Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

1. An Omen—the Family alarmed—Rachel's death—Jenny Jerkairs, Sister of Ned Jerkairs, invited by Prue to supply Rachel's Place at Andarton.—2. Allan, a Child—his Genius—his Sensibility—his Pastimes with little Juliet the Daughter of Geoffry Squintal, and with Henry one of his Schoolmates—Allan, at the Grammar-School at Molfra— his Master, Herbert the Curate—Herbert's Character— Allan's Genius further discoverable in his solitary Walks— his fondness for the wild or beautiful Scenery of Nature—his attachment to the old Armoury and Picture-Gallery—Sir Humphrey describing the Portraits to Allan, particularly those of Cadwallo, who had possessed a Fortiefs in the North of Cornwall; of Hoel his elder Son, who built an Abbey in the East of Cornwall; and of Andar his Younger, who founded the House of Andarton on the Banks of the Fal—Allan's Spirit of Enterprize conspicuous in the Sports of the Field—A Fox Chace described —A Stranger attended by a Train of Servants insulting Allan in the Field—Allan's manly Deportment—The Stranger

discovered to be a Nabob, who had bought an Estate contiguous to Andarton.—A Twelfth-Day Feast, the Company—Herbert the Curate, Ned the Attorney, the Squire of Trevalso, Geoffry Squintal, and Alice, his Lady, a Baron's Daughter, late of Landor Abbey; Juliet, the Daughter of Geoffry, and Alice—Allan, at the Age of Fifteen—his Birth-Day celebrated —A Running-Match of Girls; of those Girls Emma the most beautiful—Emma, a Stranger from the Banks of the Tamar—Emma gaining the Prize—Juliet much attached to Emma, who resides in a Cottage near Trevalso—Allan joining Juliet and Emma in their Walks—Juliet fainting at a Shipwreck—Allan surprizing a Sailor and his Dog near Emma's Cottage—3. Sir Humphrey betraying Symptoms of Infirmity—Cautioning Allan against the Nabob Sir Henry Hawtrap, and Geoffry Squintal, and Juliet, and directing his attention to Laura (Alice Squintal's Niece), the Heiress of Landor Abbey—The old Roan Horse dying at Sir Humphrey's Feet—The Knight's decease—His Funeral.

From its pure star effusing soft repose
The purple morn o'er blest Andarton rose;
And, as the smile of peace its radiance told,
Each evening linger'd on a cloud of gold.

The gentle Fayes with pride perform'd the task
Which smooth-shorn parks and waving woodwalks ask;
But printed, as they plum'd their guardian wings,
Where Harriet bore her babe, their favourite rings.

Yet, ah! the gloom-bred sprites that interpose,
O'er ancient houses scattering bitter woes,
Plann'd the dire scheme to chase each promis'd joy,
And mark'd with scowling eyes the unconscious boy.

Not long the Knight had pac'd the lawny green
With brisker step and more heroic mien;
Viewing his groves array'd in brighter bloom
To flourish for a thousand years to come;
Ere, sudden, his whole house conspir'd to wear
A fearful aspect, or dejected air;
While all, with one accord, as if undone,
Look'd, lank in visage, to his infant son.
Indeed, old Avice, with a grandame's pride,
The babe had dandled on her knee, and died.
Her comrades too, coeval train, were gone,
Save the poor butler, whose “beard wagg'd” alone:
He, o'er his staff, tho' now condemn'd to droop,
Still told his stories to the kitchen groupe;
And still, exciting laughter ere he spoke,
With sly-set face announc'd the coming joke:

But late, the panic of his soul was such,
With palsied gait he totter'd o'er his crutch.

And now, low whisperings and half-smother'd sighs,
And secret parleys and uplifted eyes,
And winks, and other strange mysterious ways,
The Knight began to notice with amaze;
Saw Rachel from her menials take her cue,
And caught the insulting titter oft from Prue.
In vain he question'd every soul to know
The cause of such a gathering gloom of woe;
Till butler Frank at length unseal'd his lips,
And told the occasion of the sad eclipse;
And, as he forc'd a laugh to hide a tear,—
“Why, master, it is all a foolish fear;
“But sure, betwattled is our house with grief!
“Poor Peter quiver'd like an aspin-leaf;
“Jane, as she heard it, had hysteric fits;
“And Susan ever since hath lost her wits.
“Sure, 'tis a sign”—“But what?” (Sir Humphrey cried)—
“It never came, they say, but some one died.

“Before your father's death I heard strange moans—
“Among the pigeon-holes! What piteous tones!
“'Twas the same wood-dove—each old servant said—
“That hover'd at your grandsire's dying bed.
“Alas! 'tis come again! I know its note—
“At dusk of eve it roosts on yonder cote;
“And all the tamer pigeons in affright
“Fly off, or wakeful flutter thro' the night.
“The brook, indeed, yet bubbles, with a rill
“Clear as the water comes from madam's still.
“But signs, good master, are, perhaps, a joke—
“The vain surmises of us vulgar folk.”
“No—no—” Sir Humphrey cried—“my honest friend—
“'Tis well if my decease the dove portend,”—
Then to the nursery hied, where Rachel sat
Envelop'd in a dismal cloud of fate;
Within his cradle rock'd the Suckling saw
His breath with suffocative labor draw;
And, pondering on pulsations quick and weak,
Beheld, with Rachel's eye, the fever'd cheek.

But soon, sweet Harriet, smiling thro' her tears,
Chas'd from her anxious lord a crowd of fears;
And shew'd the bursting tooth as ivory white,
That vex'd poor Allan thro' the livelong night.
And, as her tumid bosom she disclos'd,
Where, draining the pure fount, he oft repos'd,
Tho' now his little searching hand no more
The mother's breast essay'd to wander o'er,
Feeble and pale; tho' now his languid lip
Scarce open'd, the balsamic spring to sip;
Nor glisten'd to her smile the half-shut eye,
Nor lull'd in slumber was the wailing cry;
Yet did her soft persuasive voice avail
To check the credit of each idle tale,
And turn to pleasantry the thoughts that stirr'd
The unquiet mind, where groan'd the boding bird;
While the fond Knight, enamour'd of her charms,
Clasp'd his best soothsayer in his ardent arms.

But say, no bird predicts the final doom;
Death, to the wise or weak, alas! must come;

And she who, with anxiety so deep,
Now watch'd the starting infant's troubled sleep,
Now, trembling, of her superstitious care
To her fond brother lent so large a share,
Seem'd, by the emaciate cheek, herself, to prove
The importance of the too prophetic dove.

To friendly counsel deaf, from doctor's shops
She turn'd averse, and said all drugs were slops;
Nor heeded her own gallipot or jar,
Tho' a sharp cough announc'd the cold catarrh.

But as the tepid Spring drove Eurus off,
She felt some respite to her bitter cough;
And from her lattice-light, as whilom, sly
Cast o'er the kitchen a sagacious eye;
While by the jingling of her tuneful keys,
Whose music for a moment chas'd disease,
The little Allan to her room she drew;
Tho' tempted by a sweeter lure he flew,
And oft, attracted to some jars of delft,
Wander'd with cunning eye from shelf to shelf.

And now the terrors of the dove were pass'd,
And Rachel scarce perceiv'd the wint'ry blast;
With sudden influence when December frore
Chill'd her weak frame, and stopp'd up every pore.

Yet vainly were narcotics deem'd of use,
Or diuretic balms, to reproduce
The due secretion of the obstructed lymph—
All—all were slighted by the pining nymph!
Take, Rachel, the diluting medicine take,
And clear thy secret ducts for pity's sake.
Who, who, when thou art gone, will tell the tale
Of good Prince Charles, or brew the October ale?
Alas! with thee, thy loyal tales are lost;
Nor breathes one jacobite to soothe thy ghost!

Scarce in the quiet vault were Rachel's bones
Deposited, amidst some decent groans,
Ere Prue to Jenny Jerk dispatch'd a card
Replete with sentiments of kind regard,
And sighing for her presence, to disperse
The shades that still were cast from Rachel's hearse.

But, tho' she dealt in point and repartee,
Jerkairs was not a friend to cordial glee:

Hers was the wit that triumphs to defame
By scurrilous abuse an honour'd name;
The satire, bursting from a rancorous heart,
To Prue malignant pleasure to impart;
Not frolic humour, to afford relief
In each light sally to Sir Humphrey's grief.

Yet all too flexible to Prue's request,
Sir Humphrey bade her “come, a welcome guest;”
Nor, as her virgin steps drew near, demurr'd,
Tho' round her whisker'd friends, or mew'd, or purr'd.

Thus sorrow renders many a bosom weak,
Unmans the soul, and prompts the childish freak;
And smiles, till Reason interpose, too late,
Alike on those we love and those we hate.

Ere long Miss Jerkairs, skill'd to play the part
Which owes success to adulation's art,

Usurp'd the full dominion of the dome,
As if Andarton were her proper home;
And offer'd, at her ease, to brother Ned
The old blue pallet, or the new chintz bed.

And, as her eye in groves no charm perceiv'd,
Nor for the fragrant field her bosom heav'd,
The pleasures of quadrille the maid embrac'd,
Resigning Nature's works to vulgar taste:
And, careless how the summer-sunbeam set,
While Prue still smil'd, and Ned engag'd Annette;
She dealt her cards around, and dealt her wit,
And laugh'd, exulting, at each lucky hit.

Meantime, the fondest wishes form'd to meet,
Play'd lively Allan at his parents feet.
His cheek, with more than rosy freshness fair,
Glow'd in the shade of brown luxuriant hair:
And as, no vulgar spirit to avow,
The rude locks started from his open brow;
His keen dark eye, that seem'd to scorn control,
Bespoke a genuine grandeur of the soul!

And whether first, amid his cradle laid,
The signs of opening genius he display'd,
Or, drawing science from the lacteal duct,
Discover'd wond'rous knowlege as he suck'd,
And, ere the tongue articulation lends,
Had all his letters at his fingers ends;
Certain it is, that ere six years were fled,
His lesson with emphatic tones he read.

Nor was he less distinguish'd, in the string
Of boys, that shot the marble thro' the ring!

Just Heaven! What looks of hatred and surprize
Miss Prudence scatter'd from her blinking eyes;
If harsh to feeble nerves his frolic glee,
Rous'd her amidst the languor of ennui!
And Jerkairs, whilst to please the doating Knight
The favourite she caress'd with mock delight,
Impatient of her charge, would strangely winch,
And vent vexation in a secret pinch.

