The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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| III. |
THE REFUGEES. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
THE REFUGEES.
'Tis Summer—'neath the brilliant sky
Of fair Castile or Italy.
The sighing breeze just stirs the bower,
Rich with the spoils of fruit and flower;
Above, the marble porch is gleaming;
Below, the sparkling fount is streaming:
And circling woodlands stretch their shade
O'er linpid stream and lawny glade.
Of fair Castile or Italy.
The sighing breeze just stirs the bower,
Rich with the spoils of fruit and flower;
Above, the marble porch is gleaming;
Below, the sparkling fount is streaming:
And circling woodlands stretch their shade
O'er linpid stream and lawny glade.
It is a lovely spot; and there
Are happy hearts its joys to share:
Yon group that o'er the lakelet's brim
Watch where the swans in beauty swim;
And, there the sage released from toils,
The warrior won from battle broils.
The lady in her matron charms,
The laughing girl with clasping arms
Around her brother's neck,—and she
Who dandles on her dancing knee
The infant crowing wild with glee.
Are happy hearts its joys to share:
Yon group that o'er the lakelet's brim
Watch where the swans in beauty swim;
And, there the sage released from toils,
The warrior won from battle broils.
The lady in her matron charms,
The laughing girl with clasping arms
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Who dandles on her dancing knee
The infant crowing wild with glee.
A graceful group—a joyous scene!—
But turn we now from what hath been,
And follow far that gentle band
In exile from their native land,
'Midst wreck of those who dared proclaim
To trampled nations Freedom's name.
But turn we now from what hath been,
And follow far that gentle band
In exile from their native land,
'Midst wreck of those who dared proclaim
To trampled nations Freedom's name.
It was their crime to hope too high
Of their fall'n country's destiny:
And villany was prompt and strong,
And England held her hand too long,
Till, quenched once more in blood and shame,
Expired fair Freedom's rising flame;
And now the remnant of her train
From Naples, Portugal, and Spain,
The high of heart, the fair, the young,
Like sea-weed by the waters flung,
Upon our British shores are lying—
For famine in our land are dying!
Of their fall'n country's destiny:
And villany was prompt and strong,
And England held her hand too long,
Till, quenched once more in blood and shame,
Expired fair Freedom's rising flame;
And now the remnant of her train
From Naples, Portugal, and Spain,
The high of heart, the fair, the young,
Like sea-weed by the waters flung,
Upon our British shores are lying—
For famine in our land are dying!
These lines were written in September, 1828, when the Spanish and Italian refugees in England were reduced to extreme destitution; and they were adapted to a picture in “Friendship's Offering,” and published there with the view of aiding, however humbly, the appeal then made in England for pecuniary support to them.
God of our fathers! and shall we
The offspring of the brave and free—
Of men who freely poured their veins
To ransom us from servile chains—
Shall we in this their evil day
From these sad exiles turn away?
From their despair our faces hide,
Besotted with our selfish pride,
And shut our sordid hearts and hands,
When man implores and God commands?
The offspring of the brave and free—
Of men who freely poured their veins
To ransom us from servile chains—
Shall we in this their evil day
From these sad exiles turn away?
From their despair our faces hide,
Besotted with our selfish pride,
And shut our sordid hearts and hands,
When man implores and God commands?
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Oh, no! the thought I will not brook
That gentle eyes, which here may look
On pictured scene or poet's lay,
Will turn in apathy away,
While thus the stranger, at our gate,
Sinks destitute and desolate!
No! though the train of pampered pride
Pass by “upon the other side,”
As did the Pharisee of old,
Yet there are hearts of better mould
High throbbing in Old England's breast—
Ten thousand hearts that will not rest
Till they have succoured the distressed—
To whom even this brief hurried strain
I know will not appeal in vain:
And foremost of that generous band
Are they, the ladies of our land,
Whose bounty, like the dew of heaven,
Though silently is freely given.
That gentle eyes, which here may look
On pictured scene or poet's lay,
Will turn in apathy away,
While thus the stranger, at our gate,
Sinks destitute and desolate!
No! though the train of pampered pride
Pass by “upon the other side,”
As did the Pharisee of old,
Yet there are hearts of better mould
High throbbing in Old England's breast—
Ten thousand hearts that will not rest
Till they have succoured the distressed—
To whom even this brief hurried strain
I know will not appeal in vain:
And foremost of that generous band
Are they, the ladies of our land,
Whose bounty, like the dew of heaven,
Though silently is freely given.
Enough—the blush—the starting tear
Reveal the purpose nobly dear!
And see! the Exile's languid eyes
Are lightened up in glad surprise,
As, wakening from despair's wild trance,
Kind faces meet his wildered glance.
—Enough!—here let the curtain fall:
Hearts that can feel will picture all—
All that my verse may not unfold
Of meeting minds of generous mould.
Reveal the purpose nobly dear!
And see! the Exile's languid eyes
Are lightened up in glad surprise,
As, wakening from despair's wild trance,
Kind faces meet his wildered glance.
—Enough!—here let the curtain fall:
Hearts that can feel will picture all—
All that my verse may not unfold
Of meeting minds of generous mould.
Sept. 1828.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |