can suppress, that the works ere peruse,
Of Cervantes, who wretched, the world cou'd amuse?
And while Albion the fate of her Dryden still mourns,
Old Scotia may blush o'er the tomb of poor Burns.
If distress mark'd the favourite sons of the Nine,
Let not scribblers like me at the world e'er repine;
But be thankful for favours we ne'er can repay,
And smile at life's ills that must soon fade away.
O spare a poor rhymer, ye friends ever dear,
Nor be to the man or his lays too severe;
Dear brethren! to whom all his failings are known,
Rail not at his foibles, but heed well your own:
For, if pleasure's bowl he was anxious to seize,
Remember his motto—“Still willing to please!”
An itch after scribbling was long his delight,
And if virtue dictated, you'll own he did right:
Spider-like, if he spun his weak cobwebs in vain,
And the verse gave not pleasure, it seldom gave pain.
Whose works now delight and enlighten mankind,
Were scorn'd by dame fortune, and ofttimes despis'd;
When the foes of each country by monarch's were priz'd.
The prince of all Poets, old Homer, was poor,
And his ballads, unequall'd, would sing at each door;
Who the sigh can suppress, that the works ere peruse,
Of Cervantes, who wretched, the world cou'd amuse?
And while Albion the fate of her Dryden still mourns,
Old Scotia may blush o'er the tomb of poor Burns.
If distress mark'd the favourite sons of the Nine,
Let not scribblers like me at the world e'er repine;
But be thankful for favours we ne'er can repay,
And smile at life's ills that must soon fade away.
O spare a poor rhymer, ye friends ever dear,
Nor be to the man or his lays too severe;
Dear brethren! to whom all his failings are known,
Rail not at his foibles, but heed well your own:
For, if pleasure's bowl he was anxious to seize,
Remember his motto—“Still willing to please!”
48
And if virtue dictated, you'll own he did right:
Spider-like, if he spun his weak cobwebs in vain,
And the verse gave not pleasure, it seldom gave pain.
Since life's an uncertainty, for relaxation,
He gladly wou'd cancel each light obligation;
For dunces, like princes, an hour cannot reckon,
But both must obey, when death pleases to beckon:
That leveller alike heeds the one's harmless rhymes,
And the other's dominions, his pow'r and his crimes.
He gladly wou'd cancel each light obligation;
For dunces, like princes, an hour cannot reckon,
But both must obey, when death pleases to beckon:
That leveller alike heeds the one's harmless rhymes,
And the other's dominions, his pow'r and his crimes.
First.—A fond father's Portrait, I leave to that friend,
Who to th' wants of his parents will swear to attend;
With a Stick, the firm pledge of my father's affection,
On which I oft muse with a pleasing reflection,
May he use it, when age bids his body decline,
And the son makes his parent as happy as mine!
Who to th' wants of his parents will swear to attend;
With a Stick, the firm pledge of my father's affection,
On which I oft muse with a pleasing reflection,
May he use it, when age bids his body decline,
And the son makes his parent as happy as mine!
Next, my Flute, that on Eden's green banks I oft play'
To amuse a dear friend, or a fair artless maid,
Whose wild notes have sooth'd me, and check'd many a sigh,
When on follies reflecting, a tear dimm'd my eye,
I leave to ------, a youth to my mind;
A gift of esteem, to the friend of mankind:
May its tones afford pleasure, and shield him from strife,
And virtue and harmony guide him thro' life!
To amuse a dear friend, or a fair artless maid,
Whose wild notes have sooth'd me, and check'd many a sigh,
When on follies reflecting, a tear dimm'd my eye,
49
A gift of esteem, to the friend of mankind:
May its tones afford pleasure, and shield him from strife,
And virtue and harmony guide him thro' life!
All my M S. trifles I freely bequeath,
To Crito, for whom oft the Muse forms a wreath:
If I'm void of invention, or poetic spirit,
The touch of my friend changes nonsense to merit;
And as he from the censure of sland'rers can save me,
I leave him the neat Silver Pen, ------ gave me,
With this simple request, that, with it, when I'm gone,
He the simple inscription will write for my stone;
Not forgetting to warn young and old, passing by,
To repent of their sins, and make ready to die.
'Tis my pray'r he may long by the Muse be inspir'd,
Whose name will be honour'd, while merit's admir'd;
For no arts but his own have promoted his fame,
Nor a verse has he written that virtue can blame.
To Crito, for whom oft the Muse forms a wreath:
If I'm void of invention, or poetic spirit,
The touch of my friend changes nonsense to merit;
And as he from the censure of sland'rers can save me,
I leave him the neat Silver Pen, ------ gave me,
With this simple request, that, with it, when I'm gone,
He the simple inscription will write for my stone;
Not forgetting to warn young and old, passing by,
To repent of their sins, and make ready to die.
'Tis my pray'r he may long by the Muse be inspir'd,
Whose name will be honour'd, while merit's admir'd;
For no arts but his own have promoted his fame,
Nor a verse has he written that virtue can blame.
My Selection of Songs I bequeath to F. J---e,
Some the musings of genius, some ravings of folly;
He may print them, or burn them, as best it will suit him,
Ev'n call mine his own, if he does, few will doubt him.
Some the musings of genius, some ravings of folly;
He may print them, or burn them, as best it will suit him,
Ev'n call mine his own, if he does, few will doubt him.
50
To Miss ------, the best female I know,
Whose friendship beguiles the pain'd bosom of woe,
If she'll deign to accept, every Picture and Hook;
I bequeath, with my Music by Thomson or Hook;
A Portfolio of Fragments, and Letters, poor treasure,
Strange mixture of nonsense, love, friendship, and pleasure:
With some she may rub off the rust of dull care,
In others view passions that lead to despair.
Whose friendship beguiles the pain'd bosom of woe,
If she'll deign to accept, every Picture and Hook;
I bequeath, with my Music by Thomson or Hook;
A Portfolio of Fragments, and Letters, poor treasure,
Strange mixture of nonsense, love, friendship, and pleasure:
With some she may rub off the rust of dull care,
In others view passions that lead to despair.
From the best, to the vainest, we scribblers may change,
'Tis the license of folly, with freedom to range;
To Miss ------, I leave, nor hope she'll refuse them,
A Volume of Words, with directions to use them:
The whole by Sam Johnson, who form'd the great rules,
That preserve common sense, spite of women and fools.
'Tis the license of folly, with freedom to range;
To Miss ------, I leave, nor hope she'll refuse them,
A Volume of Words, with directions to use them:
The whole by Sam Johnson, who form'd the great rules,
That preserve common sense, spite of women and fools.
To Carlyle, whose friendship's a treasure to me,
I leave this warm wish, he long happy may be,
With him, oft at twilight in Summer I've stray'd,
And heard the last song of the thrush in the glade,
While charm'd with the landscapes, to him ever dear,
Whose pencil pourtray'd every change of the year;
Or trac'd nature's beauties, as homeward we trod,
Whose scenes, ever varied, the mind leads to God.
With him, I in Winter have shar'd each delight,
That pleasure cou'd yield, and beguile the long night;
Now musing o'er authors, each sense to improve;
Now piping soft airs, dear to friendship and love.
May the Muse ne'er forsake him, is still my fond pray'r,
Nor his face e'er be furrow'd with wrinkles of care!
I leave this warm wish, he long happy may be,
With him, oft at twilight in Summer I've stray'd,
And heard the last song of the thrush in the glade,
While charm'd with the landscapes, to him ever dear,
Whose pencil pourtray'd every change of the year;
51
Whose scenes, ever varied, the mind leads to God.
With him, I in Winter have shar'd each delight,
That pleasure cou'd yield, and beguile the long night;
Now musing o'er authors, each sense to improve;
Now piping soft airs, dear to friendship and love.