Once, when a ray from Fancy seem'd to chase
The spleen-engender'd horrors of her face,
Prue whisk'd young Allan into Rachel's room,
Where Jerkairs and herself, to break the gloom
Of many a murky death-watch, would resort;
If sportive, bent on some fantastic sport.
'Twas then, turn'd loose, the kittens, one and all,
Here dragg'd a towser, and there seiz'd a cawl.
The monkies, rattling round, made cruel work,
Here broke a gallipot, there gnaw'd a cork,
And, as the pair in plausive triumph laugh'd,
There grinn'd and jabber'd o'er a cordial draught:
Yet by the kittens tricks nor Allan charm'd,
And by the scampering monkies unalarm'd,
Stood with the mien that manly spirit wears,
Exclaim'd, “Poor Aunt!” and wip'd the starting tears.

So beam'd in Allan, gentlest of his kind,
The earliest epoch of the unfolding mind.
Then too, 'twas sweet to note the blooming boy
While every moment danc'd alive to joy,

Eager in many a pastime to engage
The pretty Juliet of an equal age;
Whose sire, a neighbour of no vulgar race,
Alas! but ill sustain'd his ancient place.

Oft would the gallant hero, to adorn
His pleas'd companion, rob the berried thorn,
On silk his haws assiduous string, to deck
With the red glistening necklace Juliet's neck,
And violet braids, or bluebell wreaths prepare
For the soft chesnut of her crisped hair.
For her, he pluck'd the hazel clusters, brown
As his own locks, or rustling shower'd them down;
Or gather'd wildwood strawberries, where they stray'd,
Sweet frolic imps! beneath the whispering shade.
But with a sparkling fountain fond to sport,
They hail'd its mossy cave, their prime resort,
Its rock-scoop'd bason bubbling tried to reach,
Or trac'd its riplings round a hoary beech.

There (tho' with many a superstitious look
The menials wont to eye the changeful brook)

They little heeded its prophetic power,
But laugh'd, unconscious of a future hour.
There oft, an urchin of the green, with glee
Would Henry greet the favourite cave and tree:
And, as the schoolmates practis'd harmless wiles,
To win, already rivals, Juliet's smiles;
A jealous fear, tho' transient, would arrest
The joy that flutter'd in each little breast.

Time fleets o'er innocence. To Molfra's walls
Hark, the school-bell the fatchel'd tyro calls,
Erelong, to moralize with Phedrus terse,
Or cull rich morsels from Ovidian verse.
There, as, at first, he heard with mute surprize
From every desk the mingled murmurs rise,
With equal wonder he survey'd a show—
All, all, like pendulums, wag to and fro;
While these a tedious task appear'd to ply
Fastening on each hard word the sober eye,
And those, whom brisker fancy might engage,
Flung but two glances to devour a page;

And others seem'd to hunt, with anxious look,
A shadowy something thro' a bulky book;
As backwards now, and forwards now they turn'd
The tumbled leaves, and with vain ardour burn'd.
Yet here, a dunce, by heavy mists opprest,
Quits his dull work, to interrupt the rest:
And there with darts a wicked wit, bumproof,
Hits sage Minerva figur'd in the roof,
Or pins infixes in tenacious pitch,
To pierce, by smart surprize, a brother's breech.
Thus, as one general buzz salutes the ear,
Thro' lucent glass the glowing bees appear:
All seem to kindle with incessant toil
From cell to cell, and rear the waxen pile:
Here too, slow drones the vivid labors mar,
And there, a wicked wasp provokes the war.
Sudden, the master's mien spreads pale dismay;
And all the busy fervour dies away.
How many an imp, that dreads his keen research,
Tho' ferulas repose, and sleep the birch,
Yet, as no sense of worth vouchsafes a balm,
Shrinks, from the imagin'd stroke, his burning palm,

Or from the tingling twigs appears to start,
And feels his little bum in fancy smart.
Not thus the hero-boy the panic fills,
His bosom pierces, or his buttock thrills:
Yet some mysterious feeling overawes
His heart, amidst the universal pause.
Conscious, indeed, of merited disgrace
As others read their fate in Herbert's face,
And droop'd thro' sheepishness, or strove to wear
(In vain assum'd) a hypocritic air;
He, with a soul that laugh'd at fear or guile,
Look'd round to meet the curate's wonted smile.

And generous Herbert lov'd young dawning Truth,
Still nursing, in himself, the fire of youth.

To the sweet buds of mental promise kind,
His was to note the first faint traits of mind;
Distinguishing the sullen child, the sad,
From the free spirit of the alerter lad;
Fir'd by the Muse himself, to feed with praise
Bosoms where Genius stream'd its living rays,

And, far above mechanic plodders, class
Such souls selected from the vulgar mass.
For such he cull'd the bold, the brilliant thought,
The graceful line so exquisitely wrought;
To such depictur'd, with the enthusiast's air,
Models of ancient worth supremely fair,
The trophied chief, the statesman and the sage,
The great, the good in Grecia's golden age;
And drew, in contrast, as the portraits glow'd,
The modern fashionist, the Man of Mode.
Yet, midst the tinsel show, one worthy wight
He hail'd, and fondly doated on the Knight;
His plain simplicity with pleasure trac'd,
And with an ardent grasp his views embrac'd.
Tho' but a novice with his gun, he strove
For the good Knight to clear the tangled grove,
And oft on holidays, assur'd to win
High favour, volunteer'd a whipper-in.
But, from the flashing tube while thunder flew,
He thought what game the Grecian arrow slew,
And with the Andarton-pack, at dusky dawn,
In fancy travers'd the Parthenian lawn.

Meantime, the boy to Herbert's curious gaze
Discover'd genius brightening to a blaze—
An eye, that sparkled at the eccentric thought,
Or glisten'd sudden, with a tear-drop fraught;
The quick suffusion at his master's glance;
A spirit darting like the lightning's lance;
The soul within itself retir'd, and round
Tho' mingled voices rose, unheeding sound.

Attacht to lone retreats, the dingle deep,
The longdrawn dale, the mountain's sky-clad steep,
If, where the raven shap'd her ancient nest
Amid some beech's solitary crest,
He scal'd, exulting at her angry croak,
Its trunk, and thro' the topmost branches broke;
'Twas not, like half the fatchel-bearing throng,
To rob the parent of her callow young;
But—“O forgive the intrusion (would he cry)
“Whilst, raven! I admire thy glossy dye;
“Observe in thy wild haunt, so dark and still,
“A dwelling fram'd with more than human skill;

“And note, amidst the walks of man so rare,
“Unerring prudence in parental care.”

Deep in the woodland, high above his head,
Their lowest boughs where trees far darkening spread,
And bath'd in sky their blue aërial tops;
Where not a sheepwalk gleam'd along the copse;
Plunging, he oft pursued the screaming pie,
Or paus'd, as pierc'd the gloom the falcon's cry;
Or where green areas drank the golden light,
Mark'd the smooth motion of the gliding kite,
And, where a sheltering foliage seem'd to flow,
The terror of the birds that shrunk below.

What time the tawny forest Autumn heaves,
And scatters, at each gust, a shower of leaves;
Oft, on some knoll, he caught the rising breeze
In its first rustling from the distant trees,
Heard the sound lengthen, sigh succeeding sigh,
And view'd the billowy gloom with straining eye;

Till now, the deepening undulation near,
The extensive murmur swell'd upon his ear,
And, in one mighty wave, the incumbent wood
Rush'd forth, a world of shadow, where he stood.

Where, with broad meshes hung, above the glade
Two pines, like pillars, form'd a vista'd shade,
Pleas'd would he wait that point of twilight pale
When flew the woodcock up the silent dale;—
Tho', as he musing stood, and lov'd to trace
The suntints glowing on the cloud's deep base,
And each gradation of the October-view,
The burnisht woodmoss, the pale sapling's hue,
And, slow-receding into shadow dim
The duskier purple on each old oak-limb,—
Strait would he leap, as leaps the elastic spring,
From his trance waken'd by the woodcock's wing,
And tremble, as it beat, escap'd the snare,
With desultory plumes the gleaming air.

And, as the shade of night began to brood,
And now the bright still moonbeam tipp'd the wood;

He lov'd to see the grey owl slowly sail
From bush to bush, and chase her thro' the vale;
Pursue her to her ivied haunt restor'd,
Catch her wild hiss, or listen, as she snor'd.

If winter, round, his grey-cold mantle threw,
As the keen blast from sabler Eurus blew,
Absorb'd in pensive thought, he saw the dale
One slumbering mass, in torpid horror pale;
The glimmering elmrow erst with ivy gay,
And the dank flood that urg'd its sullen way;
When, by a sudden sunbeam cloath'd in green.
Rush'd the long elms, and wav'd a glittering screen;
And, its whole channel kindling on the sight,
The torrent roll'd its feathery foam in light.

Oft too, when snows had veil'd the vale and hill,
And all the frozen atmosphere was still;
Young Allan to the grove his fancy led,
Its ice-clad branches shivering overhead;
And bade him listen to the shafted snow
That fell, clear-tinkling, on the leaves below,

What time the redbreast hopp'd from spray to spray,
And ceas'd, too weak, the solitary lay.

And, in his wintry rambles, oft he found
(Where erst to summer-suns with airy bound
The squirrel frisk'd) its nuts a beauteous prize,
How brightly burnisht to his Juliet's eyes;
Or from some lowly shrub in triumph bore,
Seiz'd in its bed of moss, the drowsy dor.

Yet not alone the studious Allan woo'd
Coy Nature in her calm or pensive mood;
But, breaking from her tranquil paths, the form
Of danger hail'd amidst the hurtling storm.
Tho', as it stain'd the clift's basaltic height,
He lov'd the cold blue tint of early light,
And oft observ'd the fleeting sunbeam shift
To level uplands from that pillar'd clift;
Or thence, the sun descending, view'd at eve
Its last low circles on the silky wave;
Or, thro' dim fissures, wound his dubious way
Where never fell one faint reflected ray;

Pluck'd the chill dropstone, caught the mineral gleam,
Cull'd the grey moss, or trac'd the encavern'd stream.

But, oftener, wild with transport, would he climb
Some samphir'd ledge, some sea-washt crag sublime;
Then rest, exhausted, on the pointed rock,
And, at its base where broad the surges broke,
Survey the hern that shrieking plung'd beneath,
And strait emerg'd amidst a watery wreath;
While seagulls high their snowy pinions pour'd
And the dark cloud grew sabler as they soar'd,
Or, wheeling round on rapid pinion, spread
Air-pois'd, their deep pavilion o'er his head.

And if in flame, amidst his monster-march,
The growling thunder wrapp'd the ethereal arch;
Oft would his dauntless spirit mount in air,
Brave the red wrath, and triumph in the glare.

One evening-close, in heaps by Auster driv'n,
As the clouds blacken'd o'er the vault of Heaven,

The Knight had miss'd his solitary child,
And, by the impatience of his terrors wild,
Had search'd, and round dispers'd his menial train,
Each cranny of the dome, but search'd in vain;
And now, almost a maniac, in the van
Along the lawn, beneath the gateway ran;
When, sudden, thro' the dense nocturnal shade,
Loud from above, a laugh the boy betray'd;
And, as the shaking turret sent a groan,
Full in a flash from heaven the hero shone!

