University of Virginia Library

Let others sing the foibles and the charms
Of Womankind; and, with luxuriant wit
Adorning the dear theme, ensure success:
A theme dear to the Muse, when smiling Fate
Thro' wood and vale leads on the chearful Youth,
Who knows nor fear nor care: but these are mine,
And long have been—Another Song, my Muse,
Befits thy voice; the dark mysterious ways
Of Providence, an awful search, be thine.—

Far in the East, beyond where Indus rolls
His copious waves, secluded from the world,
Among the mountains of Imaus, live
Some harmless Shepherds of the Magi School.
Here, in her primitive simplicity,
Pure Nature reigns; the Arts, and all their train
Of polished Vices, utter strangers here.
Each morning, with the rising Sun, they meet,
And hail him type of the eternal God;
Then, in a willing chorus, raise the voice
To their immortal Father, and implore
His benediction: By the fount or shade,
Tending their flocks, they sing their constant loves,
Their Fathers eulogies, and varying year.
Now dance and rural sport engage the Youth;
The Old look on with joy, and to their minds
Recall their youthful feats.—But now no more
Emilec join'd; he, who was wont to lead
The song and dance: The blushes of the rose
Had left his cheek; dull roll'd his languid eye,
So keen before: All by the desart rocks
He pass'd the weary day; and when the Moon
Glimps'd pale along the glade, when Wolf and Fox
Roam forth in quest of some stray'd Lamb or Ewe,
He wander'd by the murm'ring brook alone,
Mourning his Caia, and his woful fate.

'Twas now the noon of Night, and all was still,
And Flock and Shepherd shar'd the balmy sweets
Of soundest Sleep, nor dream'd but of a fair
And joyful morning. Then Emilec too,
Quite spent with sorrow, slept; but still his soul
Follow'd his Caia. On a bank, he thought,
He mourning lay; when, clad in purest white,
Glowing with joy, his lovely Bride appear'd,
And gently thus: Lo, I am here, my Love;
I am return'd, my Love, am safe return'd.
My Joy, my Undefil'd! he cried, and sprang
To embrace; but awoke, and all was dark,
Dark and alone—forth burst the ready sigh,
And fell the tear. Then wand'ring out, to vent
His anguish; thro' a winding path, o'erhung
With rocks and barren shrubs, he sought the vale
Where rest the Dead; still, as he went along,
Calling on Caia: Oh return, my Love!—
Why went'st thou to the distant hill alone?
The Russians seiz'd thee there—Alas! methinks
I hear thee call Emilec to thy aid:
But none to aid thee comes—Some hated Wretch,
Quite drunk with lust—Ah Heav'n!—and must thou be
Basely polluted?—No—As Heav'n is just
It cannot curse thee so. Ay, now at peace,
Thou liest in Death's cold arms—O never more
To be the charge of mine!—Yes, I shall soon
Rest in the peaceful grave—Nature to me
Has joys no more—all dreadful is the day,
And horrid is the night. Thus as he spoke,
The good Arandus heard; for oft, when shone
The ocean of the sky with living fires,
What time the Pleias shew their wat'ry train
In middle heav'n, the venerable Sage,
Wand'ring among the wilds, would glow with high
Enthusiasm divine: He heard the voice
Of lov'd Emilec—now no more, as wont,
With sounds of lively joy, but, dire reverse,
Expressive of the bitterness of woe.
He follow'd, unobserv'd; and now arriv'd
Among the moss-clad tombs, the mournful Youth
Down stretch'd him on his Sire's—and all around
Was silent as the grave; save from afar
The roaring of the Ganges, thro' the hills,
Died in faint echoes: Thus the Wand'rer oft,
Benighted in some lone Italian wood,
With awe hears from afar the midnight Mass.
The horny Moon shone forth; the spacious vault
Of heav'n all glow'd with Stars that went their rounds,
In deep eternal silence, and on earth
Shed a dim holy light. Then with a sigh
Emilec thus began—Then farewel Hope—
A long adieu to Joy—let Sorrow come,
Eternal Melancholy be thou mine:
Thy deepest gloom can never never add
One horror to my breast—The depths of Woe,
Where worse can never come, is all the wish
Of my poor heart, which now in black Despair
Takes up its refuge. Yet, oh what a change!
Oh lost Emilec! thou wert once the hope
And joy of thy fond Parents.—Fair indeed
Thy morning sun arose, and ev'ry day
Promis'd long happiness; on ev'ry side
Deceitful Fortune smil'd; no foolish wish
Of wealth or honour, ever broke my rest;
No passion led me, and no fears appall'd.
But ah! the dreadful end! Is this, O Heav'n!
The issue of my Parents vows and hopes?
Alas! was all my former Joy, that I
Might feel more piercingly my wretched fall?
My Caia is defil'd!—Oh, shocking thought!
And mine no more!—Heav'n cannot to my arms
Restore her pure!—Heav'n cannot to my breast
Restore my former calm; dull shines the sun,
All Nature wears a sickly gloom to me;
The ghastly grave alone can give me rest:
Oh that eternal Darkness seal'd my eyes,
And Death's cold hand compos'd this troubl'd breast!

Arandus now approach'd; a sudden dread
Surpriz'd Emilec, while with kind intent
The Sage began: Alas! why thus, my Son,
Driv'n on by fury, and that fiend Despair?
Summon thy Reason: Reason was ordain'd
By the eternal Sire to be our guide;
And when we disobey, 'tis yonder Heav'n
That holds us rebels: but her voice is low,
And very slow her speech; the young and vain
Or hear her not, or hear but part; the Calm
Alone can understand her heav'nly voice.
When Man goes hence, when o'er the silent Dead
The wild flow'rs of the field spring forth, the Mind,
Unfetter'd, then receives the just reward
Of ev'ry action: and, if Heav'n its lot,
Among the Sons of God, from joy to joy
For ever shall advance. Then, if it bore
The miseries of life with patient heart
And meek submission to the Will Supreme,
Sublime its joy shall be. Attend, my Son,
And let this awful truth sink to thy heart:
False is the heart of Man, false to itself,
When sweet Prosperity smiles all around:
Intoxicated with the pleasing cup,
Proud, hard, and selfish, it becomes; the voice
Of Mis'ry is but faintly heard; and God
Is quite forgot, or with a cold regard
Remember'd, if at all: But as the fire
Refines the silver; so a taste of woe
Awakes the Soul. Below the adverse tide
The little Mind is sunk; but the great Soul
With heav'nly lustre shines thro' the black cloud
Of dread Adversity, and great at last
Finds herself happy, and contemns her woes.

O tell me not of Peace, Emilec cry'd;
A heated fancy may, in pain and death,
Deceive itself into an extacy
Of joy imagin'd—and O happy he
Of such delirium! But my heart is struck
Beyond the pow'r of Fancy to relieve.
All, all is vanity—Poor Man is born
The heir of woe; the mornings of his years
Are gay, and promise high; a thousand forms
Of happiness inchant his thoughtless heart;
And all seems very near—pleas'd with the dream,
He laughs, he joys. So, with a lightsome heart,
The little Linnet on the hawthorn sings,
Unconscious of the net that soon shall end
Its joy. So poor deluded Man goes on,
'Till soon some of the fierce unnumber'd ills
That haunt the human race, burst on his head:
Then all his former joys appear no more
But as a broken ill-remember'd dream.
Yet still the giddy wretch will fondly hope,
His state no surer, and his hope as vain
As the wreck'd Mariner's, who rides the surge
On a bare plank: his wishful eyes look round,
And if a thin blue vapour hovers o'er
The deep, he thinks it land, and cheers his heart;
Then sinks among the Dead. But why, O Heav'n!
Why must th' immortal mind of Man, that boasts
Such glorious pow'rs—why must it be the sport
Of ev'ry adverse blast? Thick darkness veils
The mighty secret—far, oh far it lies
From human search; deep as the center hid:
Dark are the ways of Heav'n; o'er ev'ry part
Of human life a horrid darkness broods.—
No God regards the Just—Thro' streams of blood
And orphans tears, their neighbours wealth some seize,
Enjoy it freely, and, in good old age,
Go to the grave in peace. While I have seen,
Young as I am,—and oh, I feel it too,
The Just go mourning thro' the extremes of woe;
Their sickly souls each word of comfort hate,
And grief, obdurate grief, o'erwhelms their mind.
Life has no joys, and earth no rest for me.
I look'd for good, but woe succeeded woe—
My Parents die—young and unskill'd in life,
They leave me to the world—Yet still I hop'd:
My fields are blasted, and my flocks destroy'd:
Yet still I hop'd. But now, my fatal sum,
My miseries are compleat—then farewel Hope;
Farewel the sweet delusions of a kind
And righteous Providence—'Tis Death alone
Is all my hope, my cure—yes, I shall soon
Rest with the Dead, the sport of woe no more.

To whom Arandus thus: Yet, O my Son,
Attend this truth; 'Tis trial shews the Man.
This dire adversity, my Son, is thine;
Bear like a Man, and never let thy lips
Thy Maker or his Providence blaspheme.
Shalt thou, whose narrow views reach but a part,
A very small part of the dreadful ways
Of the eternal One—shalt thou presume,
Blind Son of Dust, poor Being of a Day,
T'arraign th' Almighty, and correct the God
Of all perfection? Poor short-sighted Man
Should, silent in the dust, adore the hand
Of Providence; and take th' imbittered cup
With meek submission, tho' he cannot know
Why so design'd. God is the Sire of all,
And he chastises thee—Say, shall the boy
Who obstinately spurns the rod, or he
Who, all-submiss, with weeping eyes implores
His Father's mercy, surest gain his love.

Perhaps just now, Heav'n's kind paternal hand
Is doing more for thee, than ev'n thy soul
Dares to desire—then how thy heart must burn
With shame and anguish to review thy thoughts.
Great are thy woes indeed—but why, my Son,
Why black Despair? and why the filial trust
In God, not thine? To trust the tender care
Of the Almighty Father, gives the Soul,
In the most dread distress, a delicate
And melancholy joy, sublime above
The Drunkard's laughter, and the sensual wish.
Exert the Man, Emilec; spend no more
The day in useless grief; but leave these hills,
And take thy journey to the plains below:
I'll be thy Guide—my Son shall keep our flocks.
I feel an impulse that assures my heart:
An omen that we shall return with joy.
Yes, we shall hear of Caia. Hear of her!
Emilec cry'd—Oh horrid! must it be?
My nature shudders—yet, I'll hear the worst.
My Love, my tender Spouse, my late Delight,
O may I hear thy death! that thou no more
Mourn'st in a hated Russian's loath'd embrace.
If Justice be in Heav'n—Here grief and rage
Stopt further speech. They homeward shap'd their way,
And for their journey to the plains prepar'd.

Now rose the Morning; on their pilgrimage
The anxious Swains go forth; each in his belt
A leathern bottle, from the fountain fill'd,
And in his hand the pilgrim staff each bore.
Of Patience and deliverance from woe,
Arandus talk'd, and of all-righteous Heav'n—
That Heav'n governs, my Son, thy eyes shall see,
In all the ways of Men: On Industry
Attends the handmaid Wealth; on Piety
The angel Peace, her mates are Hope and Joy;
Labour and Temperance and rosy Health
Go smiling, hand in hand, and hoar old Age,
With senses all entire, a rev'rend form,
Attends their latest days. But Negligence
And Prodigality, are, step by step,
By Scorn and wither'd Penury pursued;
Impiety, with terrors all-aghast,
Receives th' unwelcome visit of Disease;
Intemp'rance, with swoln eyes and putrid breath,
Is follow'd by Diseases, a dire train,
All gaping for their prey: Thus o'er the Wretch,
Who, in the desart wild, expiring lies,
The hov'ring Vultures swarm. Thus, as they went,
Arandus talk'd; but dumb with sullen grief
Emilec pass'd along. The lively Lark
Springs from the grass before them, and his song
Melodious chants; from ev'ry bloomy spray
The sacred voice of Nature's music sounds;
But these with not one gleam of joy inspire
Emilec's breast; deep in the thicket coos
The widow'd Turtle, and awakes the thoughts
Of tender loves, and all th' endearments sweet
Of the lost Caia: Now Emilec's heart
With the sharp pangs of softest pity melts,
Now sullen to obdurate grief returns.

Now far, their native fields behind them lay.
Three days o'er rocky hills and sands they go;
The waste of Nature: Now the hoary steep
They climb, and on the mountain's ridge behold
The loaden'd clouds burst; thro' a valley now
They hold their weary way, beneath the shade
Of some bleak mountain, winding oft by turns,
Now tow'rd the rising, now the setting sun;
While, up the craggy brow, a timid flock
Of Goats would run, and, from their airy height,
Look down with wonder on the Swains below;
Now, hov'ring o'er their heads, high in mid air
The Raven and the Vulture scream'd aloud.
Three nights, on the cold earth, in some wild cave
Form'd by the rock, they lay: But when the sun
Wak'd the fourth morning, their glad eyes beheld
A champaign wide and broad; such as before
Emilec never saw; 'twas pasture most,
With many a herd of goodly beeves adorn'd;
A pleasant river, from an aged wood,
Ran murm'ring thro' the plain; the curling smoke
Wav'd o'er the trees, and told a cot was near.
Thither they shape their way: A Shepherd's house
Stood at the entering of the wood, amid
A grove of Elm, whose roots the river lav'd.
They enter in, and share the rural treat—
And much the Host engag'd their wond'ring thoughts:
A few grey hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd;
One hand supports his head, the other smites
His bosom, while th' unconscious sigh would rise;
Languid dejection mark'd his eye, that, fix'd,
Gaz'd on the wall; yet calm and mild he seem'd,
Though 'whelm'd with grief. The venerable head
So humbled and crush'd down by cruel Fate,
Made ev'n Emilec for a while forego
His own, and feel his woes. With kind intent,
And sympathetic tears, Arandus asks
The source of such sublimity of grief.
Long happy, in these plains, the Host reply'd,
I pass'd my days; oft ere the sun eclips'd
The stars of morn, with light and chearful heart,
I rose to labour; when the twilight warn'd
To fold the flocks, still happy was my heart;
Dear was my Spouse, and long, oh! long ago
Our love had to the dearest friendship risen;
Heav'n blest my Children, ev'ry day they gave
Some new delight; to chear my age-dull'd heart
Was all their strife, their care; so blest was I.
But sorrow comes to all—A fever seiz'd,
And scorch'd my veins; a wild delirious dream
In horrid chains of darkness bound my Soul,
Long twenty Suns; a thousand dreadful forms
Glar'd all around me—sunk-ey'd, lean-rib'd Ghosts
Yell'd in my ears—nor Spouse, nor Son, I knew;
Or, knowing, thought them leagu'd to work my woe:
Till, as a Man who slow from sleep awakes,
Awak'd my Reason—For my Wife I call'd;
A Servant came; his looks, but not his voice,
Told she was dead—“Where are my Sons?” I call'd:
None gave me answer—After many a tear,
I heard, some troops who from the hills had stole
A lovely Fair, had also stole my Boys.
Comely they were, O Youth, and much like thee—
Here stopt his speech; for down his hoary cheeks
The woful torrent ran, while he survey'd
Emilec's youth, so like his own lov'd boys.

Now broke with grief and age, the Host resum'd,
I bow the languid head: no tender Spouse,
No loving Child, to bless my eyes—Oh lost,
Lost are my Children! and I mourning wait
My dissolution—Yet, Oh, had it pleas'd
The awful will of Heav'n, that I had gone
Down to the grave in peace! Oh, that my Boys
Had sooth'd my death-bed! but my tender Lambs
Must groan in slav'ry!—Oh, my Sons, I feel
Your dreadful fate, and how you feel for me:
But spare your tears for me, for soon I rest.
Thus spake the Host. Arandus much essay'd,
With kind intent, to soothe his mighty grief;
But all in vain. To him whose Soul's at ease,
All just and reasonable it appears,
With calm Content, to bear the direst fate;
And Grief an unavailing madness seems.
But vain is human wisdom—blank and sad
Down sinks the heart—the very bowels feel
The horrid load of grief; and Wisdom's voice
Affects no more than Music would a rock.

The rural meal now past, with pray'rs and tears,
They take their leave. Ay, we indeed have heard,
Emilec cry'd, of Caia—Sighs on sighs
Stopt further speech. Along the green wood side
They hold the beaten path; and much they talk'd
Of Providence; till, with her sable clouds,
Approach'd grey Eve. Now far the shelt'ring wood
Behind them wav'd; the distant craggy hills
Began to kiss the sky; home to his marsh
The Heron bends; but house or hamlet none
The Pilgrams saw; and onward still, along
The barren heath, they stray; 'twas mossy all,
Rugged and black; and on the moonless sky
Increas'd the awful gloom; the fire of Night
Shew'd, here and there, his unctuous twinkling lamp,
Now waving a pale meteor, now a point;
Perplex'd, they follow as the wild-fire leads,
Hoping to gain some road, or Shepherd's cot;
But none they find: Now mir'd in mossy bogs,
Now east, now south, o'er hilloc, brake and dell,
They wander on, till tir'd of useless toil,
They sit them down. Such is the hope of Man,
Emilec cry'd; the poor benighted wretch,
After the wild-fire Hope, strays on thro' Life;
If in one shape or part it disappears,
It rises soon in others—still he thinks
It leads to Happiness; and follows still,
Tho' ever disappointed. Such is Man
Thro' Life; as we to-night, thro' this wild waste,
Have follow'd, and in vain, the twinkling fire:
And wisest he, in Life, like us to-night,
Who sits him down, and scorns all future Hope.

He said. And now, borne on the western gale,
They heard the low of cattle far remote;
Chear'd at the sound, they rise; and hie them on,
In search of shelter from the gathering storm.
And soon afar a lordly dome they spied,
Whose num'rous windows blaz'd with many a torch,
Far thro' the veil of Night. On as they came,
They heard the viol, and the jovial dance;
And now, the well-tun'd voice of Music swell'd
The lofty Chorus; now, by turns, the hoarse
Rude roar of Bacchanalians stun'd their ears.
Here, the glad Pilgrims ween'd to lodge, nor deem'd
It other than the hymeneal rite.
But fast the gates were barr'd; and, roaring dire,
Two furious Mastiffs rush'd, at the first knock.
Strait, at the well-known sound, a Russian came,
And sternly bade them hence;—else, with them, he
Would sport the Dogs unchain'd. With trembling steps
They wander to a hedge; and in its shade
Stretch down their weary limbs: And now the aid
They oft had giv'n, themselves, in greatest need,
Despair to find. Arandus, the last curst,
Gave to Emilec; and thus, mild, preferr'd
His ev'ning prayer, O Thou, the poor Man's Friend,
The Pilgrim's Guide, th' Avenger of the Oppress'd,
Protect us here to-night:—blest in thy care
We lay us down to rest, and fear no ill.
He said—And soon they heard a gentle voice
Oft crying, Where?—Arise, the Stranger cry'd:
I, from my cottage, heard the surly dogs;
I knew some helpless Stranger was abus'd;
I came, and I have found you:—Come with me,
And welcome share what my poor cot affords.

He said—and led them home: A firstling kid,
Brown bread, and wholesome herbs, and from the rock
The living spring, compos'd the rural treat.
Arandus, whose th' unhospitable roof,
And why such festival to-night, enquires.
No marriage, natal day, or Son return'd,
Mallan, the Host, reply'd, occasions this
Enormous revel, and profuse expence:
Thus, ev'ry night, in riot Zandor lives.
Never the Pilgrim's blessing in his porch
Was heard; nor is the Tyrant less severe
To us, his Husbandmen—Oft has his hand
Smok'd with the blood of Innocence: our barns
He cruel plunders for each small arrear;
Nay, from the sacred plough, last sowing time,
He cut my lab'ring Steers, and drove them home
To smoke upon his board: hence, poor and thin,
My very fields upbraid his cruelty.
Yet, tho' oppress'd—yet, tho' in constant fear
That Zandor seize my all—still while I have,
The needy Pilgrim here shall have a friend:
My straw-thatch'd roof the blessing shall receive
That turns away from Zandor's stately tow'rs.

Thus Mallan—and, in various talk, the hour
Sacred to Rest stole on. Now balmy sleep
Invigorates their nerves; and with the morn
Refresh'd and hale they rise. False lay the road,
And perilous; the Host conducts them on:
A little hill was near, whose flow'ry top
Commanded a fair landskip all around;
They pleas'd ascend, and, on its South, behold
The tow'rs of Zandor:—old and grand, they stood
Amid a garden, such as that which own'd
Alcinous' care. Here skilful Art improv'd,
Not banish'd Nature:—fragrant, red and white,
The mellow apples nodded on the boughs;
The purple clusters of the cheering vine
Bask'd in the Sun; the fig and olive wept
Their od'rous tears; the fair Judæan palm
Flourish'd in ev'ry walk; a lengthen'd row
Of stately oak and fir, whose lofty boughs
Wav'd in the ev'ning clouds and morning mists,
Skirted the Garden from the northern blast;
A river, cut in many a trotting rill,
Meanders thro' each grove; the blushing rose
And creeping cowslip ev'ry bank adorn;
The parted streams meet in a crystal lake;
The princely dome, the wavy oaks and firs
Tremble in its bosom: with the dawning light,
The Turtle's voice is heard; at ev'ning grey,
Perch'd on the topmost bough, the clear-tun'd Thrush
Melodious chants: Fair are the fields around;
The great-dugg'd Kine, down in the meadows, feed
Beside his fish-pools; and the gen'rous Steeds,
Thro' richest clover, neigh and bound along;
The full-ear'd Harvest nods his yellow heads
Far waving in the gale: All seem'd as God
Delighted to increase and bless the Man.

Now from the sounding gates, with shouts of joy,
Rode Zandor and his Sons; the hounds, well pleas'd,
Came pouring after. On the road they met
A poor old Man—pale hunger mark'd his cheek;
His knees sore shook with age—some wither'd sticks,
Gather'd with toil, he bore, to make his fire
'Gainst Eve's chill hour. For stealing of his wood
Zandor upbraids him:—At the Tyrant's nod
A pamper'd Lacquey throws them in a pit.—
The tim'rous hare now starts, and loud the horns
And hounds rebellow; thro' the poor thin fields
Of Mallan's corn, the Tyrant drives along,
With all his cumb'rous train, who look'd with joy
On the wild havoc.—Where the Guardian now
Of injur'd Innocence? Emilec cry'd:
Where the all-dreaded bolt of Vengeance now,
To stretch yon Tyrant foaming on the dust?
O blame not Providence, the Host return'd,
Ev'n I, whom poverty and toil surround,
Ev'n I more true more heart-felt bliss enjoy
Than great and mighty Zandor ever knew.

He said—and, till the fervid hour of noon,
Conducts them on. The gold-ting'd Jemma roll'd
His mighty flood in view: Adown his banks
The Pilgrims held the beaten path, that led
To mighty Agra, the imperial seat
Of Great Mogul; where many a swarthy tribe,
With all their Rajas and their Nabobs, kneel
To take his dread commands. Thro' wavy fields
Of yellow corn, they pass; and thicker still
The hamlets and the villages appear.
Here the blithe Reapers strive; their rustic Lord
Holds a large goblet, full of sparkling wine,
To glad the Victors: there, the loaden'd cart
Cracks o'er the stubble, while the gath'ring boys
Shout as she goes: the gently rising hills
Blue vineyards all adorn; the copious flood
Rowl'd far as eye could trace, and spotted all
With fishing boats, and little viny isles;
And southward, on his banks, the lofty tow'rs
Of royal Agra mingle in the skies;
The thin dun smoky clouds wave slowly o'er
The far extended spires. Anon they hear
The bells of Agra toll, a solemn sound!
And soon the trumpets martial peal, and shouts
Gathering on shouts: the noisy clamours still
Grew louder on their ears. Thus, when at first
The northern blast bursts forth, the ruffled sea
Begins hoarse murmurs—then he foams and groans,
And now his huge mountainous surges lash
The islands, and outroar the howling blast.

A height was near; the wond'ring Swains ascend,
And southward see the far-extended plain
All delug'd o'er with men. Thus, from his hill,
The Cimbrian Shepherd, when he pens his goats,
Sees the tall forest mantling all the plain:
So long, so bulky, stood the Denizens
Of Agra, all along the dale; and still,
From the wide gates, the thronging multitudes,
Chariots and Steeds, Bowmen and Musquetteers,
Pour'd out amain: Now, thund'ring o'er the ground,
Surrounded by ten thousand Horsemen fierce,
Who held the naked sword, high in a proud
Triumphal chariot, lin'd with beamy gold,
With silver harness grac'd, the Monarch came,
Far blazing as a God: His better hand
The awful sceptre grasp'd; his starry robe
Brighten'd the face of day; with living fires
His high tiara shone. When now the host
Beheld their Monarch, King of Nations, come,
Waving the turban in the air, they rais'd
An universal shout—all nature round
Seem'd at the dreadful peal to start, and loud
The hills resounded; on the distant plains,
The lordly Bulls glar'd round with sparkling eye,
And roar'd again; up the smooth river borne,
The mighty shout the distant Shepherds heard—
They heard and trembled. Thund'ring o'er the plain
The Monarch drove along; and, as he rode,
Arang'd his nations. Here the foamy steeds
And chariots pour along, till almost hid
In a long cloud of dust, that like a ridge
Of hills divides the plain; right opposite
The foot advance, a line immense and deep,
Far o'er the lawn extended: Tall and strong
Each of the nearest end, but less than boys,
Or Fairies by benighted Swains descried,
Appear'd the troops that form'd the farthest point.
Amaze and awe cold through the Pilgrims ran.
A Swain was near, to whom Emilec thus:
O Stranger, what important event calls
This multitude immense forth from the gates
Of yon great city? Who the Man that, high
Exalted like a God, commands them all?—
What art thou? said the Stranger; hast thou not
Of Gehan and Machor, the brothers, heard,
Sons of our late great Monarch? Gehan there,
First-born, commands; much of the people lov'd,
The throne he mounted; but the fierce Machor,
Far in the barb'rous Provinces remote,
Has rais'd a mighty host; a few days march
From Agra lies his camp: To-day he sent
An haughty message—Yield the throne to me,
And yield my brother chain'd; else Agra burns,
And all her cloudy tow'rs shall kiss the dust.
But Gehan for the dreadful battle arms
His willing people.—And his God will bless
His righteous arms, Arandus made reply.

Now low the western Sun was sunk, the mist
Rose from the river; the unwieldy crowd
Back to the city throng—the peopled tide
Turns, ebbing less and less, till clouds of dust
Close up the lagging rear:—In with them went
The Pilgrims; long they wander'd in the streets,
But none invites them in; till, from the field,
An aged Man, his daily labour done,
Approach'd, and thus: My house to-night is yours,
And yours the ancient hospitable treat:
Come, and in safety rest. They follow'd glad,
And shar'd the welcome bread; and now the hour
Sacred to balmy slumbers call'd to rest.
But they, who other noise had never heard
At the lone hour of night, than rustling gales
Walking among the trees, and from afar
The roar of Ganges; they, whom noise ne'er wak'd,
But when the northern tempest howl'd among
The mountains, wak'd, and fill'd them with grand thoughts
Of Nature's God—now pass'd th' uneasy night,
Plagued with the Drunkard's song and Harlot's brawl,
When, flown with insolence and wine, the Sons
Of Riot stroll along. When now approach'd
The hours of labour, from their restless couch
The Pilgrims rise: The Host goes out along
To shew the town—A garden lay in sight;
There, while the rising Sun first gilds the boughs,
A venerable Man, past middle age,
Walk'd to and fro; his piercing eye was big
With public care, and oft his lips would move.
There, cry'd the Host, intent on public weal,
The best of Magistrates!—The hours of morn
He thus employs. The word was scarcely gone,
When writhing in the dust, the Ruler lay,
Along broad arrow trembling in his side:
A Wretch of cruel face, quick seiz'd his gold,
And fled untouch'd. Vain was Arandus' help;
Life trembled a few moments on the lips,
And deep eternal Darkness veil'd his eyes.

And now the num'rous streets began to throng;
The market-place was near; there to a crowd
Of Supplicants, a venerable Man,
Of middle age, bestow'd the daily bread.
Arandus smiling, thus the Guide address'd:
Say, who is he, yon happy Man, whom Heav'n
Has blest with wealth, and such a god-like heart?
Rhadzan, the rich and good: reply'd the Guide.
Not in mean luxury he spends his wealth;
Like the great Fathers of Mankind, he lives,
In grand simplicity. Industry smiles
Where'er he comes; full twenty stately ships
Convey his traffic; many an hundred hand
His trade employs; he half the city cloaths,
And serves with all the benefits of life;
The Nobles court his friendship, and esteem
His company; the poor Man's pray'r is his.
Oh happy Man! Arandus cry'd—How blest
With such abundant wealth, and such a heart!

Now, full in sight, the lofty palace rear'd
His proud triumphal turrets to the sky:
Into the hall they went; the Indian throne
Dazl'd their eyes; four silver pillars bore
The brilliant chair; the purple hangings round,
With stars of diamond and sapphire glow'd;
Broad spread the canopy of beaten gold,
Far blazing to the Sun the living rays.
Long while the Pilgrims gaz'd—then, with a sigh,
Arandus thus began: O thou great Man,
Who only darest ascend that awful seat,
Ev'n thou shalt die; and, in the sleep of Death,
Thy meanest Slave shall lie as soft as thee.
That seat of God and Pow'r communicates
No real virtue: In the sight of God
Thou art no more than he, he whom the oak,
Or hedge, have ever shelter'd from the storm,
But only as in Virtue thou excellest.

Now, turning out, near to the gate, they spy'd
Three tatter'd Wretches, the epitome
Of Want and Misery. One, old and blind,
Sat on a stone; one, to the Passengers,
Held out his stumps; and one, with wooden leg,
Crawl'd after, to receive the welcome mite.
Sure, cry'd Arandus, these have been dire pests,
Deep villains, whom all-righteous Providence
Has suffer'd not to die—but live, to awe
The multitude; a dreadful monument!
And yet the blind Man sings, and seems serene.
These Men were never pests, the Guide reply'd.
When Rhamadan, the banish'd Raja, rais'd
A mighty host, and shook yon awful throne,
These Men at Belmoir field oppos'd their breasts
Against his fiercest troops; and there their blood
Flow'd plenteously: 'twas there they left their limbs.
Hark! th' old blind Man, with youthful spirit, sings
The Battle of Belmoir. A better fate,
Arandus cry'd, you merit, than to beg
Your bit of bread so near the awful throne
Your blood and valour sav'd—And can, Oh Heav'n!
Can the ingrateful Citizens pass by,
And not once say, The blood of that pale face
Was spilt for me,—these limbs were lost for me.—

He said—and on they pass'd: Now, full in view,
A tow'ry pile appear'd; the sculptur'd gates
Lay open; with demure and down-cast look
The Citizens throng in; in also went
The Pilgrims and their Guide. There they beheld
A People sour of look, with frantic nods,
And cheerless mein, prefer their pray'rs to Heav'n;
But meek Humility, and Charity,
Her calm and smiling Sister, shew'd not there.
Silent and sad, they leave the House of Pray'r;
And Noon was high—Home with their Guide they turn;
When, at the Market-place, a mighty crowd
Came driving on—A Prisoner of note
Was led to jail; behind, a beauteous Dame,
Lovely in tears, as if an Angel wept,
Stood looking on; a smiling Child she bore,
Emblem of Innocence; two lovely Boys
Clung to her fast, and oft, their little hearts
Bursting with anguish, Oh my Father! cry'd.
A sight so tender, from the Pilgrims drew
The sympathizing tear: They keenly press
Among the crowd, th' unhappy Man to see.
Aghast the Pilgrims stand!—the Guide exclaims,
Rhadzan! the friend of Man!—The cause they ask;
A Citizen replies: When rose the Morn,
Great was the wealth of Rhadzan;—now, at Eve,
He poor and friendless mourns.—Burnt are his ships,
And Cadmor, whose unfeeling icy heart
Ne'er warm'd with pity of another's woe,
Now drags to jail the Father of the Poor:
Their Father now no more.—In deep amaze
Arandus stood—his fluctuating thoughts
Toss'd wildly round. Thus, when a Father hears
A stripling boy is slain—with biting grief,
One moment he believes it is his son;
Next moment chears himself; then fears again.
Arandus thus, the dark mysterious ways
Of Providence survey'd: As Death itself
It chill'd his breast, to think that Man, tho' frail,
Who fain would do aright, should be despis'd,
And left forlorn by Heav'n: His piety
O'ercame at last, Whatever is thy will,
Eternal Father, is, and must be good.—
He sigh'd within himself, then fears again.

Now tumult spread from street to street; the town
Was all uproar—the shout of War was giv'n;
The Horsemen drove along; and loud and shrill
The trumpets call'd to battle; each his sword
Girds on his thigh, and each prepares his spear;
For fierce Machor was hard at hand; that night
He ween'd the flames of Agra should have blaz'd
Along the sky. The Pilgrims and their Guide
With trembling pace haste home; when all on flame
They spy'd his hospitable roof—his goods
The Miscreants prey: They lose him in the crowd.
With fear and horror struck, they fly the town,
And hie them thro' the plain. A lofty pile
Of hoary rock appears, that high o'erhung
The spacious field; they thither bend their way;
And aided by the shrubs, from cave to cave
They climb; till, in a hollow cliff, secure
From sight or harm, they lye. The cloudy tow'rs
Of Agra, and the mighty river, shew
In distant prospect On a height, not far,
The potent army of Machor encamp'd;
And Agra, from her many gates, pours forth
Her num'rous sons; wide sweeping o'er the fields
The blazing of the arms, from camp to camp,
Shoots dreadful lightning; nor when set the sun,
And rose the moon, it ceas'd; a ghastly gleam
Of helms and spears shines o'er the broad champaign;
The neighing of the horses, distant far,
And nearer some, the undulating noise
Of thousands tongues and feet, along the rock
Sounded in ev'ry gale. Thus from an height,
A few miles from the coast, the Shepherd hears
Old Ocean's midnight roar, when, after storm,
He murmurs hoarse and loud. Anon arose
The lively Morn: Each host in dread array
Of battle ready stands; and ere the sun
Blaz'd on their arms, the battle shout was heard,
A dreadful peal! the trumpet's martial voice
Shrill trembles thro' the air. In union firm
The Infantry advance; the bows are drawn,
And showers of arrows meet in middle air;
The yell of Death begins; the Musquetteers
Now, wheeling round, let loose their Stygian fire;
Louder, and louder still, the brazen tubes
Encrease their thunder; batt'ry roars amain,
Thund'ring on batt'ry—all the plain appears
As when an Earthquake bursts the trembling ground;
And smoke and flame, in many a writhing curl,
Sweeps o'er the frighten'd lawn. On ev'ry side
The Warriors drop by hundreds; round and round
The Leaders ride, and with their shouts provoke
The staggering fight. Gehan from rank to rank
Rides on conspicuous; loud his rousing voice,
And great his warrior mein; the fire of Heav'n
Flash'd in his eyes; where'er the battle rag'd,
There first himself led on to fierce attack
The fresher troops—and Death march'd close along.
Nor less the fierce Machor with great emprise
Inspires his fainting host: His sword is seen
Glancing thro' all the fight; at fullest speed
He drives his courser on, from point to point
Where'er his legions fail'd; black as the storm
Of dark December, o'er the field he rode
With whirlwind sound: the bravest stood aghast!
And scarce resisting fell; while, terror-struck,
Most fled his coming. Long the battle hung
In doubtful scale; the Sun was high in Heav'n,
The Shepherd sought the shade, when Gehan's troops
Cry, Victory! The Heav'ns resound the cry.
The horsemen and the foot now drive along,
To crush the Rebels down. Despair inspires
Machor's fierce heart; with fiercer fires it burns:
A desp'rate band of Horsemen he selects,
And with full speed, and many a dreadful shout,
Turns on the Victors; thro' their ranks they rode
O'er Lords and Vassals, groaning in the dust.
Thus, when a cloud bursts on the mountain's brow,
Rocks, trees, and herds, the headlong torrent sweeps
Adown the hill afore it. Ghastly rout
Now marks the host of Gehan; thund'ring thro'
The fight the Monarch came; the cruel soul
Of dread Machor glows at the wish'd-for sight;
He cries, I see him! Silent now the war—
Aloof the Heroes stand. Fierce as a bear
Attacks a tyger that devours her whelps;
Or as a lion, from a mountain's side,
Springs on a bull, the dreadless brothers meet.
Their horses neigh; the earth gives hollow sound
Below their feet; the Riders stretch and toil
In mighty conflict, with the well-pois'd lance:
The broken spears sing thro' the air—a pause,
An awful pause ensues—with fiercest looks
They eye each other. Dreadless thus, and fierce,
A wounded lion on the Huntsman glares.
Yield, cry'd Machor—yield thee, and live in chains;
Or take thy death with honour from my hand.
Justice and Heav'n, proud Slave, direct my sword,
The Monarch stern reply'd; yield, ere I send
Thy cruel Ghost to plunge in deepest Hell.
Justice and Heav'n! with proud contempt, reply'd
The fierce Machor; but Deaths fly round my steel.
Black with dire rage, his long broad sword he draws,
And on the Monarch flies: He, with like might,
And equal valour fir'd, receives the foe.
Long was the fight; their swords glance to the Sun,
A hideous lightning, and the blood-red mail
Rings with the blows. At last, the impious blade
Of dire Machor, full down th' anointed head
Of Gehan sunk: He, trembling, from his horse
Fell. Swift the haughty Victor lights, and tears
The royal ensigns from the mighty slain.
For ever live the King, the great Machor!
The fawning Nations cry. Amid their shouts,
He mounts the royal chariot; and in proud
Triumphals rides along the bloody field;
Choak'd with the mangled trunks of Lords and Slaves,
And horses slain, purpled with rosy gore,
The riv'lets spread in lakes o'er the champaign,
And, when the Sun shone ruddy from the west,
Reflects red blaze for blaze; the ravens sat
On the old land-mark stones, and drank the blood
Of Chiefs and Rulers; and when pale the Moon
Glimps'd o'er the field, the scene new horrors gain'd:
The winds loud whistling rise, and to the hills
Bear far the hollow groans;—Nature seems mov'd—
And distant Echoes groan for groan return.
All the dread night, troops of pale murm'ring Ghosts
Glide thro' the moonshine, to their long abode.