May the Muse ne'er forsake him, is still my fond pray'r,
Nor his face e'er be furrow'd with wrinkles of care!
Dull rhymers, unletter'd, who try ev'ry art,
To touch a weak head, or an unfeeling heart,
Who fain up the heights of Parnassus would hobble,
Like me, paid with sneers and contempt for your trouble;
I leave you this wish, ne'er to scribble in vain,
Rather labour, in time, useful knowledge to gain.
To touch a weak head, or an unfeeling heart,
Who fain up the heights of Parnassus would hobble,
Like me, paid with sneers and contempt for your trouble;
I leave you this wish, ne'er to scribble in vain,
Rather labour, in time, useful knowledge to gain.
To ------, my companion in rambles nocturnal,
I leave, just by way of memento, my Journal;
And beg he'll not fail the contents to peruse,
Whether serious reflections, or scraps from the Muse:
By the first, he his own imperfections may see,
By the last, he may pity a rhymer, like me.
I leave, just by way of memento, my Journal;
And beg he'll not fail the contents to peruse,
Whether serious reflections, or scraps from the Muse:
By the first, he his own imperfections may see,
By the last, he may pity a rhymer, like me.
I leave ------ my Spectacles, thro' which he'll view
His magnified foibles; wou'd mine were as few!
So gentle's his heart, ev'n a child may deceive him;
So true is his tongue, ev'n his foes may believe him:
His greatest fault is, goodness keeps him in fetters,
And he lives an example to slaves call'd his betters.
His magnified foibles; wou'd mine were as few!
52
So true is his tongue, ev'n his foes may believe him:
His greatest fault is, goodness keeps him in fetters,
And he lives an example to slaves call'd his betters.
I leave to ------ a Locket, with Hair,
Cut off ere my temples where shorn by dull care:
May she wear this small Pledge of fond love near her heart,
Till summon'd at length from her friends to depart!
Cut off ere my temples where shorn by dull care:
May she wear this small Pledge of fond love near her heart,
Till summon'd at length from her friends to depart!
My Clothing, thread-bare, I bequeat to the poor,
Who, comfortless, many keen ills must endure;
And if on life's journey their troubles increase,
May hope lead their minds to the mansion of peace!
Who, comfortless, many keen ills must endure;
And if on life's journey their troubles increase,
May hope lead their minds to the mansion of peace!
Now, to God the Creator, thro' whom draw breath,
Thro' whose promise the sinner may triumph o'er death,
I bequeath my poor Soul, and his mercy I crave,
For reflection wounds deep, as we bend to the grave!
And its Case, which none e'er thought the finest of forms,
I leave, a spare feast to its kindred, the worms.
Thro' whose promise the sinner may triumph o'er death,
I bequeath my poor Soul, and his mercy I crave,
For reflection wounds deep, as we bend to the grave!
And its Case, which none e'er thought the finest of forms,
I leave, a spare feast to its kindred, the worms.
53
My harp, tuneless grown, I now hang on the willow;
And in peace with the world, hope for rest on my pillow.
Sign'd, truly, October, the twenty sixth day,
In the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred,
And in peace with the world, hope for rest on my pillow.
Sign'd, truly, October, the twenty sixth day,
In the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred,
R.A
54
SCENE FROM THE MUSICAL FARCE OF “THE BEGGAR GIRL.”
Scene—A Wood.Time—Night.
COL. MORDAUNT.
Now roars the tempest hoarse, and heavy rains
Swell the harsh-sounding rills; while ev'ry blast
Shakes the proud oak, that on the mountain's height,
Reigns monarch of the woods. The humble shrub,
Safe in the shelter'd vale, feels not its rage!
Thus, are some minds on fortune's summit plac'd,
Toss'd by rude storms the peasant hears unmov'd.
I'll to the inn, and rest.—Rest, did I say?
Alas! by grief o'ercome, 'tis now some days,
Since balmy sleep invited to my pillow.
O, life! what art thou?—But a load of sorrow;
That man, weak reptile, shrinking still must bear!
Must bear? (Pauses for some moments)
Not so!
(Draws a pistol in despair)
This, this can end my woes! —My wife, the sweetest flow'r that ever bloom'd,
A prey to th' worms!—Her father's cruelty—
The thought is hell!—My daughter!—But no more!
My heart-strings burst, and frenzy heats my brain;
55
No more to part!
(Presents the pistol to his head. Enter Capt. Cleveland, who quickly seizes his arm; Mordaunt throws away the pistol.)
CAPT. CLEVELAND.
Dear friend! dear, but rash Mordaunt!
MORDAUNT.
What! Cleveland's voice? again, thank Heav'n, I'm well!
O I had like t' have done the fatal deed—
Poor thoughtless, frantic wretch!
CLEVELAND.
Do be composed. Good Mordaunt list to me—
MORDAUNT.
How near I stood
The dreadful precipice of endless ruin;
And tremble yet.—What! scorn th' Almighty's pow'r!
And dare him to the conflict! How my mind
Sinks at the bare rememb'rance; and cold damps
Hang on my weakened body. I could weep
And welcome death, for life is reft of joys:
But time may bring repentance.
(Kneels)
56
A trembling sinner bends to thee for mercy.
Grant, thou, whate'er my suff'rings in this world,
That christian fortitude may ne'er forsake me;
But still may I prepare for that to come!
(Rises)
O Cleveland! what a change! Religion pours
Her healing balm of comfort o'er my mind,
And come what will, I'll wait death's friendly blow!
CLEVELAND.
How fortunate am I, thus, from the grave,
To snatch a brother; brave and merciful:
Whose deeds in foreign climes, long, long will live—
Who at the peril of his life, sav'd mine!
MORDAUNT.
Cleveland, if thou'rt a friend, name that no more.
CLEVELAND.
Hearing you had left the inn, I trac'd you
To this lone spot. Forever will this hour
The happiest seem, of all my happy days.
MORDAUNT.
Cleveland, may Heav'n long guard thee, my preserver!
Let me again embrace thee. We'll to th' inn.
My spirits, quite exhausted, lack repose.
57
ODE TO FORTUNE.
Thy favours, Fortune, I ne'er court,
Nor with thy vot'ries much resort;
But, didst thou bid me chuse a state,
Not meanly poor, nor prineely great,
Place me far from the sound of war,
And all the wranglings of the bar;
Yet nearer to the village spire,
Than to his lordship, or the 'squire.
Three miles from town, be my retreat,
A pleasant cottage, small, but neat,
That, to the stranger wand'ring near,
Wou'd seem to say, content dwells here.
Let gadding woodbines round it creep,
And in each lattice fondly peep;
A garden, too, its front adorn,
Hedg'd careless round; beneath a thorn,
A shade, wherein to muse at ease,
And watch the labours of my bees;
Or study o'er each golden rule,
Of those well known in wisdom's school;
Or here, when eve bids labour rest,
Pipe, to delight some village guest.
Nor with thy vot'ries much resort;
But, didst thou bid me chuse a state,
Not meanly poor, nor prineely great,
Place me far from the sound of war,
And all the wranglings of the bar;
Yet nearer to the village spire,
Than to his lordship, or the 'squire.
Three miles from town, be my retreat,
A pleasant cottage, small, but neat,
That, to the stranger wand'ring near,
Wou'd seem to say, content dwells here.
Let gadding woodbines round it creep,
And in each lattice fondly peep;
A garden, too, its front adorn,
Hedg'd careless round; beneath a thorn,
A shade, wherein to muse at ease,
And watch the labours of my bees;
Or study o'er each golden rule,
Of those well known in wisdom's school;
Or here, when eve bids labour rest,
Pipe, to delight some village guest.
58
No artful walks I'd wish to view,
For nature ne'er to art shou'd bow;
But when the rival pair unite,
Where is the breast they can't delight?