Of flights, indeed, so lavish was the lad,
That the poor menials set him down for mad;
Ascribing, strait, with visages drawn lank,
To lunar influence each adventurous prank.

Vers'd in the pageantries of old romance,
The heroic boy would ponder o'er Provence,
Or Albion colour'd by chivalric hues,
Nor quit the Cambrian bards for Maro's Muse.

Amidst these fancies, in the rust of arms
Each hour, the enthusiast saw some recent charms;
With looks that kind assistance seem'd to ask
The cuirass ey'd far off, the cobweb'd casque;
And their dark brassy red, their steely blue
Admir'd, still longing for a nearer view.

The dinner-bell had chim'd the hour of one,
No Allan near: the roving boy was gone.
And now, tho' none had mark'd his devious track,
All read his madness in Moore's Almanack!
“We might have found the fit, exact at noon!
“So stupid—not to notice the full moon!”

And, lo!—Miss Prue, perhaps, enjoy'd the joke—
Each untouch'd viand pour'd a feeble smoke;
When, after various search, the trembling Knight
Discover'd, on the ruin'd castle-scite,
And in amazement view'd the eccentric boy,
Grasping, as others would have grasp'd a toy,
What, falling from its wainscot, might o'erwhelm
E'en Allan's vigour, an enormous helm:

The ponderous helmet yet the boy convey'd
From its dim pannel to the castle-shade.

But most young Allan, from a trowser'd child,
Admir'd his “whisker'd sires and mothers mild;”
And to the gallery, ere his sire he saw,
Would, every holiday, in haste withdraw;
When once Sir Humphrey read, with fond surprize,
An amateur in Allan's sparkling eyes.

“Yes, yes! my boy—such Chiefs attention claim,
“Far different from the sons of modern fame.
“How many an anecdote of those grave folks
“My sire would season with abundant jokes.
“First, view yon picture of the Castle, flank'd
“By that firm buttress, with a moat embank'd;
“While, far beneath, along the peopled glade,
“The straw-cots darken in its stately shade.
“The portraits here, whose colours cease to glow,
“Whose burnisht frames now fade along the row,
“Were, as the records of Andarton tell,
“From the rent castle rescued ere it fell.

“There, on the left, less tawny forms appear;
“Their features round and full; their drapery clear:
“Those bolder outlines speak more recent hands,
“Posterior to the rebel Cromwell's bands.

“But to these ancient figures first we bow.
“Here, what a Chief! How stern his warrior-brow!
“Know, midst the Cambrian glens, my son, we trace
“To a proud earl our high-descended race.
“From Cambria when the chieftain issued forth,
“He seiz'd a Cornish fortress of the North.
“There long he liv'd, with power, with plenty blest,
“And half Cornubia's sylvan lands possess'd.

“There, dying midst his thick assailing foes,
“His sons he summon'd—so tradition goes—
“And strait display'd, while ebb'd his vital blood,
“Two topaz rings with wondrous power endued;
“And”—‘Hoel, take this ring portentous, take—
‘And Andar this, for brave Cadwallo's sake.
‘With pious care these peaceful tokens keep,
‘Nor bid them in a dark oblivion sleep.

‘So shall ye live, in faith, in friendship staunch;
‘So bloom for ages, each fraternal branch.
‘But if, from distance, at some future day,
‘The memory of your kindred names decay;
‘These meeting rings, by strange attractive power,
‘The pristine union shall, my son! restore.
‘I die—but here, beside this shatter'd wall,
‘Inter me, with my sabre, ere it fall.’

“While cruel discord bade the brothers part,
“High Hoel, vaunting a religious heart,
“Fast by some eastern stream an abbey rear'd;
“And Andar midst his Cornish troops appear'd
“The valorous chief, and nigh the Fala's wave
“Its infant name to old Andarton gave.
“See, then, the sable Andar, dim-portray'd,
“And note that ring fast-sinking into shade.
“Together with the ill-omen'd gift, the Thane,
“'Tis said, was buried in some neighbour-fane.

“See next the son of Andar more grotesque;
“Tho' fading from its outline, picturesque.

“Curls from his upper lip, tho' smooth his chin,
“A look, that not to nurse, he deem'd a sin.
“Yes! e'en at court the fierce Sir Hugh appear'd,
“While scoff'd the Normans at his upper beard.
“His belt once gemm'd with many a precious stone,
“Now mourns its rubies lost, its garnets gone:
“His woolsack breeches would my sire amuse;
“Nor less the structure of his wooden shoes.
“A limner of a later age, 'tis said,
“Drew these quaint figures from some dreaming head.
“And see yon vest, that trains in many a fold,
“Once richly pictur'd for a cloth of gold.
“Degory! thy reputation here may rest—
“Thy virtue slumbers in a golden vest.
“Lo, in a robe of velvet richly clad,
“Old Blanch his sister, who expir'd a maid—
“Her wrists and collar deeply trimm'd with fur;
“Her virgin fame unspotted with a slur.
“'Twas in the reign of the fifth Harry, staunch
“In vestal honours, flourish'd sister Blanch.
“Our family, my son, hath cause to bless
“Yon chief who wears the collar of S. S.

“'Twas he, connected with a Count, renew'd
“The impoverish'd current of the Andarton-blood.