Silent, and much perplex'd, Arandus leaves
The lofty cave, Emilec follows on.
Their way along the winding hill they hold,
Till, rifing from the clod, with mattins clear,
The Lark salutes Aurora, and the East
Glows with the coming day. There was a grove
Of aged Elm, on mid declivity,
That gave his shade, where oft the Shepherd pen'd
His Ewes at eve; the Pilgrims, on the dust,
There throw them prostrate down: at last, full vent
Emilec gave his thoughts, and thus began:

Too well, too sure, my boding Soul foresaw
There was no Hope for me. When we began
This journey, much you told me of a kind
And righteous Providence—fain would my Soul
Have hop'd;—but now, the dear delusion gone,
A sad habitual bitterness of soul,
And dullest anguish, must be ever mine.
My Caia ravish'd!—joy can never cheer
My wounded heart again; and life is all
A fev'rish woful dream. Alas! what woes
Poor Man is heir to!—I am not alone,
Tho' chief in mis'ry.—What a woful lot
The poor old Shepherd must endure! himself
Just wak'd from frightful madness, finds his Spouse,
The Darling of his heart, laid in the dust;
His Sons, his age's stay, by cruel men
Led off to ev'ry horror Slav'ry yields!
Fortune has grudg'd his former peaceful state;
And now, his hoary head, sore bow'd with age,
Must lower bow below the pressing load
Of cureless Grief. Whatever Earth can give
Zandor enjoys!—an earthly God he lives:
Yet all his life is one continued act
Of rapine and injustice! But, oh, mark
The humble cot of Mallan:—what avail
The Pilgrim's blessing, and the poor Man's pray'r,
So oft bestow'd?—for Poverty and Toil
Have fix'd their dwelling there; and at the door
Terror of Evil yet to come attends.

A Ruler, great and good, we saw; intent
On public weal, he pass'd the early Morn—
Where is the Guardian of the Good and Just?
He falls! he dies!—the Murd'rer 'scapes untouch'd!
Rhadzan is great and wealthy, and his heart
Flows with benevolence: At Morn, he lives
The blessing of the people—sure, if Man
Might claim the watchful care of Heav'n, 'twas he—
Yet, ere the Ev'ning Sun was down, he mourns,
Comfortless, in a jail! What now avail
The rich Man's friendship, and the poor Man's pray'r?
No crumb he has, to give his fainting Wife,
And little Children:—while, at ease, and full
Of plenty, Cadmor lives; whose griping hand
Ne'er gave one gen'rous deed! The three old Men,
Who, for the Public, lost their blood and limbs,
Scorn'd, and exposed to heat, to frost, to rain,
Beg their poor bit of bread from those, whose wealth
Their ill-spent valour sav'd. Long in the streets,
Unknown, we wander'd; none invites us in,
Till an old Man, of hospitable heart
And virtuous soul, constrain'd us home, and joy'd
To serve us Strangers.—Must a house be burnt?
Oh Heav'n! and is it his? Now, he himself
Has neither bed nor roof! The House of Pray'r
We saw; but heart Devotion, and her mate,
Meek Charity, appear'd not there; there reign'd
Grim Superstition, that, with sourest look,
Damns all around; tho' oft, his own ill heart
Steams with the blackest crimes, and foulest thoughts.
Are these the Fav'rites of Heav'n? are these
The select care of God? Alas! my Soul,
All, all is an inexplicable dream.
But not alone are Individuals left
To fall unnoted by a watchful Heav'n:
Nations in one great ruin are involv'd;
The Wicked prosper, and the Guiltless bleed:
The lawful Monarch, much belov'd and good,
Goes to the Fields of Death, t' assert his right;
But the weak arm of Justice sinks below
The impious Rebel's sword! the righteous cause
Is lost! and he, who like a God rode forth,
Now, gash'd with wounds, lies naked in the dust!
And now, in place of a mild righteous King,
A cruel Fratricide the sceptre wields!
Good Heav'ns!—what mis'ry, what blood, what strife,
Must fill this wretched land!—woe to the Good,
Woe to the Just; but to the Wicked, Peace!

That Heav'n bore rule, you said, my eyes should see,
In all the ways of Men:—that have I not.
On Industry, you said, the handmaid Wealth
Attends: let Rhadzan and poor Mallan tell
The dire reverse. On Piety, you said,
Attended Peace, whose mates were Hope and Joy.
'Tis false.—Impiety was never mine;
God I ador'd, and trusted in his care:
To ease th' afflicted, and to wipe away
The tears of mis'ry, was my dear employ.
Did e'er I eat my bread, while, at my gate,
The Orphan and the Needy call'd in vain?
Did e'er the gain of rig'rous Justice add
One grain's worth to my store? Say, did my hand
Prophane the altars? Was the weak low voice
Of Mis'ry heard, and not my bowels yearn,
To years of infamy, and months of woe?
Did e'er my deed the Maid or Wife betray?
No—no; ev'n in the face of all my woes,
My Conscience dares to say, I never did.
Yet, if some secret error Heav'n observes,
Oh, that I knew th' involuntary fault!
With tears of blood then would I wipe it off.—
Such was my piety, yet where my peace?
Oh, where my hope?—My dearest Caia gone!
And ravish'd!—Oh, my heart!—Why rig'rous Heav'n,
Oh, why didst thou such tender feelings give?—
Such angelic affection?—Not, indeed,
To give sublimity of hope and joy—
Ay me, 'twas with a double load to feel
My wretched state—my Caia's wretched state!
My Caia! can my heart, so firmly knit
By mighty Love to thine, e'er taste one joy?
The pleasant Morn, and Ev'ning mild, have lost
Their wonted charms; disgustful is the grove,
For thou art absent; life and nature wear
A gloomy aspect, for thou art not nigh.
What tender scenes arise in this sad breast!
How oft returning, smiling, from the fold,
At oak or hilloc, have I met my Love!
What raptures would ensue, where soul and soul
By Love's mysterious instinct are made one!
But, ah! that dreary night that ended all
My joy! Oft to the oak, oft to the brook,
I went to meet thee; grey the twilight pass'd,
The moon arose, but thou, my Joy, my Love,
Appear'st no more!—no more shall I protect
And chear my Love!—A Russian's hated bed!—
Away, the dreadful thought.—If Heav'n is just,
It cannot curse thee so—Ay, low thou liest
Among the peaceful Dead. The Sun, to me,
Now shines with dismal aspect; hill and dale,
Before so gay, now wear a ghastly gloom,
A deep, deep melancholy.—Hope is gone—
Heav'n cannot chear me.—Villainy and Might
Are only happy—Goodness mourns, and dies.
In such an abject state as this, my Soul
Disdains to live: Soon in the silent grave
My heart shall feel her cureless woes no more.

Emilec thus his woful mind gave vent,
Nor less Arandus' pious heart was mov'd.
Despair cold thro' him ran; shudd'ring each nerve,
On the hill side, he, bow'd together, sits;
His hands are firmly grasp'd; his hoary head
Trembles between his knees.—A sudden noise
Comes rustling thro' the boughs: A Son of Heav'n,
Of godlike mein, fair as the rising Moon
On hills of snow, before them stands reveal'd;
A fragrance fills the air, such as the gales
Of blest Arabia; down his shoulders strait
His downy plumage flow'd, of living white,
Bright as the stars of morn; a purple vest,
Hem'd with the gold of Heav'n, around his waist
Flow'd, loosely ty'd; the human face divine,
Heighten'd beyond idea, he assum'd;
Mix'd with the majesty of Eastern Kings,
The mildness of a Brother, he display'd,
Who meets his Sister after absence long;
A spear directs his steps, and added grace
To him all grace. The Pilgrims calmly rise,
And hail him blest:—for God had from their hearts
All fear remov'd. Then, beckoning with his left,
Mild, as a feeling Brother, thus he spake.

All hail! all peace! O ye Belov'd of Heav'n!
Far from the Courts of God, I come, to ease
Your troubled breasts. With dear paternal care,
Th' Almighty Father all his works regards;
And mercifully just are all his ways.
He knows the heart, and well the weakness knows
Of poor short-sighted Man. A Father knows
The folly of his Child; and though his boy
Act as a Child, if tractable and meek,
The Sire forgives, and loves him—Shall not then,
The eternal Father both forgive and love
The contrite heart of his weak offspring Man?

O'ercome with sorrow, and with passion blind,
The Providence of God you have arraign'd:
But he, all-goodness, he, who knows your hearts,
Beholds what anguish there, the thought has rais'd.
But lay aside your passion, and attend
To your own Reason; lift your heads, and view
These vast stupendous heav'ns, where worlds o'er worlds
Unnumber'd roll; and, if you can, deny
The great all-perfect God. Say, shall the Lord,
Who, thro' ten million links, o'er all the vast
Of Nature, has a perfect order fix'd,
Sure and eternal—shall he leave to Chance
His higher world of Morals? Ask thyself—
Reason says, No; and all Creation, No.

How blind, how drunk with passion, then the Man
Who dares the Providence of God arraign!
Because he, poor blind Atom, cannot see
The grand design!—because, to his confin'd
And unimprov'd ideas, the dread ways
Of the Infinite One a maze appear?
Mark well this truth: Although the Wicked die
Swiming in wealth, and all the world can give;
And though, with sorrow pierced, the Just expire—
There is a time, beyond the darksome grave—
A time for Justice. With a thousand tongues
This cries, you are immortal; else, the God
That spread these heav'ns is cruel and unjust—
Cruel to the Good, and to the Bad unjust.
But still, though to the other side the grave
Great part is left, on this yet much is done.
Love, blest Content, and calm internal Peace,
The fruits of Heav'n that sip the dews of God,
Already in the good Man's heart spring forth:
While Hatred, and a dark desire to see
Its Neighbour's mis'ries, in the wicked heart
Takes lodging, and with ceaseless torment gnaws
Its own curst bowels; and at Death's dread hour
With double vigour bursts, and ever grows;
Itself its tyrant, and consummate hell.

Strange events you have seen; perplex'd, unjust,
All chance, to you they seem'd: but just and good
Are all the ways of Heav'n, these events shew.

The aged Shepherd, who had led a life
Of simple virtue and sincere content,
Blest in his Mate and in his rising Boys,
Fair shone his eve of life; when lo! a storm,
Hideous and fierce, breaks in; his Reason sleeps;
And mimic Fancy, on his frighten'd Soul,
Lets loose the Dogs of Hell. Let human Pride
Be levell'd in the dust: the Lord of Heav'n
Can on the wisest or most stubborn heart
Let loose itself; there needs no Demons more.

In mercy to the world, to check the growth
Of Pride and Self-dependance, Heav'n bestows
Its useful lessons: vain, he shews, and weak
Is human wisdom; in a moment all,
All may be lost. Secure the Shepherd liv'd;
His heart, once pious, from his God had stray'd;
His Children fix'd each passion to the world;
But now he feels no house of rest is here:
Long his dependance on his God was cold,
But now his smart has roused the latent flame.
His Wife has only met th' unalter'd fate
Of mortal birth, and Heav'n has call'd her home;
His Sons are not as his paternal heart
Torments itself to think. When sorrow comes,
How artful is the Soul of Man to tear
And rack itself, with phantoms fancy-bred!
Now, as a Mariner, who all the night
Rides in a boat alone, in wind and rain,
Longs for the hav'n, where he shall meet his friends:
So he, submiss, awaits the happy hour
To land him on the coast, where never more
The friends shall part, or age or sorrow come.
Nor shall his hoary hairs down to the grave
In sorrow droop;—his heart shall leap for joy,
And calmly shall he lay his limbs to rest.

The wicked Zandor you esteem'd possest
Of ev'ry happiness, an earthly God,
While virtuous Mallen liv'd the slave of toil.
Still blind, still wrong, the arrogance of Men
Will measure happiness by pomp and gold.
Though ev'ry luxury of the East and West
On Zandor's table meet, tho' ev'ry wine
Flows at his call, tho' livery'd Sycophants
Run at his beck, yet to his sated taste
All is in vain, habitual all, and lost:
Though at each interval of loose delight,
Smut wit, and song go round; his hackney'd Soul
Insipid finds them all. Remorse and Shame,
For deeds of Cruelty, maugre his heart,
Knock at his breast sometimes; then, must his roofs
Resound with music; then, the sparkling wine
Must load the table, and the laugh and song
Go jocund round: Meanwhile, with gentle steps
A wild delirium comes; light is the heart,
And all is gay, and all his ways are good:
Then, wild confusion, and a total loss
Of feeling, follows. On his bed he snores;
And, as the fumes wear off, a fev'rish strife
His painful slumbers witness; parch'd his throat,
His stomach sick, his head in aching whirls;
While shocking dreams, of murder'd Innocents
Baring their bleeding wounds, with horrid starts,
Awake him to the feeling of his pains.
Perhaps the chace deceives the dull forenoon;
And noon and night repeat the same mad round.

Though sharp anxiety, and yearning care
To raise his little fam'ly, oft may fill
Poor Mallan's heart, when evil accidents
Blast his industry, when the Tyrant robs
His barns, and tramples down his standing corn:
Yet, mark how pure than Zandor's is his joy!
Sweet is his morning, sweet his ev'ning work;
The music of the wood and purling brook,
At pleasant intervals of rest, delight
His ravish'd soul, and lift his thoughts to heav'n;
His herbs, brown bread, and milk, and now and then,
On days of festival, a firstling lamb,
Yield higher relish, and a purer health,
Than Zandor ever knew; when scorch'd with heat,
And from his toil athirst, the lacteal store,
The juicy berry, or the crystal spring,
Restore his spirits, and his nature cheer,
More than from all his wines e'er Zandor knew.
Chagrin'd, amid his troops of cringing Slaves,
The Tyrant lives; while Mallan, at his fire,
Among his prattling Children, glows with joy
To mark his rising care; delighted more
With their quaint lisping, and their op'ning buds
Of Reason, than the finest sounds can give.

The cruel heart can never feel the glow
Of heav'nly warmth, that sacred Love inspires;
Foul are its flames, and as a brute's its joy,
The object unendear'd, and oft despis'd.
Such Zandor's Loves. Now with unhallow'd fires,
Indelicate, his bosom knows no rest;
Now foul disgust succeeds; the Harlot's smiles,
He knows, are bought, and hates; then woos again,
And pines with jealousy; now burns with rage;
Now, fretful, loaths the Partners of his lust.

But pure is Mallan's love, fair as the light
Of heav'n, and spotless as the mountain snow.
A nameless tenderness, and soul-sprung joy,
Whene'er his fair One moves, or talks, or smiles,
With holy impulse swell his lab'ring breast.
As Lovers of fifteen, all innocence,
No selfish views they know; another Fair
He cannot love, so sacred and entire
His passion glows; nor other Shepherd she.
Unconscious of the least neglect, or sign
Of waining Love, the canker Jealousy
Keeps far aloof. Love has its mighty pains
Of delicate distress, when the dear Fair
Gives oft, by little signs, or seems to give
No proof of heart-born passion: but, oh far
Are these from Mallan's breast. What first began
In Love's mysterious instinct, now is risen,
With lasting strength, to more than Love itself;
The amiable virtues of the heart
Its sure foundation and endearing soul.

But this is far from all. The horrid sum
Of Zandor's wickedness is now compleat;
And Mallan's suff'rings too are near an end.

Last night, I saw the Angel of Revenge
Descend from Heav'n; a copious scroll he bore,
Where ev'ry wicked deed of Zandor liv'd.
On his high tow'rs he lights: I staid to see
The dread event. 'Twas now the gloomy hour
Of midnight, when the houseless Widow oft,
And hungry Orphan, have on Zandor's head
Implor'd the curse of Heav'n; and now his roofs
The yelling shrieks of murder loud resound:
The Tyrant starts from sleep, and with a torch
Explores his way; and, lo! his younger Son!
Red with warm blood he stands! the fire of Hell
Glares in his eye! the knife reeks in his hand!
His Brother, torn with many a gushing wound,
Struggles among his feet! Now must the wretch,
Whose cruelty has rent, with sharpest pangs,
The heart of many a Parent, many a Child,
Feel for his murder'd Son: his locks he tears,
Prone on the ground he roars; he curses Heav'n,
And gives his heart to rage and deep despair.

Caliona was crost in tender love,
By her stern Father, wild her fancy ran,
And lost her Reason; all the day she sits
Grasping a marble Statue, which she takes
For her dread Sire; the feet she bathes in tears,
And begs him to consent: unmov'd and cold,
The marble frowns: so, unconcern'd and cold,
The Angel of Revenge beholds the flood
Of sov'reign mis'ry, that overflows the house
Of Zandor, all-accurst. A haggard train
Of Evils to the dreadful Angel bow:
Here, Torture writhes his skinless ribs and joints,
Wild flash his eyes, and black and wide his mouth;
There, Shapes of Terror tremble, such as haunt
The dreams of Parricides: In dread despair,
Here Horror wrings her hands; as, at the hour
Of midnight, o'er the warm self-murder'd corse
The Soul yet hovers: These, and many more,
Thick as the Ghosts that mourn along the streams
Of black Cocytus, all attend his nod.
He gives the awful word, the Gout and Stone
Obey, relentless; and, to a dire bed
Of wretchedness, confine the country's Pest.
No more thro' the poor Peasant's little field
Of standing corn, he and his Sons shall ride;
No more shall sack the barn, and rob the fold;
No more, with rig'rous hand, oppress the Oppress'd;
He and his Sons, betray the Maid no more.

How dreadful is the wrath of Heav'n incens'd!
Though slow, yet sure the bolt of vengeance comes:
As sure the virtuous Suff'rer, who resigns
With meek humility, and filial hope,
Shall raise his head; and ev'ry woe, then gone,
Shall add a heav'nly relish to his joys.
So sacred are the pains of Innocence.
The tender Vine must feel the Pruner's knife,
The noblest Apple-tree must bear an wound;
Else wild the Vine, the useless spreading boughs
In rude disorder would itself destroy;
The Apple-tree, instead of golden fruit,
Would only bear a little wrinkl'd crab,
Sour, and ill-flavour'd:—Such, if left at will,
In full prosperity, would Man become.
Adversity is Virtue's fav'rite school;
There, the pretended Vot'ries are dismist
With vile dishonour, but her real Sons
Bear up, and conquer all. The Siren song,
The sparkling cup of Pleasure and Deceit,
These happy Men shall shun: for base Deceit,
A deadly snake, below the harlot lap
Of Pleasure lurks. When lov'd Prosperity
On the untutor'd Youth all chearful beams,
From joy to joy his careless heart will rove;
Heav'n is forgot, the Virtues dormant lie,
Pity is troublesome, while Pride each day
And Sensuality creep slowly in.
From such to guard, Heav'n in Adversity
Has long school'd Mallan's heart; and now he needs
The bitter draught no more; and Heav'n no more
Will give it:—chearful Plenty soon shall crown
His table, and dispel each anxious care.

How false the views that mortal eyes can take!
Toil, Fear, and Poverty, to you appear'd
Surrounding Mallan's hearth—yet, what a heav'n
His moss-green roof o'ershades! with her fair train,
The Angel of contented Peace is there:
There, lively Hope presents her magic glass,
That thro' the blackest cloud that darks the night
Of dire Adversity, can spy a fair
And pleasant country; Faith behind her stands,
And tells the virtuous Soul, that all and more,
As yet but darkly seen, shall be her own;
And heav'n-born Charity, Daughter of God,
Prepares his heart to taste the treasur'd joy.

The tender Mother, when her only Son,
A weakly child, at first essays to go,
With pleasure and concern strong in her eye,
Beholds him, and supports his waddling steps:
So pleas'd and so concern'd, the Angel guards
The steps of Mallan: With prophetic dreams
Of wealth, his happy slumbers she inspires.
His visions take him to the harvest-field,
Amid his Reapers; all the ground appears
So throng'd with sheaves, that scarce a path remains.
He wakes, and hails the omen; balmy Sleep
Again his eye-lids seals; again he stands
Amid his Reapers, rank and strong the corn
Before them waves; he looks behind, and, lo!
Among the ricks, a sudden harvest rears
Its golden heads, and plenty smiles all round.
He wakes, and with devout up-lifted hands,
The God of Providence his heart adores.

There's not a Demon haunts the Human Race.
Like Poverty, so dreaded, so abhor'd:
His ghastly visage ev'ry horror wears,
That Fear and sickly Fancy can create.
So Men behold him; but, it is not so:
If God but send the Angel of Content,
He wears no terror; in the sable garb
Of Wisdom, from the house of Mirth he turns,
And, calmly, in the house of Mourning, weighs
The Vanity of Life. The urban Youth
A joyless melancholy wretch esteems
The lonely Shepherd on the bleak hill side;
The Man of Ease shrinks at the dreaded thought
Of sweat and labour; he, who sees the sun,
And human face divine, deems him accurst
On whose blank eye-balls never shone the day;
And you, as monuments of wretchedness,
The three maim'd Warriors hold. Still wrong ye judg
If Heav'n shall give Content, the Blind, the Lame,
The lonely Shepherd, and the lab'ring Hind,
Possess as much of bliss as life can take.
As soundly, with his dole, the Palmer sleeps,
As with his many fields the wealthy Lord;
The Blind knows not his loss, or habit long
Inures him not to feel; the Labourer
Is used to labour, to his crutch the Lame.
Content and good the three maim'd Soldiers live;
But, should the horn of Affluence be pour'd
Upon their board—voluptuous, insolent,
Would their low minds become. To ev'ry state
Patience and sweet Complacence Heav'n can give,
Or send the biting canker Discontent.

Shock'd to the Soul, you saw the woful fate
Of Rhadzan, great and good; yet ev'n the fire
That burnt his plenty, Heav'n in mercy sent.
His alms, that first in charity began,
In foolish ostentation now were giv'n;
The lazy Drone, and him of real want,
Shar'd all alike; and vain his heart became;
The offspring of his wisdom and desert,
He held his mighty wealth; but now he sees
And mourns his folly. A rich fleet next day,
Long since giv'n up for lost, all safe arrives:
Rhadzan again is wealthy, and again
The Father of the Poor; but now no more
Th' Encourager of baneful Idleness,
Vain and forgetful of his God no more.
Th' unfeeling Cadmor, whom you thought so blest,
Swiming in plenty, and, tho' ill of heart,
Sharing the care of Heav'n, while Rhadzan mourn'd
Abandon'd in a jail; Cadmor is curs'd,
And long has been, with wealth he cannot use.
Devoted to his gold, the meagre Wretch
Grudges his own coarse morsel; never joy,
Save th' anxious sordid one to view his gold,
Could touch his marble heart; each blast of wind
That murmurs in his key-hole, tears his Soul
With dire chimeras; from his bed he starts,
And feels his bolts and bars: oft as he trusts,
When lur'd by profit, till he get again,
He trembles for his gold. By night and day,
Intense and restless, works his little mind,
Still to increase the wealth he cannot use;
And when a loss befalls, the pains of hell
Seize on his breast. Such fruits his treasures yield.

When manly Piety, old gen'rous Faith,
The heav'n-descended fire of Patriot Zeal,
And toilful Industry, forsake a land,
Then base Effeminacy, and her mates,
Pride, Cowardice, and Lust, a baneful crew!
Triumphant lift the head; and in their rear,
True as the shadow, Public Ruin comes;
Weak at the first, but fast the Monster grows,
And great her strength becomes; the God of all
Girds her with pow'r to crush the abandon'd race.
The Good and Wise, dread pillars of the state,
Infatuated now, their deepest schemes
Turn out but to increase the public woe.
Just when a deep-plan'd enterprize is ripe
For execution, all at once 'tis broke;
The Planner dies: Such was the Ruler's fate,
Whom murder'd at his morning walk you saw.
Had he surviv'd, the fierce Machor to-day
Had roar'd in chains. The wretch who gave the wound
Was Son of his ungovern'd lust, the fruit
Of lawless love: and who so fit as he?
Full thirty years since, to the streets expos'd
He left the Boy, where ev'ry vice he learn'd
That Idleness begets on infant minds:
Long has he been a public pest and curse,
But now his race is o'er; the Ruler's gold
He had not spent, when Justice claim'd his blood.