Thus be the front. And now behind,
A wood shou'd check the wild north wind;
And shelter safe a warbling throng,
Whose rent shou'd be a chearful song.
What joy to hear my tenants, free,
Hymn grateful notes, from tree to tree!
No sportsman rude (ah! cruel joy!)
Shou'd e'er the harmless race destroy;
Nor truant school-boy e'er shou'd tear
From them the young and tender care:
Then, oh! mid' Winter's dreary reign,
Wou'd they to visit me but deign,
I to their wants wou'd still attend,
Proud to become each creature's friend.
For nature ne'er to art shou'd bow;
But when the rival pair unite,
Where is the breast they can't delight?
Thus be the front. And now behind,
A wood shou'd check the wild north wind;
And shelter safe a warbling throng,
Whose rent shou'd be a chearful song.
What joy to hear my tenants, free,
Hymn grateful notes, from tree to tree!
No sportsman rude (ah! cruel joy!)
Shou'd e'er the harmless race destroy;
Nor truant school-boy e'er shou'd tear
From them the young and tender care:
Then, oh! mid' Winter's dreary reign,
Wou'd they to visit me but deign,
I to their wants wou'd still attend,
Proud to become each creature's friend.
Next, give me, for a maid or wife,
A nut-brown girl, sworn foe to strife;
One simple in her dress and air,
Unus'd to town, or costly fare:
Who'd cleanly cook my humble meal,
Nor blab the secrets I'd reveal;
Who'd sing without conceit or pain;
Who'd read the news and bible plain;
Who'd write her thoughts in easy prose,
And argue well in virtue's cause.
A nut-brown girl, sworn foe to strife;
One simple in her dress and air,
Unus'd to town, or costly fare:
Who'd cleanly cook my humble meal,
Nor blab the secrets I'd reveal;
59
Who'd read the news and bible plain;
Who'd write her thoughts in easy prose,
And argue well in virtue's cause.
My wishes, Fortune, would'st thou crown,
The sweets of friendship let me own:
One friend I'd ask, of soul sincere,
Not moving in too high a sphere;
Who'd bend to no proud party knave;
A foe to none, to none a slave;
Who'd scorn by trifles to be bought,
Content in honest home-spun coat.
When Winter reign'd in furious rage,
We'd mark the follies of the age:
Thus converse wou'd each mind illume,
For friendship cheers wild Winter's gloom.
In Summer, nature's laws we'd scan,
Admiring still her beauteous plan;
And oft, by some hoarse-murm'ring stream,
Indulge a fond poetic dream;
Or range, with health, the daisied mead,
Then wou'd this life be life indeed!
The sweets of friendship let me own:
One friend I'd ask, of soul sincere,
Not moving in too high a sphere;
Who'd bend to no proud party knave;
A foe to none, to none a slave;
Who'd scorn by trifles to be bought,
Content in honest home-spun coat.
When Winter reign'd in furious rage,
We'd mark the follies of the age:
Thus converse wou'd each mind illume,
For friendship cheers wild Winter's gloom.
In Summer, nature's laws we'd scan,
Admiring still her beauteous plan;
And oft, by some hoarse-murm'ring stream,
Indulge a fond poetic dream;
Or range, with health, the daisied mead,
Then wou'd this life be life indeed!
Thus, Fortune, seated to my mind,
I'd thank thee oft, and own thee kind.
Secure from folly's tiresome noise,
Where pleasure health and wealth destroys,
Shou'd care or spleen a visit pay,
I'd bid them call another day;
And chearfully survey the past,
Nor think time mov'd too slow or fast;
Nor wish to live, nor fear to die,
But sink to earth, without a sigh.
I'd thank thee oft, and own thee kind.
60
Where pleasure health and wealth destroys,
Shou'd care or spleen a visit pay,
I'd bid them call another day;
And chearfully survey the past,
Nor think time mov'd too slow or fast;
Nor wish to live, nor fear to die,
But sink to earth, without a sigh.
With such a friend, a wife, and cot,
Who wou'd repine, deserves them not;
And he who vainly wishes more,
May he, like me, thro' life be poor!
Who wou'd repine, deserves them not;
And he who vainly wishes more,
May he, like me, thro' life be poor!
61
STANZAS
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF EDEN, NEAR CARLISLE; WHERE A FAVOURITE GROVE HAD BEEN CUT DOWN.
“There's not one shrub, or flow'r,
But tells some dear-lov'd tale to me;
Or paints some happy hour,
That I, alas! no more shall see!”
Miss Blamire.
But tells some dear-lov'd tale to me;
Or paints some happy hour,
That I, alas! no more shall see!”
Miss Blamire.
This spot I dearly lov'd to see!
'Twas childhood's paradise to me;
And more than thrice ten times the sun
His annual course hath run,
Since first this bank, crown'd by a wood,
I saw reflected in the flood;
And mark'd the early shelter'd primrose spring:
Then tore it from its mossy seat,
And sought the town, with nimble feet,
More proud than any king.
'Twas childhood's paradise to me;
And more than thrice ten times the sun
His annual course hath run,
Since first this bank, crown'd by a wood,
I saw reflected in the flood;
And mark'd the early shelter'd primrose spring:
Then tore it from its mossy seat,
And sought the town, with nimble feet,
More proud than any king.
This spot I dearly lov'd to see,
Where warbling songsters wanton'd free!
And fancy oft hath drawn the scene,
The lawn, and meadows green;
The distant hamlet, darken'd glen—
Ev'n midst the noisy haunts of men,
When manhood's seasons wing'd with pleasure flew,
The hazle copse, where oft the nest
I prying sought with panting breast,
Were ever in my view!
Where warbling songsters wanton'd free!
And fancy oft hath drawn the scene,
The lawn, and meadows green;
The distant hamlet, darken'd glen—
Ev'n midst the noisy haunts of men,
62
The hazle copse, where oft the nest
I prying sought with panting breast,
Were ever in my view!
This spot I dearly lov'd to see,
When from youth's daily labour free!
Here would I trace on many a page,
The follies of the age:
Or fondly listen friendship's voice;
Or deem my fair a matchless choice;
But dreamt not love and friendship soon decay:
A heartless pilgrim, now, I mourn
The joys long fled, ne'er to return,
And sigh the hours away!
When from youth's daily labour free!
Here would I trace on many a page,
The follies of the age:
Or fondly listen friendship's voice;
Or deem my fair a matchless choice;
But dreamt not love and friendship soon decay:
A heartless pilgrim, now, I mourn
The joys long fled, ne'er to return,
And sigh the hours away!
This spot I dearly lov'd to see,
Where lovers' names grew on each tree!
Ah! Infancy, thy scenes are dear,
And call forth many a tear!
Fall'n are the trees that form'd a shade,
Where oft contemplative I stray'd;
Or tun'd my pipe to strains of mirth and love.
The stately oak, the humble flow'r,
That bloom and perish in an hour,
Man's short existence prove!
Where lovers' names grew on each tree!
Ah! Infancy, thy scenes are dear,
And call forth many a tear!
Fall'n are the trees that form'd a shade,
Where oft contemplative I stray'd;
Or tun'd my pipe to strains of mirth and love.
The stately oak, the humble flow'r,
That bloom and perish in an hour,
Man's short existence prove!
63
A CHARACTER.
“Truth ought ever to pass free as the air we breathe!”
Near Lagan's banks, a mile from town,
A rural whiten'd cottage stands;
The hamlets, halls, and hills of Down,
And many a prospect it commands:
It fronts the road, where haughty pride
And honest poverty throng by;
But few they are who turn aside,
On this lone cot to cast an eye.
A rural whiten'd cottage stands;
The hamlets, halls, and hills of Down,
And many a prospect it commands:
It fronts the road, where haughty pride
And honest poverty throng by;
But few they are who turn aside,
On this lone cot to cast an eye.