“But, lo! yon warrior clad in coat of mail—
“His beaver up—I shudder at the tale.
“Shaking his tilting-staff, he eyes askance
“The fragments of the foeman's broken lance.
“But bloody vengeance quick pursued the blow—
“He met a dire assassin in the foe.
“The piece, that now attracts thy curious eyes,
“Exhibits female beauty in disguise.
“Our modern dames would scarce essay to lift
“The golden weight of such a cumbrous shift,
“That with a gorgeous store of trimmings drest
“Bids its deep lace envelope all the breast.
“And, lo! with buttons stuck, with broidery rough,
“Gloves for a dozen females large enough;
“And other fripperies that have e'er disgrac'd
“The sex, to fashion bending, not to taste.
“Yet mark, my son, the venerable pair—
“That ermin'd robe, that cap's judicial air

“Which to the full round face gives sapience high,
“And deep decision to the stedfast eye.
“He, who from good Queen Bess extorted praise,
“How would he frown on these degenerate days!
“And dost thou note his consort's sweeping train,
“Her high-wrought buttons and her massy chain?
“That chain of every heir hath grac'd the birth—
“The original I mean—of mickle worth—
“And, if an old tradition credit claim,
“(An old tradition of prophetic fame)
“As long as, glittering from the jack, we boast
“That relic of renown, to rule the roast,
“So long (and sure it merits well thy care)
“Andarton-house shall never want an heir.
“But see, so black its locks, that visage bluff,
“With whiskers staring wild, and stiffen'd ruff;
“Each eye those masses of strong shadow strike,
“Where artists hail the pencil of Vandyke.
“Behold a ruff, more elevated, deck
“His stately lady, Dionysia's neck.
“From her left hand a bracelet's diamond light
“Decays—a fan, dim-figur'd, in her right;

“Thro' her, the daughter of the judge, we rais'd
“Our tottering house, and with new splendour blaz'd.
“Their son, the last in all this reverend row,
“Sigh'd o'er his castle-walls, alas! laid low;
“Saw from his gateway rebel swords distain
“These sacred shades, and mourn'd the mangled slain.”

Now to the gallery had calm eve withdrawn
Its last faint suntint from the velvet lawn,
Yet heightening with a gleam of radiance weak
The dusky redness of Sir Roger's cheek.
“Come, leave, (he cries) as eve's pale shadows close
“Around, these grave old gentry to repose.

“And, lo! that reverend row, where Damaris joins
“The sleek Sir Roger, from whose lusty loins
“Thy grandsire sprung, shall meet thy curious eyes,
“Soon as to-morrow's morn shall gild the skies.
“But see Sir Roger, e'en on canvass big,
“Can coax a sunbeam to his fullbrown wig—
“Still seems alert, with face so rubicund,
“To drink and pun, as once he drank and punn'd:

“Ah! (cried Sir Humphrey) 'twas Sir Roger built
“That golden chamber, once so richly gilt.
“There (would he tell), when music wak'd the dance,
“Was many a stripling fir'd by Beauty's glance:
“There, with young hearts, as rogueish Cupid plagu'd,
“Were half the matches of the county made.”

Now the soft down, as lambent o'er his chin,
His vivid cheek, its shade had sprinkled thin;
When still the boy was tranc'd by bardic dreams
Midst mountain-glooms, or dell-secluded streams:
Tho, often, would he join the social train
Borne by his active spirit o'er the plain;
Not where weak puss the circling hunters trace,
But wild where forest-inmates fire the chace.

“Yet” (cried the youth, on other times intent,
When by stout arms the tough yew-bow was bent),
“O could I follow the keen falcon's flight,
“And view him pounce his prey like arrowy light;
“The guerdon of the trophied hunter win,
“Where towering antlers brush the woods of Glynn;

“Or brave the British tiger's fiery rage,
“Or with the tusked boar fierce battle wage—
“E'en now I hear the thrilling bell-horn's blast!
“I see proud steeds, the gulphy stream o'erpast,
“Foam in full gallop down the rushing wood—
“I see the dewlapp'd beagle gor'd with blood!
“Alas! where now the field of British praise?
“Adieu the deeds of old chivalric days!”

'Twas at the feast, when many a rustic squire
In mild town-spirits rais'd the intense desire
To bid the henroost felon meet his doom,
That expectation heighten'd Allan's bloom.

Red o'er its eastern slope while peep'd the dawn,
The moon's faint silver touch'd the shadowy lawn:
The stars had faded in the blush of day,
Yet twinkled, with quick radiance, West away;
When huntsman Peter blew the awakening horn,
And bade the unkennel'd hounds salute the morn.
The neighing steeds, with ardour all aloof,
To echo wildly struck the rattling hoof;

As Neville, first, beheld with eager ken
Far off, the misty glimmering of the glen,
Where Reynard, his nocturnal rapine clos'd,
Sated, amid slain geese, perhaps, repos'd;
As Ned the attorney, trembling for his neck,
A restive sorrel vainly strove to check;
And Allan won, thro' grassy lanes, his way,
With mounting spirits, on the dappled grey;
Now held the whipper-in in deep discourse,
By turns admir'd the master and the horse;
Express'd some wonder that in flesh so spare
The creature could so bold a rider bear,
Yet archly said, that spindles of such length,
Such ribs, had double swiftness, double strength;
And learn'd how Rosinante, from a colt,
Had scrap'd acquaintance with each fox's holt.

Not with the sacred love of hunting smit,
But curious to behold the maniac fit
When down the craggs their coursers dash'd amain,
The classic curate join'd the hunter-train.

