University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

FRAGMENT.

Though dark around, and dark before,
If dark the past, why look behind,
On pleasures that will please no more,
Virtues, whose failure stings the mind,
Abortive deeds, and wishes blind?
Still comes the fiend, that comes in vain;
Still shrieks regret on every wind,
And murders murder'd hope again.
Remembrance is the urn of pain.

TO THE MICHAELMAS DAISY.

TO THE WOOD ANEMONE.

Why dost thou close thine eye,
Demurest mourner, why?
Say, did the fragrant night-breeze rudely kiss
Thy drooping forehead fair,
And press thy dewy hair,
With amorous touch, embracing all amiss?
And, therefore, flow'ret meet,
Glow on thy snowy cheek
Hues, less to shame, than angry scorn, allied,
Yet lovely, as the bloom
Of evening, on the tomb
Of one who injur'd liv'd, and slander'd died?
Or, did'st thou fondly meet
His soft lip Hybla-sweet?
And, therefore, doth the cold and loveless cloud
Thy wanton kissing chide?
And, therefore, would'st thou hide
Thy burning blush, thy cheek so sweetly bowed?
Or while the daisy slept,
Say, hast thou wak'd and wept,
Because thy lord, the lord of love and light,
Had left thy pensive smile?
What western charms beguile
The fire-hair'd youth, forth from whose eye-lids bright
Are cast o'er night's deep sky
Her gems that flame on high?
That husband, whose warm glance thy soul reveres,
No flow'ret of the west
Detains, on harlot breast;
The envious cloud withholds him from thy tears.

A SKETCH OF ONE WHO CANNOT BE CARICATURED.

Friend! when thou walk'st, in majesty, abroad,
Say, why doth laughter take, with thee, the road?
Though thy long teeth, like stakes beside th' highway,
Straggling and sharp, are streak'd with greenish grey;
Though bristles arm thine horizontal nose,
While on thy cheek grow bristles stiff as those;
And though thine eyes are where thine ears should be;
Let not derision shake his sides at thee.
Nor, while with bended back, and elbows wide,
Thou bears't thy bum, on shuffling legs astride,
Let the girt horseman stop, in mute surprise,
As if, far off, he smelt thee with his eyes.

TO THE REVEREND------

Thee, ass deep-voic'd of not ungenial Zion,
More than on heaven, the “unco gude” rely on!
Giant in stature, but in soul a fly!
Mind lost in body, fat, and six feet high!
Though unapparent, and of none effect,
Thy light is essence of the intellect,
Immur'd from sense, like gem of Giamschid,
Or owl's eye, luminous in a pyramid.
Is there a ranter who still wakes in vain
Th' unwilling maggots slumbering in his brain;
Spreading the lily hand, with vulgar grace,
Where rings usurp the splendid thimble's place?
Is there a saint, whom none could teach to stitch,
A disputant in holy lumber rich,
A bigot harsh, by pride and weakness taught,
Who damns the soul, but could not shape a coat?
Is there a can't-be tailor of the Lord,
Who quits his cloth to cut and mend the word,
Weekly purloin his wond'rous weekly sermon,
Steal common-place, and deem it dew of Hermon,
Demonstrate that a devil is, and be one,
Make earth a hell, but in his priestcraft see none?
Though in the hour of Nature's affluence made,
To feed the awful dung-cart with the spade,
Knight of the Goose, ere first of holy men,
Prick'd by the needle, thou assumest the pen.
Servant of darkness! error's pious pander!
And, if no goose, assuredly a gander!
Think not thy triumphs give my bosom smart;
What foe would wish thee other than thou art?
From tailor's board to th' sacred tub preferr'd,
Still may thy dire, somnific voice be heard
By mice perturb'd, while happier bipeds snore
(Rock'd by the tempest, heard so oft before)
And slumber praise thee still, and evermore!

ON SEEING A WILD HONEYSUCKLE IN FLOWER,

NEAR THE SOURCE OF THE RIVER DON, AUGUST 1817.

FRAGMENT.

Heavier the load, more wild the way!
And I am like the wretch aghast
Who, thrown on aged ocean grey,
Struggles—for what? to sink, at last.
Still deeper, darker, shade on shade!
If vain the strife, why strive so long?
Is there no hope? Oh, God, thine aid!
Only in thee, the weak are strong.

TO THE REVEREND J.B.------

WITH A COPY OF NIGHT.

A care-aged Bard of thirty-eight,
Weighing two stone more than cuckold's weight,
Who may not be the thing he should be,
But would be clever, if he could be;
Who—lo, what good the loves have done him!—
Has had eight bantlings father'd on him,
And, though he ne'er had free grace any,
Might tell his faults (some say they're many)
Like Byron, were he skill'd to word it,
But that he can't, like him, afford it;
Of form erect, and hurried pace,
Not rather rough-dash'd in the face;
Whose grizzly locks, that once were brown,
And somewhat curly, are his own;
Whose dark frock coat, and neckcloth plain,
Cause him to be for Quaker ta'en,
Or saint, (sad blunder!) or demure
Quack Doctor, who all ills can cure,
Save ills o' th' pocket, which the poet
Would hide just now, but cannot do it;
In stature dwarf'd, not five feet seven;
Too much to sheepish blushing given;
With ghost-like brow, and pale blue eye;
As question'd man in office, shy;
Yet form'd for action, though not well,
And prouder than the devil in hell;—
That bard, whom Night's black malice curses,
Because he scar'd her with his verses,
Sends you his poem, (many a worse is,)
Hoping you will with caution read it,
Vidé—take't as physic, when you need it,
In doses small; for such will steep
Clear optics soon in tuneful sleep,
Acting by th' blessing, or by th' charm,
And cannot do wise patients harm;
While heads with fudge fill'd full before
Have no occasion to take more

ELEGY.