Yet, it contains a matchless form,
As youthful fancy ever drew;
And in that form a heart as warm,
As meek philanthropist e'er knew:
And it contains as fair a face,
As ever fore'd a sigh from man;
Each winning smile, each witching grace
Are center'd all in Marianne.
As youthful fancy ever drew;
And in that form a heart as warm,
As meek philanthropist e'er knew:
And it contains as fair a face,
As ever fore'd a sigh from man;
Each winning smile, each witching grace
Are center'd all in Marianne.
64
Yet beauty is a short-liv'd flow'r,
Ev'n when in dazzling tints array'd;
It blossoms, withers, in an hour,
But mental beauties never fade:
Think, thus, ye fair in giddy youth,
Who whirl o'er fashion's gilded round;
Leave not to time to tell this truth,
Too late, in age, it oft is found.
Ev'n when in dazzling tints array'd;
It blossoms, withers, in an hour,
But mental beauties never fade:
Think, thus, ye fair in giddy youth,
Who whirl o'er fashion's gilded round;
Leave not to time to tell this truth,
Too late, in age, it oft is found.
She who in this low cot resides,
To pride, to beauty, wisely blind,
The follies of her sex derides,
But gladly wou'd improve each mind:
Now turning “nature's volume o'er;”
Now shunning sanguinary man;
Now culling, weighing useful lore;
Thus pass the days of Marianne.
To pride, to beauty, wisely blind,
The follies of her sex derides,
But gladly wou'd improve each mind:
Now turning “nature's volume o'er;”
Now shunning sanguinary man;
Now culling, weighing useful lore;
Thus pass the days of Marianne.
When Spring dissolves stern Winter's chain,
And vegetation ventures forth,
She marks the flow'rets on the plain,
Just emblems of her modest worth:
When health, her guide, in Summer leads
To some sequester'd cool alcove,
The rising produce of the meads
Points to that Pow'r, who reigns above.
And vegetation ventures forth,
She marks the flow'rets on the plain,
Just emblems of her modest worth:
When health, her guide, in Summer leads
To some sequester'd cool alcove,
The rising produce of the meads
Points to that Pow'r, who reigns above.
65
When Autumn's sheaves, and saffron'd leaves
Again tell angry Winter near,
By study, she the gloom deceives,
Or converse sweet, with friends sincere:
Still proving, that from virtue spring
The greatest pleasures known to man—
Long may each changing season bring
Health, joy, and peace to Marianne!
Again tell angry Winter near,
By study, she the gloom deceives,
Or converse sweet, with friends sincere:
Still proving, that from virtue spring
The greatest pleasures known to man—
Long may each changing season bring
Health, joy, and peace to Marianne!
66
AN ADDRESS
SPOKEN BY MR. GRANT, IN CARLISLE, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MRS. JOHNSON, AND HER NUMEROUS FAMILY.
“True generosity rises above the ordinary rule of social conduct, and flows with much too full a stream to be comprehended within the precise marks of formal precepts. It is a vigorous principle in the soul, which opens and expands all her virtues, far beyond those which are only the forced and unnatural productions of a timid obedience.”
Melmoth.
Enough of war! and all his hell-born train;
Britannia rides triumphant o'er the main;
And when sweet peace her olive branch displays,
Then, as in war, she gains all Europe's praise:
For all the glories conquest e'er could dart,
Are trifles, balanc'd with the feeling heart;
And all the honours wealth cou'd e'er bestow,
Proves that proud man is but the child of woe.
Britannia rides triumphant o'er the main;
And when sweet peace her olive branch displays,
Then, as in war, she gains all Europe's praise:
For all the glories conquest e'er could dart,
Are trifles, balanc'd with the feeling heart;
And all the honours wealth cou'd e'er bestow,
Proves that proud man is but the child of woe.
Is there, this night, a heart that cannot feel?
To such, the Muse, indignant, scorns t' appeal;
But ye who scorn the pride of giving pain,
Nor sufl'ring mortals treat with cold disdain,
But soothe distress, and dry affliction's tear,
Rejoic'd I feel, to bid you welcome here:
And ye who know the widow'd parent's cares,
And all the pangs that oft her bosom tears;
The anxious watchings o'er an infant race,
An image still in memory to trace;
Ye fairest works of nature, who possess
The pow'r to succour, and to shield distress,
Fair advocates in sacred virtue's cause—
Denied to speak the gratitude she owes,
A sister bids me pay the tribute due;
And tell the sympathy she found in you.
Cherish'd in tender youth, like some fair flow'r,
Hope brighten'd with her prospect, ev'ry hour;
But cold neglect to damp each joy soon strove,
And she was criminal, who dar'd to love.
Deserted, virtue still approv'd her choice,
And you'll acquit her with a friendly voice.
If doom'd to wander from her native home,
And with the sons of indigence to roam,
A patron in the public, pleas'd she found,
And oft her efforts were with plenty crown'd;
While love's dear transports lull'd each care to rest,
And mutual fondness made a couple blest;
But gone is he, her soul's lov'd lord, by fate
Summon'd to pass eternity's dark gate.
To such, the Muse, indignant, scorns t' appeal;
But ye who scorn the pride of giving pain,
Nor sufl'ring mortals treat with cold disdain,
But soothe distress, and dry affliction's tear,
Rejoic'd I feel, to bid you welcome here:
67
And all the pangs that oft her bosom tears;
The anxious watchings o'er an infant race,
An image still in memory to trace;
Ye fairest works of nature, who possess
The pow'r to succour, and to shield distress,
Fair advocates in sacred virtue's cause—
Denied to speak the gratitude she owes,
A sister bids me pay the tribute due;
And tell the sympathy she found in you.
Cherish'd in tender youth, like some fair flow'r,
Hope brighten'd with her prospect, ev'ry hour;
But cold neglect to damp each joy soon strove,
And she was criminal, who dar'd to love.
Deserted, virtue still approv'd her choice,
And you'll acquit her with a friendly voice.
If doom'd to wander from her native home,
And with the sons of indigence to roam,
A patron in the public, pleas'd she found,
And oft her efforts were with plenty crown'd;
While love's dear transports lull'd each care to rest,
And mutual fondness made a couple blest;
But gone is he, her soul's lov'd lord, by fate
Summon'd to pass eternity's dark gate.
Receive, blest shade! this tribute due to worth;
Tho' now remembrance calls fresh sorrows forth:
If will to serve, and art to please mankind,
If feeling heart, and independent mind,
If harmless mirth that oft pure friendship gain'd,
While in the bosom love of truth still reign'd,
Cou'd turn aside the fatal stroke of death,
Thou, friend lamented, would have yet drawn breath!
For envy ev'n thy character approv'd;
Nor pin'd to hear how much thou wert belov'd.
Tho' now remembrance calls fresh sorrows forth:
68
If feeling heart, and independent mind,
If harmless mirth that oft pure friendship gain'd,
While in the bosom love of truth still reign'd,
Cou'd turn aside the fatal stroke of death,
Thou, friend lamented, would have yet drawn breath!
For envy ev'n thy character approv'd;
Nor pin'd to hear how much thou wert belov'd.
Ye brethren,
by mysterious laws combin'd;
In vain weak man to many a virtue blind,
May spurn at that by greatest mortals giv'n,
The noblest Institution, under Heav'n.
O! may no rude antipathies remove
What social beings owe to social love!
For now when wisdom boasts th' enlighten'd age,
And truth and reason beam on many a page,
No Bard too loud th' inspiring song can raise,
That gives your more than matchless deeds due praise.
In vain weak man to many a virtue blind,
May spurn at that by greatest mortals giv'n,
The noblest Institution, under Heav'n.
O! may no rude antipathies remove
What social beings owe to social love!
For now when wisdom boasts th' enlighten'd age,
And truth and reason beam on many a page,
No Bard too loud th' inspiring song can raise,
That gives your more than matchless deeds due praise.
How proud I see you in support of those,
Too young to speak, or know ev'n friends from foes—
Illumin'd few, whose bounty thousands share;
And you, whose eyes shed pity's dews, ye fair,
The helpless offspring will while life endures,
Beg for each blessing upon you and yours.
Too young to speak, or know ev'n friends from foes—
Illumin'd few, whose bounty thousands share;
And you, whose eyes shed pity's dews, ye fair,
The helpless offspring will while life endures,
Beg for each blessing upon you and yours.
69
ROBESPIERE'S LAMENT.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.
Alas! and am I then undone?
Life's mad career will soon be run;
For ere to-morrow's setting sun,
This throbbing pulse must cease.
My country's scourge!—my country's shame!
Justice, arous'd, my life doth claim—
Ages unborn shall curse his name,
Who dares not hope for peace!
Life's mad career will soon be run;
For ere to-morrow's setting sun,
This throbbing pulse must cease.
My country's scourge!—my country's shame!
Justice, arous'd, my life doth claim—
Ages unborn shall curse his name,
Who dares not hope for peace!
Ambition's woe-devoted slave,
Foe to the virtuous and the brave;
I sink unpitied to the grave,
And shrink at death's dark gloom.
Ye tyrants of each distant state,
Ah! tremble, when you hear my fate!
Lest justice that doth me await,
Should bring you to the tomb!
Foe to the virtuous and the brave;
I sink unpitied to the grave,
And shrink at death's dark gloom.
Ye tyrants of each distant state,
Ah! tremble, when you hear my fate!
Lest justice that doth me await,
Should bring you to the tomb!
In vain this guilty soul would rest;
Pangs, worse than Hell, disturb my breast!
I hear torn Gallia's sons, oppress'd,
Vent curses on my head:
I see each murder'd patriot stand,
Array'd in blood by my command;
While banish'd from their native land,
What thousands beg for bread!
Pangs, worse than Hell, disturb my breast!
I hear torn Gallia's sons, oppress'd,
70
I see each murder'd patriot stand,
Array'd in blood by my command;
While banish'd from their native land,
What thousands beg for bread!
Earth holds not such a wretch as I!
From guilt where can the villain fly,
Who must not live, who fears to die?
—Avenging fiends I see!
Thou Pow'r, whom oft I mock'd with scorn,
Tho' by foul crimes this bosom's torn,
O hear a helpless sinner mourn!
Who, trembling, bends to thee!
From guilt where can the villain fly,
Who must not live, who fears to die?
—Avenging fiends I see!
Thou Pow'r, whom oft I mock'd with scorn,
Tho' by foul crimes this bosom's torn,
O hear a helpless sinner mourn!
Who, trembling, bends to thee!
71
LINES ON SEEING A BOY TORTURE AN INSECT.
“Sweet mercy is the loveliest flow'r,
That Heav'n e'er planted in the mind;
The queen of virtues, whose soft pow'r
Can ev'n to godhead raise mankind!”
That Heav'n e'er planted in the mind;
The queen of virtues, whose soft pow'r
Can ev'n to godhead raise mankind!”
Reed.
O spare that insect, thoughtless boy!
Let weakness still thy pity claim:
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy,
So shall compassion bless thy name.
Let weakness still thy pity claim:
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy,
So shall compassion bless thy name.
The Pow'r who life to thee bestow'd,
The smallest creature bids to live;
Then dare not to offend thy God!
In youth, or age, we praise shou'd give.
The smallest creature bids to live;
Then dare not to offend thy God!
In youth, or age, we praise shou'd give.
Seek not to break great nature's chain,
Each link of which is fair to view;
Nought on the earth is form'd in vain—
O think in time this lesson true!
Each link of which is fair to view;
Nought on the earth is form'd in vain—
O think in time this lesson true!
Then spare that insect, puny boy!
Weak reptile, to thy parents giv'n!
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy—
So hope may lead thy soul to Heav'n!
Weak reptile, to thy parents giv'n!
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy—
So hope may lead thy soul to Heav'n!
72
TO MY FLUTE.
“Oh! surely melody from heav'n was sent,
To cheer the soul, when tir'd of human strife;
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.”
To cheer the soul, when tir'd of human strife;
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.”
H. K. White.
Hail! thou soft soother of my woes,
Friend to delight, and calm repose!
With thee, my happiest hours are spent,
Free from dull care, and discontent;
Unknown to folly's giddy train,
Whose revelry's the source of pain.
Friend to delight, and calm repose!
With thee, my happiest hours are spent,
Free from dull care, and discontent;
Unknown to folly's giddy train,
Whose revelry's the source of pain.
If absent from the friend sincere,
Or her this bosom still holds dear;
If by feign'd love, false friendship cross'd;
If by misfortune tempest toss'd;
Tho' hope her flattering aid denies,
With thee, soon sorrow from me flies.
Or her this bosom still holds dear;
If by feign'd love, false friendship cross'd;
If by misfortune tempest toss'd;
Tho' hope her flattering aid denies,
With thee, soon sorrow from me flies.
The martial trumpet sounds to arms,
And tells of battle's dire alarms;
To fancy's ear, it echoes plain,
Of towns destroy'd, of brothers slain:
But thine are notes of peace and love,
Soft as the warblings of the grove.
And tells of battle's dire alarms;
73
Of towns destroy'd, of brothers slain:
But thine are notes of peace and love,
Soft as the warblings of the grove.
Hail, pleasing Pipe! by man design'd
To ease, to harmonize the mind:
With joy, I turn to youth's gay hour,
When first I felt thy soothing pow'r;
And oft when toss'd on life's rough sea,
Thy sounds are dearest then to me!
To ease, to harmonize the mind:
With joy, I turn to youth's gay hour,
When first I felt thy soothing pow'r;
And oft when toss'd on life's rough sea,
Thy sounds are dearest then to me!
1804
74
DECEMBER, A FRAGMENT.
On the banks of the river no wild flow'rs are springing
All bare is the meadow, and naked the wood;
On the spray not a minstrel at eve is heard singing,
And silence now reigns, save the sound of the flood:
But dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
All bare is the meadow, and naked the wood;
On the spray not a minstrel at eve is heard singing,
And silence now reigns, save the sound of the flood:
But dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
Obscur'd by dark clouds, Sol no longer is cheering,
And wild o'er the mountains the northern winds blow;
The mist on the hills the whole day is appearing,
And languishing nature is half-hid with snow:
Yet dearer art thou, &c.
And wild o'er the mountains the northern winds blow;
The mist on the hills the whole day is appearing,
And languishing nature is half-hid with snow:
Yet dearer art thou, &c.
Where, where are the friendships I shar'd in life's morning,
When hope whisper'd oft, they would never decay?
Alas! ne'er again can I hope their returning;
Like dreams of the night, they have faded away!
Thus, dearer art thou, &c.
When hope whisper'd oft, they would never decay?
Alas! ne'er again can I hope their returning;
Like dreams of the night, they have faded away!
Thus, dearer art thou, &c.
75
The bright orb of day wakes me no more to gladness;
Life's once-pleasing cup is now drain'd of its joy;
I rise but to weep, and recline but in sadness,
While thoughts of the past ever force a deep sigh:
Then dearer art thou, &c.
Life's once-pleasing cup is now drain'd of its joy;
I rise but to weep, and recline but in sadness,
While thoughts of the past ever force a deep sigh:
Then dearer art thou, &c.
Few pleasures from light-footed mirth can we borrow,
Save such as still sober reflection must scorn;
By hope long deserted, the mind sunk in sorrow,
Regardless of pleasure, courts not her return:
And dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
Save such as still sober reflection must scorn;
By hope long deserted, the mind sunk in sorrow,
Regardless of pleasure, courts not her return:
And dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
76
FRAGMENT.
From Corby's hills, or scented groves,
O'er hanging woods, I lov'd to view
The village steeple point to Heav'n,
And mark'd the antient spreading yew;
Where all around,
Each narrow mound,
Gives to vain man a lesson true.
O'er hanging woods, I lov'd to view
The village steeple point to Heav'n,
And mark'd the antient spreading yew;
Where all around,
Each narrow mound,
Gives to vain man a lesson true.
Departed spirits seem'd to say,
“Weak pilgrim in this vale of woe,
Like us, thou'rt hast'ning to the tomb;
In time all dear-bought joys forego!
The world of strife,
The toils of life,
Will health destroy, and lay thee low!”
“Weak pilgrim in this vale of woe,
Like us, thou'rt hast'ning to the tomb;
In time all dear-bought joys forego!
The world of strife,
The toils of life,
Will health destroy, and lay thee low!”
Yes, I have paus'd on that lov'd spot,
And wept, and thought of follies fled;
And wish'd when life's career was run,
I there might rest my wearied head:
Where one short verse
Would truth rehearse,
In nervous language from the dead.
And wept, and thought of follies fled;
And wish'd when life's career was run,
I there might rest my wearied head:
Where one short verse
Would truth rehearse,
In nervous language from the dead.
77
Now sighing, distant, I exclaim,
Adieu, ye minstrel-haunted bow'rs!
No more contemplative I range,
Where you beguil'd my early hours:
No more I find
What charms the mind—
O'er me a threat'ning tempest low'rs!
Adieu, ye minstrel-haunted bow'rs!
No more contemplative I range,
Where you beguil'd my early hours:
No more I find
What charms the mind—
O'er me a threat'ning tempest low'rs!
Dear chequer'd landscapes, rural scenes,
Where Eden winds his devious way!
Shall I, no more by fortune cross'd,
With heart enraptur'd own your sway?
I weep the past,
And shrink aghast
At ills that threaten life's decay!
Where Eden winds his devious way!
Shall I, no more by fortune cross'd,
With heart enraptur'd own your sway?
I weep the past,
And shrink aghast
At ills that threaten life's decay!
Whoe'er thou art, excuse the Bard,
Who long has strove, in homely strain,
To lead the mind o'er virtue's path,
But ne'er would cause a mortal pain:
His faults forgive.
—Learn how to live;
If heav'nly joys thou hop'st to gain!
Who long has strove, in homely strain,
To lead the mind o'er virtue's path,
But ne'er would cause a mortal pain:
His faults forgive.
—Learn how to live;
If heav'nly joys thou hop'st to gain!
78
FRAGMENT, WRITTEN EXTEMPORE.
Nought is there in this wide world worth enjoying,Except health, liberty, and peace of mind;
Yet, strange, a thousand vain desires torment us,
And overthrow the hopes of happiness.
First, pride, a dang'rous inmate of the breast,
Her various gew-gaws holds to youth's fond view,
And lures the thoughtless mind from wisdom's path:
Soon smart correction calls reflection forth,
And learning thus becomes a pleasing toil.
Now love the heart bewilders; one warm glance
From fancied beauty, e'en the blooming cheek,
The vermeil lip, arch look of roving eye,
The bosom fires, and makes us sigh and pine;
Then sleepless pass the health-consuming nights,
Nor pleasures now beguile the tedious days;
Racks, tortures, pleasing hopes, and jealous fears,
Alternate seize the heated wav'ring mind;
Till reason claims her empire o'er the brain,
And strips a mistress of ideal charms.
Ambition next appears, with motley train,
And oft in vades our slumbers; now we dream
Of grandeur, pomp, and pow'r, of laurels won;
79
Grave lessons whispers, proving all our youth
But scenes of vanity. In manhood, next,
Cautious we reason, pleasures we pursue;
And for a while are toss'd 'twixt joy and grief,
Till death, oft welcome, ends our countless cares!
LINES,
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, FOND OF SINGING.
Sweet is the screech-owl's harshest note,Compar'd with murm'rings from thy throat;
Grimalkin's voice seems music quite,
That breaks the silence of the night;
The prowling wolf that chides the moon,
Yells not a more discordant tune;
The croaking of the toad is sweet,
Compar'd with what thou think'st a treat;
Yes, with more pleasure, I could hear
The growling of a hungry bear,
And sooner far the brute would be,
Than forc'd to sit and listen thee!
Carlisle.
80
A LESSON TO YOUTH.
Tho' Youth thy path be strewn with flow'rs,
And mirth leads on the rosy hours;
Soon manhood proves the past a dream,
And joys, once priz'd, now sorrows seem.
And mirth leads on the rosy hours;
Soon manhood proves the past a dream,
And joys, once priz'd, now sorrows seem.
O Youth! beware of pleasure's wile!
For danger lurks beneath her smile:
'Tis wise, in time, her haunts to shun;
Who woos the nymph, is soon undone!
For danger lurks beneath her smile:
'Tis wise, in time, her haunts to shun;
Who woos the nymph, is soon undone!
Be to a brother's foibles blind;
Promote whatever serves mankind;
The naked clothe—the hungry feed—
And bow to what's by Heav'n decreed!
Promote whatever serves mankind;
The naked clothe—the hungry feed—
And bow to what's by Heav'n decreed!
Let reason rule—each joy despise,
That honour, wealth, and health destroys:
Let virtue all thy thoughts engage;
Then, fearless, may'st thou welcome age!
That honour, wealth, and health destroys:
Let virtue all thy thoughts engage;
Then, fearless, may'st thou welcome age!
Carnmoney.
81
LINES TO A REDBREAST.
Wee namesake! I hae known thee lang,
And listen'd aft thy dulcet sang,
Far frae thy woodland shade;
When Boreas, wi' his gloomy train,
Spread desolation o'er the plain,
Poor houseless flutt'rer! ne'er in vain,
Didst thou implore my aid.
And listen'd aft thy dulcet sang,
Far frae thy woodland shade;
When Boreas, wi' his gloomy train,
Spread desolation o'er the plain,
Poor houseless flutt'rer! ne'er in vain,
Didst thou implore my aid.
Thy fate and mine are e'vn the same;
Unheeded pair, unknown to fame,
We sing the hours away:
Yet, Robin, thou canst taste repose,
In spite o' thy rapacious foes;
While reas'ning man, subdu'd by woes,
To grief aft fa's a prey.
Unheeded pair, unknown to fame,
We sing the hours away:
Yet, Robin, thou canst taste repose,
In spite o' thy rapacious foes;
While reas'ning man, subdu'd by woes,
To grief aft fa's a prey.
Come cheerfu' bird, my cottage share!
Ay welcome to my hamely fare,
Till Spring decks ilka tree;
Then wilt thou wanton on the wing,
Or on some ivy'd turret sing;
But, O! nae season's change can bring
A season's joys to me!
Ay welcome to my hamely fare,
Till Spring decks ilka tree;
Then wilt thou wanton on the wing,
Or on some ivy'd turret sing;
But, O! nae season's change can bring
A season's joys to me!
82
STANZAS,
ON RECEIVING A PRESENT FROM ONE LONG AND TRULY ESTEEMED.
Yes, on it I will gaze, and sigh,
And next my heart the prize will wear,
Ev'n death's keen terrors I'd defy,
Ere man from me the gift shou'd tear!
And next my heart the prize will wear,
Ev'n death's keen terrors I'd defy,
Ere man from me the gift shou'd tear!
An exile tho' I'm doom'd to stray;
Where'er my vagrant feet may rove,
I'll kiss it, with a tear, and say,
O had it been the gift of love!