Pleas'd, with Sir Humphrey, from some height to court
A fleeting prospect of the motley sport,
Perhaps he heeded not the vanisht hound,
But calmly gallop'd o'er Ovidian ground;
Invok'd fair Dian, or to prove his skill,
Rehears'd sonorous lines from Somerville!

Scarce had the terriers, 'neath a rocky steep,
Pierc'd the close bushes of the dingle deep,
Ere Reynard, sneaking round the scented spot,
Swift as an arrow from the thicket shot,
Trembled amidst the boisterous taliho,
And shook the dewdrops from his tail of snow.
Up the long brake he speeds, then gains a copse,
And down the shelving slope that instant drops,
And rushes thro' a valley's elmy round,
And doubling backward, gains his former ground;
There, in his dingle, with a transient halt,
Enjoys a stilly pause, the hounds at fault.

Again he hears, arous'd by every gale,
The obstreperous sounds that mingle thro' the dale;

When, quick detecting, with a villain's eye,
A hare that in her form was shrinking nigh,
He, to the murmuring dogs, poor Puss betrays,
And sends them opening thro' the various maze;
Slinks in the rear, observes her circling track,
Marks the fair view, and slow pursues the pack.
Ah! soon (whilst cover'd in a swamp of reeds
The treachor lies) his feeble victim bleeds.
Nor had the dogs regain'd the dying scent,
Had not a saucy pie, on mischief bent,
Chatter'd and scream'd across their dubious way,
Then hover'd o'er the reeds where Reynard lay.
Abrupt he hurries from the ill-trusted plash,
As wrath and fear his glaring eyeballs flash;
He flies—and o'er a thousand vallies borne
Mix in one maddening chorus hounds and horn

His sanguine spurs the courser's sides distain,
The proud boy bending o'er the fiery mane.

Now, scattering o'er a park the terriers pour'd,
As if the verdure they at once devour'd;
When, sudden, where a bordering mead they cross'd,
And on the level sod a moment lost
The fainting scent; a horseman rude appear'd,
And, as his steed superbly pranc'd and rear'd,
A liveried train behind their master blaz'd,
And rustic admiration round him rais'd.
With air imperious thro' the trembling field
He rush'd; and, as the hounds wheel'd backwards, wheel'd,
And broad at Allan aim'd the insulting stare;
While Allan, with a cool and conscious air
Of mental grandeur, met his scornful eyes,
And o'er his face saw pique and choler rise.

And now, while triumph spreads a general flush,
Exhausted Reynard drags his scenty brush;
His last faint effort, thro' a farmyard breaks,
With shivering limbs along the homestall sneaks,

And creeps, where erst he kenn'd, intent on blood
With fascinating eyes the feathery brood.
There, where he oft had seiz'd his gasping prey,
Detected by a clown the felon lay.
Lo, at his streaming throat the terriers hang,
And, as the horn gives echo every clang,
And shouts and Allan's shriller voice his death
Announce, reluctant yet, he yields his breath;—
When, with pale passion on his palsied lip,
The stranger, fierce at Allan, smack'd his whip,
The hero-boy the smack with smack repaid,
And calm, the menace with a smile survey'd.

Soon as the story reach'd Sir Humphrey's ear,
O'er his lov'd boy he dropp'd for joy a tear.
But, when the flaming stranger was describ'd,
The Nabob who had erst the borough brib'd,
The Nabob who had bought the adjacent lands,
Sir Humphrey with new transport clasp'd his hands.

Tho' Allan, where a blustering Thraso swell'd,
Each insult with a lion heart repell'd,

Yet, gentle as the wood's retiring dove,
His bosom heav'd to every sigh from love.

One Twelve-day, whilst on each still pane was rais'd
Frost's palmy leaves, and broad the chimney blaz'd;
Stretcht on the groaning board the sirloin smoak'd,
Each appetite a capon plump provok'd,
And in the centre, tempting every eye,
With standing crust, appear'd the Christmas pye.
Yet somehow, in Sir Humphrey's mind at least,
'Twas very different from a Twelve-day feast.
The lorn sirloin, while now no tongue could tell
Its little history, relisht once so well,
While none essay'd its annals to record,
And trace it e'en from clover to the board,
In vain its old credentials wish'd to claim,
To shine among sirloins of mighty name.
Beneath the shade of poor Sir Humphrey's frown,
Its lack of fat and frothiness and brown,
Disconsolate, the capon seem'd to mourn—
In former times 'twas roasted to a turn!

And, in the paleness of its standing crust
The pye betray'd a symptom of distrust.
In truth, the dishes tho' the curate bless'd—
By the blue devils they were all possest;
And the keen sport of knives too sad to urge,
Breath'd in pathetic union Rachel's dirge.
Not, Jenny Jerkairs! thus forlorn thy case,
Tho' doom'd to fill departed Rachel's place;
While Prue her visage sharpen'd in a sneer,
And mix'd with scowling looks thy satyr-leer!
Here, the calm curate bade his cares repose:
There, Ned the attorney sat with twisted nose.
And, lo! from his new sociable let down,
(A fine machine that dazzled all the town)
Trevalso's 'Squire! Tho' polisht and urbane,
He rarely talk'd with rustic wights profane;
Since, in the borough-business long immerst,
And late in military tactics verst,
His mind to nobler objects he withdrew,
And shone a townclerk and a colonel too!
Erect amid his Cornish cousins set,
He puffs, and eyes askance his epaulette!