Gehan to-day, had the Chief Ruler liv'd,
Had still enjoy'd his crown, and blest the land:
But it deserv'd him not; and Heav'n has sent
A cruel Tyrant, with an iron rod,
To crush the vicious and abandon'd race.
When manly Piety, old gen'rous Faith,
The heav'n-descended fire of Patriot Zeal,
And toilful Industry, again shall raise
Their honour'd head, Machor shall dearly pay
His brother's blood; but not in gallant war,
Where Death no terror to the brave Man bears:
His golden roofs shall echo back his groans,
His bed and pavement with his gore shall swim;
While slow, beneath a Menial's knife, he dies.
Another Gehan shall again restore
Justice and Happiness, and bless the Land.

Meek Piety and mild Benevolence
Seem'd far from those that throng'd the House of Pray'r,
And claim'd the care of Heav'n; while Selfishness,
And hateful Melancholy, held their place.
Are these the select care of Heav'n? you cried;
And real Piety you deem'd a name.
But be not self-deceiv'd: What, shall the shew
Of patriot Zeal, that in base treason ends,
Persuade you there was never such a man
As real Patriot? Shall the varied lore
Of Schools, as varied as the human face,
Persuade you there is no such thing as Truth?
And shall the gross mistakes of poor blind Man,
Who knows not whence he came, nor where he goes,
Your minds so darken, that you cannot feel
What heav'nly warmth true Piety imparts?
She, only She, the Soul's unbounded wish
Can satisfy; an ever-gnawing worm
Imbitters ev'ry joy the world can give;
Each wish attain'd, a disappointment brings,
And still, unsatisfy'd, the Soul will crave;
For none but God himself can fill her wish:

Man, that strange compound, feels a nameless want
Toss in his breast; he feels it point to heav'n,
And ask protection there;—but how to gain
That boon, the soul of life, he little knows.
Wild have the errors, strange the mazes been
That Man has wander'd thro': The Sun, the Moon,
The Stars, the Fire, have all been hail'd as Gods.
To Onion, Ox, and Dog, as emblems fit
And habitations of th' eternal One,
Sage Mizraim bow'd the knee: And Men, weak Men,
Now dead, and all their weakness out of view,
When Fable swell'd their deeds, the Nations hail'd
As Gods and Guardians. If the storms descend,
If Pestilence or raging War destroy;
To expiate the wrath of angry Heav'n,
The lab'ring Ox must leave the yoke, the Goat
His craggy hill, the Lamb his mother's side,
And at the altar die;—and, dire to tell,
The Parents bring their young, their best lov'd Boys
And fairest Daughters by the knife must bleed,
And on the altar burn; with hideous shrieks
The hills and skies resound, while with lewd rites,
And incantations under many a name,
The Pow'rs of Heav'n are call'd; yet all the while
The Heart is quite forgot; ev'n in the act
Of Worship, murders, fraud, and stern revenge,
And violence, and lust, are nourish'd there.

Others, on whom a purer light has shone;
To whom the amiable God has said,
“Give me thy Heart, my Son,” have oft forgot
The sacred precept, or esteem'd it light.
To count the leaves that tremble in the woods
Of Mount Lebanus, were an easier task
Than to narrate the ills that have aris'n
From the fix'd Pride, Ambition, and Revenge,
And Avarice, of those who have assum'd
The name of Teachers, and the Sent of Heav'n.
To serve their purposes, the earth must stink
With human gore, the Kings must bend the knee,
The nations must deliver up their wealth;
All must be theirs; the keys of heav'n and hell
Hang at their Headman's belt, who impious boasts
He cannot err—yet oft old Atheist he.
Amaze and horror strike me to relate
How Men, low reptiles, dare, with base intent
And solemn insult, mock the God of Heav'n,
And stamp their horrid vices with his name.

Others, of purer life and less design,
Shock'd with the wickedness and black intent
Of those around, a melancholy gloom
O'ershades their souls: each wicked thought is held
The black suggestion of the Evil One;
Each warmth they feel is then a gale of Heav'n;
Reason is laid aside; these follow'd close,
Though jarring oft as lurking Passion leads.
Thus, self-deceiv'd, in the worst light they view
Poor erring Man; whatever is against
Their own sufficient standard is abhor'd,
Accurs'd of God, and merits not his love.
Thus Charity is laid aside; her place
A keen attachment to some trivial point
Of system holds,—though seldom it concerns
The Goodness of the Heart. Thus Brothers oft,
Fathers and Children, when they chance to jar,
Each, sure he acts from dictates all-divine,
Betrays a native honesty of heart
Into most vile excesses: Not one jot
Will either yield, and each to hell consigns
His Opposite; the amiable God,
To his poor melancholy soul, appears
A stern relentless Tyrant, who denies
The means of Knowledge, and, for knowing not,
Condemns the Being of a Yesterday
To fixt despair and everlasting fire.

Though prone to Error, and the wild extremes
Of Superstition, under many a form,
The Nations all have been:—Let that, ye Wise,
Bear its due weight, and shew the human Heart
Still seeking some great good, which unpossess'd
No rest it knows. If Man has wander'd thro'
The wildest errors and most childish toys,
In search of this high boon; let that awake
Your Reason and strict Caution, to explore
The crowning Happiness—Seek it, ye Wise,
In th' Innocence and Goodness of the Heart,
In filial hope and faith on parent Heav'n;
Then, when the ills of life, or ghastly Death,
In all their terrors come, your Soul shall stand
The awful shock, and feel it has not grasp'd
An empty shadow; while the selfish heart
Of Superstition finds, in dire amaze,
Its bulwarks shadows, and its hope the wind.

All-just and big with mercy are the ways
Of the eternal Sire. Thy doubts dispell'd,
Thy doubts that gave thee so severe distress,
Arandus, now be happy; never more
Shall they approach thy breast. And thou, O Youth,
Who lately underwent'st the last extremes
Of mental torture, never let thy mind
Forget the awful scene; let it direct
Thy after conduct, and awake thy love
And gratitude to Heav'n. Your City-guide,
Whose hospitable roof the flames devour'd,
Approaches near: While, from the battle lost,
Agra was all confusion and uproar,
The Monarch's Concubines unguarded fled,
A lovely Fair, whose looks were innocence
And virtue, weeping fled: No road she knew,
For she was newly come: chaste as the Rose
Unblossom'd, of the fanning Gale's embrace;
Her charms protected her: the Emperor
Her mighty beauty was alone to share;
And that Rebellion and his death forbade.
Her, now, your City-guide protects; but where
To wander or to lodge, he nothing knows;
Yet, trusting Heav'n, with pious faith, he leads
Along these winding hills, in quest of food,
Her and the aged Shepherd's Sons, whose tale
Appear'd so big with woe. Home to your hills
Take the old Man, and let his setting sun
Decline in happy ease, and pious peace;
And give the Shepherd back his dear-lov'd boys,
And share and witness his excess of joy.
Be happy—O Emilec, never more
Let Doubt, or worse Despair, your breast invade.

So spake the Angel; and, with smiling look,
Ascended, as the flame of sacrifice
Offer'd by Prophets old. In wonder lost,
Amaz'd Emilec stood! when, looking round,
The old Man and his Company he saw—
The lovely form of Caia struck his eyes!
With hands half-lifted, motionless he stood.
She too soon saw him; with a modest blush,
That he might ought suspect, and trembling pace,
Advances to her Love, her sole Delight.
Thus, pure in innocence, our Mother Eve,
In virgin modesty and conscious worth,
Met Adam, first of Men. As one awak'd
From a wild dream, Emilec sprung to life:
My Caia!—Tears no other words allow'd,
While on her neck he hung: And she, in tears
Of extasy and overbearing joy,
Oh met again!—safe as thy tenderest wish!
Yes—it is he!—mute on his breast she fell:
My Caia! Oh my dearer self! he cry'd,
And have I got thee safe!—Oh, Parent Heav'n,
Forgive the errors that my bitter woes
Extorted from me; and accept my praise
And warmest gratitude, for this great gift,
Bestow'd beyond belief. Eternal King,
Arandus join'd, though dark thy ways may seem
To poor short-sighted Man, the humble Soul
That mourns his folly, and thy mercy trusts,
Shall never lack thine aid. Almighty Lord,
This crowns thy greatness, and compleats the God.
All praise and glory, pow'r and might, be thine;
Thy grace, thy favour, and thy love be ours.

So spake Arandus; and the happy Youth,
Erewhile confounded and depress'd with woe,
Enraptur'd now, feels with redoubled joy,
The glad return of Nature's lovely charms.
The Sun with gladd'ning lustre shone, the hills
Appear'd in lively green, the Shepherd's pipe
Amid the bleatings of his flock was heard;
The Lark, as emulous to aid their joy,
Springs from the grass, and chants his carols sweet,
Around them as they go; the gentle gale
Whispers among the boughs, where ev'ry note
Of tuneful bird proclaims the joys of Love.
While, hand in hand, with many a tender glance
Of love divine, Emilec and his Bride
Beguile the way; Arandus and the rest,
With joyful hearts, home to their mountains hie.