Where'er my vagrant feet may rove,
I'll kiss it, with a tear, and say,
O had it been the gift of love!
But love, alas! has brought me low,
And none from ruin can me save;
'Tis mine to bear a load of woe,
Till sorrow sinks me in the grave.
And none from ruin can me save;
'Tis mine to bear a load of woe,
Till sorrow sinks me in the grave.
Ah! precious gift! on which I gaze,
May thy late owner ne'er endure
The pang that on this bosom preys,
The pain she proudly scorn'd to cure!
May thy late owner ne'er endure
The pang that on this bosom preys,
The pain she proudly scorn'd to cure!
83
If e'er she deign to think of me,
May no rude cares disturb her breast!
—For her, my daily pray'r shall be,
The fair destroyer of my rest!
May no rude cares disturb her breast!
—For her, my daily pray'r shall be,
The fair destroyer of my rest!
LINES,
WRITTEN IN CARRICKFERGUS JAIL.
Many a tyrant, many a slave,
Pander, prostitute, and knave,
Coward base, and patriot brave,
Come trembling here;
Genius, idiot, dunce, and wit,
Men for this wild world unfit,
Sighing, thinking, starving sit
And drop a tear.
Pander, prostitute, and knave,
Coward base, and patriot brave,
Come trembling here;
Genius, idiot, dunce, and wit,
Men for this wild world unfit,
Sighing, thinking, starving sit
And drop a tear.
Here, perchance, some noble mind,
Amidst the dregs of human kind,
Roams states ideal, unconfin'd,
In misery—
Ev'n monarchs of our earthly ball,
With princes, prelates at their call,
What are they?—Wretched pris'ners all!
Whom death sets free!
Amidst the dregs of human kind,
Roams states ideal, unconfin'd,
In misery—
Ev'n monarchs of our earthly ball,
With princes, prelates at their call,
What are they?—Wretched pris'ners all!
Whom death sets free!
84
A REFLECTION.
“Mortal joys however pure,
Soon their turbid source betray;
Mortal bliss, however sure,
Soon must totter and decay.”
Soon their turbid source betray;
Mortal bliss, however sure,
Soon must totter and decay.”
From the Arabic.
Estrang'd from all I once held dear,
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.
A secret pang oft rends my breast,
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.
It made me soon a child of care,
And stole from me health's blooming rose;
But I this pang must silent bear,
Till death the painful scene shall close.
And stole from me health's blooming rose;
But I this pang must silent bear,
Till death the painful scene shall close.
85
Returning seasons charm no more,
That erst this bosom fir'd with joy;
The smiles of hope can nought restore,
And but my fancied joys destroy.
That erst this bosom fir'd with joy;
The smiles of hope can nought restore,
And but my fancied joys destroy.
I fondly gaze, nor vain my aim,
On nature's grand unerring plan;
And sighing, inwardly exclaim,
Alas! how thoughtless is frail man!
On nature's grand unerring plan;
And sighing, inwardly exclaim,
Alas! how thoughtless is frail man!
The wither'd flow'ret in the shade,
To me presents a hast'ning doom;—
A few short hours may see me laid
Unpitied, in the narrow tomb.
To me presents a hast'ning doom;—
A few short hours may see me laid
Unpitied, in the narrow tomb.
In youth we trifle time away,
On tempting pleasures, idly vain;
In manhood, join a world too gay,
And crush the joys we hope to gain.
On tempting pleasures, idly vain;
In manhood, join a world too gay,
And crush the joys we hope to gain.
Oh! when my latest hour draws near,
Then may I own the moments blest;
And, wearied with my wand'rings here,
Believe with truth, death's slumber's rest!
Then may I own the moments blest;
And, wearied with my wand'rings here,
Believe with truth, death's slumber's rest!
86
THE POOR PRUDE.
“Decency at all times commands our esteem; but when wretchedness appeareth like the daw in borrowed feathers, the weakness serves only to excite our laughter.”
Marmontel.
Poor Prude! in vain thou play'st the rake,
With borrow'd hair, and tatter'd lace;
Nature, who gave thee such a face,
Ne'er meant thou shou'd'st one conquest make.
With borrow'd hair, and tatter'd lace;
Nature, who gave thee such a face,
Ne'er meant thou shou'd'st one conquest make.
Like thee, the noxious tulip blows,
In all its gaudy colours drest;
But who wou'd place it near his breast,
That e'er has seen a blushing rose?
In all its gaudy colours drest;
But who wou'd place it near his breast,
That e'er has seen a blushing rose?
Why leer, and frighten half the town?
Since mankind beauty can discern,
Do, Dowdy, stay at home, and learn
To wash thy apron, cap, and gown!
Since mankind beauty can discern,
Do, Dowdy, stay at home, and learn
To wash thy apron, cap, and gown!
But if coquette thou still wilt be,
Know, with such features, form, and skin,
Decrepid, dirty, dull, and thin,
He must be blind who fancies thee!
Know, with such features, form, and skin,
Decrepid, dirty, dull, and thin,
He must be blind who fancies thee!
87
THE ROSE.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
O lady, mark that blooming Rose,
The fairest flow'r the Sun shines on!
To-day, the garden's pride it blows,
To-morrow, all its sweets are gone!
The fairest emblem of the fair
To blighting storms must fall a prey;
And tho' of joys thou hast thy share,
Thy prime is but a Summer day!
The fairest flow'r the Sun shines on!
To-day, the garden's pride it blows,
To-morrow, all its sweets are gone!
The fairest emblem of the fair
To blighting storms must fall a prey;
And tho' of joys thou hast thy share,
Thy prime is but a Summer day!
And mark that roving artful bee,
The gaudy type of villain man;
Alas! what flutt'ring crowds we see
With wily snares thy sex trepan!
Robb'd of its sweets, the matchless flow'r
Soon withers, droops, and faded lies;
Thus, won by love's deceitful lure,
The thoughtless beauty pines, and dies!
The gaudy type of villain man;
Alas! what flutt'ring crowds we see
With wily snares thy sex trepan!
Robb'd of its sweets, the matchless flow'r
Soon withers, droops, and faded lies;
Thus, won by love's deceitful lure,
The thoughtless beauty pines, and dies!
88
TO THE LARK.
Sweet is thy carol, soaring Lark!
Rejoicing nature bids thee sing;
Thy eager flight I fondly mark,
Blithe messenger of welcome Spring:
Thou call'st me from yon noisy throng,
Where endless cares disturb the mind,
And list'ning to thy cheerful song,
I shun the temptings of mankind.
Rejoicing nature bids thee sing;
Thy eager flight I fondly mark,
Blithe messenger of welcome Spring:
Thou call'st me from yon noisy throng,
Where endless cares disturb the mind,
And list'ning to thy cheerful song,
I shun the temptings of mankind.
Lone monitor! when Sol's bright ray
Illumes the gently sloping hill,
And meditation guides my way,
Along some unfrequented rill;
Thy upward flight points to that Pow'r,
Whose goodness will for ever last:
Then let me wisely spend this hour,
And muse on many idly past.
Illumes the gently sloping hill,
And meditation guides my way,
Along some unfrequented rill;
Thy upward flight points to that Pow'r,
Whose goodness will for ever last:
Then let me wisely spend this hour,
And muse on many idly past.
89
STANZAS
WRITTEN IN AN HOUR OF DESPONDENCY.
Adieu, ye gay delights of youth,
Vain pride, lewd mirth, and painful love!
Henceforth be mine the sweets of truth
And innocence to prove.
Vain pride, lewd mirth, and painful love!
Henceforth be mine the sweets of truth
And innocence to prove.
On youth what anxibus pleasures wait,
And daily tempt his wand'ring eye,
At which he grasps; but, oft too late,
He sees fell ruin nigh!