Oh, Devon! when thy daughter died,
The primrose peep'd on green hill's side,
The winds were laid, the melted snow
Was crystal in the river's flow,
The elm disclos'd its golden green,
The hazel's crimson tuft was seen,
The schoolboy sought the mossy lane
To watch the building thrush again,
And many a bird, on budding spray,
Rejoic'd in April's sweetest day:
She, too, rejoic'd, thy wond'rous child,
For in the arms of death she smil'd.
And when her wearied strength was spent,
When pale as marble monument,
Eliza mov'd and spoke no more,
And pain's disastrous strife was o'er;
Her prattling babes might deem she slept,
And wonder why their father wept.
Why wept he? If, with soul unmov'd,
From all who lov'd her, all she lov'd,
From husband, children, she could part,
And meet the blow that still'd her heart;
Why wept he? Not that she was gone
To sing beneath th' eternal throne,
And kiss in heaven, with holy joy,
Her youngest born, that fatal boy,
And smile, a brighter spirit there,
On him, still doom'd to walk with care.
Yes! still on him, from realms of light,
The seraph-matron bends her sight,
Still, still his friend in trouble tried,
Though sever'd from his lonely side.
He weeps!—for truth and beauty rest,
Beneath the shroud that wraps her breast;
Taste mourns a sister on her bier,
And more than genius moulders there.
The blessing of the sufferer
Bedews the turf that covers her;
And pallid want, from troubled sleep
Awakes, to think of her, and weep;
And orphans, taught by her to read,
Drop o'er her worth a silver bead.
She did not pass in scorn your door,
Ye drooping children of the poor!
The Sabbath-school she lov'd to seek;
(The heart's bless'd tear impearl'd her cheek;)
And, like an angel in a tomb,
Instruction smil'd away your gloom.
Her life in beauteous deeds array'd!
Her death serene, as evening's shade!
Oh, bless'd in life! in death how bless'd!
And bliss is her eternal rest.

SONG.

EXTEMPORE LINES.

When long the drama, in a sordid age,
Had droop'd, an exile; to the desert stage
Impassion'd nature, weeping as she smil'd,
Led, by the trembling hand, her darling child:
Even from the worms, upstarted buried spleen,
While Shakespeare's dust, in transport, murmur'd,—“Kean!”

ILDERIM.

TO A FRIEND IN HEAVEN.

TO ONE WHO ONCE KNEW ME.

Frown'st thou, to think a wretch so poor as I
Dares write to thee? and dost thou wonder why?
All shalt thou know. Long, with chastis'd delight,
I heard men hail thee blessed! and fear'd to write
To one who—awful in his morning gown,—
Breakfasts no more on porridge greyly brown.
Now, bolder grown, I scrawl to thee a letter,
Hoping thou'lt deign to answer in a better;
For she, the Goddess whom the wise implore,
Hath rein'd, at length, her chariot at my door.
But truce with metaphors! methinks 'tis time
Plainly to speak, and write plain prose in rhyme.
This night, our rich aunt (may she still be richer!)
Sent me two guineas, and of ale a pitcher,
Besides four candles, and three quires of paper;
And, therefore, write I by my midnight taper,
As thriving author should, since never more
Will famine dare to enter at my door.
My wife is gone to bed, (there lies she, fair!)
That I may throne me on our only chair.
'Twould warm thy heart, could'st thou the poet see,
While my poor garret, bright as bright can be,
Seems lost in wonder at itself and me.
My foes suspect (as friendship's self might do)
I stole the candles, and the pitcher, too;
The very pot that holds our nightly beer,
Jealous o' th' ale, (or I mistake,) looks queer;
And—by this beef, 'tis true, as these are pies!—
A mouse peep'd, and scarce could trust his eyes,
Scarce could I mine. Lo, rising through the floor,
Again he peeps!—“What! dubious, as before?
There, sceptic! eat—and, henceforth, doubt no more.”—
As some lean rat, long parch'd in famine's hell,
Long doom'd by Fate, (but not content,) to smell
The pantry's viands, which he may not taste,
At length, gains entrance, and, with hunger's haste,
Licks on Sir Loin's fresh cheek the dewy rose,
Dips in the bliss of broth his ravish'd nose,
Or, lapping gravy from its china boat,
Feels as if furnish'd with new tongue and throat;
So I, long darkling through each dreary night
Enjoy in gloom the luxury of light,
With famine blue, on savoury steaks regale,
Transported, quaff the amber heaven of ale,
And almost ask, with wondering hair on end,
What witch has chang'd to me thy cream-fac'd friend?—
But writing is a task of thirsty pain:
Friend of my youth! I'll drink thy health again—
Alas! my pitcher rues inebriate theft!
Not one, one thought-inspiring drop is left!
Ah, why depart so soon ye visions, bright
With feastful days, and nights of candle-light?
I see to-morrow in this empty pitcher!
Oh, had I cobbled shoes, or been a ditcher,
Or, like the devil, dealt in liquid fire,
And kept a dram-shop, with good Christians nigher,
Though poor, perchance as now, I had not been
Half-craz'd, blue-grey, and, as a broomstick, lean.

EXTEMPORE LINES.

John, who ne'er blush'd, is chaste, tho' rarely civil,
While blushing Bill's queer tricks would shame the devil;
But Hal alone is, in the genuine sense,
A specimen of fossil impudence,
Worthy of everlasting preservation,
To edify each future generation.

THE DEVIL ON SNEALSDEN-PIKE.

Dark on his raft Napoleon stood,
And, looking towards us o'er the flood,
Vow'd what he would do, if he could;
When on Holemoss, the powers of evil,
Each great, and every little devil
Met, his high deeds to celebrate.
Belzebub sat i' th' midst in state,
And held and wav'd, in sulphury hand,
Thick as my arm, a lighted brand,
O' th' marrow made of heroes brave
As ever won an envied grave,
Who, fearless, fought, but fought in vain,
In Underwalden's battle slain.
And fast the fiery cup went round;
And loud, their long tails lash'd the ground;
And deep the devil his daffy's took,
Till star and planet o'er him shook,
And sometimes three moons, sometimes two,
Danc'd hornpipes to his maudlin view,
Though split and torn appear'd they all,
Like Suffolk cheeses, broke with mall.
And higher still his voice he rais'd
The more he drank, and, winking, prais'd
His pupil's Machiavelian brains
Which, draining Europe's richest veins,
Made freedom's champions fight for chains,
While mercy, pale with horror, fled.
“And come what may,” the devil said,
“Let Boney fall, or higher soar.
“Freedom shall fall, to rise no more.”
Thus did the feast infernal end?
No—powers of goodness us defend!—
For then they drank, on bended knee,
Their hero's health, with three times three;
And, since from heaven those angels fell,
To feed on fiery pangs in hell,
Did ne'er to earth such scene appear,
Did never earth such tumult hear.
But when, with hiss of snaky pinions,
All drunk, they sought their own dominions,
Steeds broke the tether; from the stall
Forth rush'd the ox, o'er hedge and wall;
And—worst of all, and worse than all,—
Old Satan, from the hubbub hieing,
Paus'd on the blast, and from his hand,
Where clouds on Snealsden-Pike are flying,
Dropp'd, with malicious grin, his brand;
When, stumbling o'er the fallen light,
A drunkard (late from Barnesly fair,
And wandering, lost, in murky air)
Stoop'd, took it, and, with mad delight,
Fir'd, on the mountain's side, the heath.
Dark, and more dark, the world beneath
Frown'd, as the flame spread wide and higher,
And Rumour had a tongue of fire.
Distinct in light, black Bretland tower'd;
Holme, from his mist, sublimely lour'd;
Awak'd, grey Dead-Edge shook his brow;
And groaning Don fled, pale, below.
Far hamlets trembled as they gaz'd,
And Fear averr'd the beacon blaz'd;
And loud the Devil laugh'd on the wind,
Wagging his joyful tail behind,
While wrinkled on his rump the skin,
As if each hair had soul within.
Why clos'd grey Will his tavern door?
What asking crowds from all sides pour!
Why clanks so loud the hoof of steed?
Why yon pale horseman's darkling speed?
“Why but because our fleet is stranded,
And, worst that can be, Boney's landed,
And coming, like a—cataract;
And whores are ravish'd, pig-sties sack'd—
And York is burn'd—and Pontefract—
And rolling drums to glory call
The dreadful Locals, one and all?”—
Hail, Crambo! and, Night's muse sublime,
Hail, and endure! and, scorning Time,
Heroes of Rother, live in rhyme!—
And, hey for our town! 'tis a sight
To make a Cæsar die of fright!
And what a strange and mingled sound,
Like fire and water, underground!
It is the hum of hurried feet,
It is the Babel of the street,
Where Rawmarsh bears, and Greasbro witches,
Ask, snuffling, “What ail Tommy's breeches,
Who, puffing, comes, all bones and wind,
Dragging his bum a league behind?”
But pity's muse will best relate
The sorrows of that night of fate.
Love, of the ever ready tear,
Could not but be a mourner here.
Queer tears, and manag'd well, she shed,
By leering Tom, o'er faithful Ned;
Sad tears from pregnant Sukey's eye,
Tears of tried truth and constancy,
Some say, for Jack of Wickersly,
Others, for flame-nos'd Jem o' th' Mill;
And quarts of tears for brawny Bill.
Eyes, never stain'd with woe before,
Now blubber'd cheeks and bosom o'er,
For many a short, and many a tall one;
And soul-drops might be had by th' gallon.