And daily tempt his wand'ring eye,
At which he grasps; but, oft too late,
He sees fell ruin nigh!
The days are fled, the joys are past,
Dear joys, that I was wont to prize!
I bend before misfortune's blast,
And hope within me dies.
Dear joys, that I was wont to prize!
I bend before misfortune's blast,
And hope within me dies.
No more by contemplation led,
Can nature's fairest scenes delight!
No more is fancy's net-work spread
Before my aching sight!
Can nature's fairest scenes delight!
No more is fancy's net-work spread
Before my aching sight!
Nor aught avail the varied hues
That from the lap of Summer flow,
To him who, in the future, views
Variety of woe!
That from the lap of Summer flow,
To him who, in the future, views
Variety of woe!
90
But dear are Winter's raging winds,
His forests bare, and frowning sky;
Congenial to the wearied minds
Of creatures, such as I.
His forests bare, and frowning sky;
Congenial to the wearied minds
Of creatures, such as I.
Yon tree, unshelter'd from the storm,
Hangs, tott'ring o'er the dimpl'd stream,
By wild winds torn: its shapeless form
Now tells me what I seem!
Hangs, tott'ring o'er the dimpl'd stream,
By wild winds torn: its shapeless form
Now tells me what I seem!
TO YOUTH.
Ah! Youth, how soon thy joys are flown!
The fond delights we scarcely own,
Ere sorrow dims each prospect fair;
And days and years are mark'd by care.
The fond delights we scarcely own,
Ere sorrow dims each prospect fair;
And days and years are mark'd by care.
A while we wander to and fro,
'Twixt fancied joy and real woe;
The glare of pomp we idly prize,
While gay content far from us flies.
'Twixt fancied joy and real woe;
The glare of pomp we idly prize,
While gay content far from us flies.
When hope her aid denies, at last
Reflection points to what is past;
And whispers oft, tho' oft in vain,
That pleasure's but the source of pain.
Reflection points to what is past;
And whispers oft, tho' oft in vain,
That pleasure's but the source of pain.
91
EPITAPH ON DAVID BIGGER, ESQ.
Affection tender rears this humble stone,A mould'ring mark of gratitude, to one
Whose thoughts ambition never taught to stray,
Nor own'd unlawful pleasure's dang'rous sway.
The love of country warm'd his feeling breast;
And proud was he to succour the distress'd:
Cheerful, resign'd, life's peaceful vale he trod,
And rested on the mercy of his God.
Go, reader, and when in earth's silent womb,
May truth give such a tribute at thy tomb!
EPITAPH ON THE FATHER OF A FRIEND.
Take, best of parents, all a son can giveTo one, who living, taught him how to live;
And, O may I, when number'd with the dead,
Deserve the praise that marks thy earthy bed!
—Ye, who the good man's name must still revere,
Know, that a virtuous brother's buried here:
Who envied none, pleas'd in his calm retreat;
And prov'd, tho' little known, man may be great.
92
EPITAPH ON MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.
Reader, if worth departed claims a tear,
Life's poor frail wand'rer, pay that tribute here,
To one, in whom as daughter, sister, wife,
Was shewn affection thro' a well-spent life;
Who early learn'd to share another's woe,
And knew from whence all lasting pleasures flow:
A thirst for knowledge prov'd her virtue's care,
And 'midst her suff'rings, ne'er did she despair.
With feeling heart, pure friendship, love of truth,
She shar'd alike th' esteem of age and youth;
With genius bless'd, and independent mind,
'Twas her's to study, and instruct mankind:
She liv'd in meek-ey'd pity's robe array'd,
And gain'd a laurel, time can never fade!
Life's poor frail wand'rer, pay that tribute here,
To one, in whom as daughter, sister, wife,
Was shewn affection thro' a well-spent life;
Who early learn'd to share another's woe,
And knew from whence all lasting pleasures flow:
A thirst for knowledge prov'd her virtue's care,
And 'midst her suff'rings, ne'er did she despair.
With feeling heart, pure friendship, love of truth,
She shar'd alike th' esteem of age and youth;
With genius bless'd, and independent mind,
'Twas her's to study, and instruct mankind:
She liv'd in meek-ey'd pity's robe array'd,
And gain'd a laurel, time can never fade!
Now, if in virtue's path thou dost not tread,
O! take this lesson from the silent dead!
From folly fly, and to religion turn;
For soon will life's short taper cease to burn!
O! take this lesson from the silent dead!
From folly fly, and to religion turn;
For soon will life's short taper cease to burn!
93
EPITAPH ON AKEL BULBEE,
WRITTEN BY SATIRICUS TERTULIBUS, POET LAUREAT TO HUMPHA GRUMPHA, DEY OF ALGIERS.
Here bleach the bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His carcase was food for the carrion crows,
And ne'er may a grave such a being enclose!
He was sent as a curse to St. Mary's Knowe,
For at midnight he milk'd ev'ry neighbour's cow;
Gold, pigs, cloth, sheep, geese, ducks, and meal,
All things (save the clouds o'er his head) he cou'd steal.
Fools say, just to keep all around him in awe,
He daily wou'd steal what he ne'er once saw;
That had he been size to have reach'd the moon,
By the horns he wou'd quickly have pull'd her down;
That imps swore, he never with them shou'd dwell,
Lest soon he might steal their old master from Hell;
That he stole a calf from a heifer's womb;
And whistl'd a corpse from the silent tomb:
That timber he stole long ere it grew—
The last must be false. Give the Devil his due!
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His carcase was food for the carrion crows,
And ne'er may a grave such a being enclose!
He was sent as a curse to St. Mary's Knowe,
For at midnight he milk'd ev'ry neighbour's cow;
Gold, pigs, cloth, sheep, geese, ducks, and meal,
All things (save the clouds o'er his head) he cou'd steal.
Fools say, just to keep all around him in awe,
He daily wou'd steal what he ne'er once saw;
That had he been size to have reach'd the moon,
By the horns he wou'd quickly have pull'd her down;
That imps swore, he never with them shou'd dwell,
Lest soon he might steal their old master from Hell;
That he stole a calf from a heifer's womb;
And whistl'd a corpse from the silent tomb:
That timber he stole long ere it grew—
The last must be false. Give the Devil his due!
94
Such a liar ne'er liv'd, for he swore in youth,
No law shou'd e'er bind him to tell the truth;
Such a coxcomb in rags, ne'er strutted on earth,
He ne'er had a friend from the day of his birth,
For nature then vow'd, he wore a thief's eye;
And who dare say nature e'er yet did lie?
A Poet he was, spite of all common sense,
But had twelve times his share of foul impudence:
A fine Musician, his family say,
For his tooting oft frighten'd the cows from hay:
A Painter, too, he made some suppose,
Tho' he never cou'd sketch his own trumpet nose.
No law shou'd e'er bind him to tell the truth;
Such a coxcomb in rags, ne'er strutted on earth,
He ne'er had a friend from the day of his birth,
For nature then vow'd, he wore a thief's eye;
And who dare say nature e'er yet did lie?
A Poet he was, spite of all common sense,
But had twelve times his share of foul impudence:
A fine Musician, his family say,
For his tooting oft frighten'd the cows from hay:
A Painter, too, he made some suppose,
Tho' he never cou'd sketch his own trumpet nose.
That so long he liv'd many swore was a shame;
Justice trembl'd whenever she heard his name:
But his name will live while the world goes round,
For a wretch so notorious never trod ground.
Mark well the bleach'd bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His equal, 'tis said, can only be known,
When rivers flow upwards, and trees grow down!
Justice trembl'd whenever she heard his name:
But his name will live while the world goes round,
For a wretch so notorious never trod ground.
Mark well the bleach'd bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His equal, 'tis said, can only be known,
When rivers flow upwards, and trees grow down!
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