His wife, a Baron's daughter, knew to hide
Beneath a courtly smile baronial pride;
Rain'd looks of civil sort on all alike,
And pleas'd the million, while she fail'd to strike.
And Alice had the Squire vouchsaf'd to wed;
Tho' midst the pomp of Landor-abbey bred.
Her girl, sweet Juliet, thro' maternal care,
Had caught, it seems, an artificial air;
No longer with amusive fancies wild,
Or laugh'd, or prattled as a careless child;
Practis'd her pretty syllables to lisp,
Despis'd of playfulness each Will-o-wisp;
Yet, only half-instructed “to behave,”
A transient blush, by fits, to nature gave;
From observation shrunk, a little shy,
And droop'd at Allan's glance her conscious eye.
And from her cradle to her teens, design'd
For Allan, in old Geoffry's scheming mind,
She fidg'd about, each time her father spoke,
In apprehension of a threatened joke.

Thus, the kind Fay, that heightens rural glee,
Mourn'd with dim eye the vanisht jubilee!

But, as the genial bowl with vapours bland,
Now bade the bosom-sentiment expand,
More warm the love of Christmas converse wax'd,
And its tense muscles every face relax'd.

Scarce were the guests, indeed, dispos'd to pour
The glass, in honour of the festal hour,
Ere, from Sir Humphrey's table, Squintal ran
To scenes of fetes luxurious, and began
To range in rapture o'er the splendid board
Of his poor brother, the departed Lord;
From lords to dukes, to dignify his prose,
In all the grandeur of the climax rose;
And, beating round Andarton-dale again,
With his new friend the Nabob clos'd the strain:
When Alice bow'd at every sage remark,
And flew from vulgar halls to Landor-park.
Indeed, accustom'd to such lordly pride,
To such magnificence (she said and sigh'd)

As wealth displays in Landor's stately dome,
She barely (she avow'd) had elbow-room;
Then told, how with a more than mother's care,
She cherish'd, erst, the beauteous Laura there—
Her niece, with whom the Graces lov'd to sport,
Erelong to add new brilliance to the court.
At Laura's name, Sir Humphrey would have thrown
A look of mystic meaning on his son,
But, ere that look of mystery could be cast,
Caught the poor stripling riveted full fast—
Absorb'd, perhaps, by visionary charms,
Some fancied Juliet clasping in his arms,
And, with a frown to check the unfolding joy,
Restor'd to reason the romantic boy.
The curate, in a reverie far gone,
Sang thro' his teeth, or utter'd half a groan;
And, beckoning to the laurel walk, tho' spread
With sheets of ice, reluctant Allan led.
“Ah! ne'er, my boy (he cried), be thine to court
“Such neighbours as with veteran customs sport,
“Who scorn the good old paths their fathers trod,
“And, but to Fashion bead, their only god.

“To affectation whilst the Squire resign'd,
“His mansion opens to the surly wind,
“Plans his new schemes, and Taste and Reason shocks
“With taudry rails around “the Summer-box;”
“To fresh-sprung fools the willing ear he lends,
“And scorns the virtues of his ancient friends;
“Exchanges old plain-dealing for finesse,
“And smothers kindness under politesse.
“His treacherous art, my boy, be thine to slight,
“Tho' to “the Summer-box” his smile invite;
“Nor dare the girl's insidious poison sip,
“Tho' dimpled Juliet pout her pretty lip.”
He said: each syllable, perhaps, was true;
But, silent as the leaves, the boy look'd blue;
And, wondering how dim alleys, stiff with ice,
Could to their bower the pedagogue entice,
In tremulous accents a proposal made
To quit, for seenes less drear, the shivering shade.

The drooping spirits of the hall to raise,
The Knight had pleaded for old Christmas plays.

Strait at the word the impatient Allan flew,
And round the scatter'd chairs in order drew.
Mirth beam'd a moment; from Sir Humphrey's mien
Its radiance scattering the cold damp of spleen.
Tho' wrapt in all the still reserve of Whist,
Squintal his pompous gravity dismiss'd;
Prue banish'd from her visage every cloud;
And Jenny Jerkairs scream'd, and laugh'd aloud.
But Allan, into blunders oft betray'd
By fits of absence, many a forfeit paid;
And doom'd, as now at length the lots were drawn,
By a strange penance to redeem a pawn,
Certes, he judg'd the sentence passing hard
To ape the mercer with his flippant yard,
And measure ells on ells behind the screen—
But ells of love with Juliet, all unseen.
Its ribbon slipp'd aside, without a check
A truant lock had wander'd down her neck;
While o'er her cheek its sister gently stray'd,
And veil'd her blushes in its chesnut shade.
And, as thy lip effus'd a brighter glow,
And moist, its liquid ruby seem'd to flow,

Could Allan dare, delicious Juliet, sip
The insidious poison from that pretty lip?

Such was the moment, when o'er Fancy's fire
Pass'd a fleet shade from fear and fond desire:
Full soon, my Allan! on thy careless hour
A deeper gloom shall grinning demons pour.

To mark his Allan's birth, the genial sprite
Each year had duly bless'd the festal rite.
Behold, that spirit welcom'd in fifteen
An eye fire-darting, a commanding mien;
The rich carnation of the vivid cheek
Thro' whose clear brown a sunbeam seem'd to break,
Happy, that such a stripling bloom'd to grace
The hoary woodlands of the Andarton-race;
When now, to usher in the natal morn,
(A mild October saw the hero born)
Sir Humphrey, with a parent's cordial smile,
Drew up his pleas'd domestics, rank and file;
And plac'd his heir exulting at their head,
And to the down the due procession sped;

There mark'd his tin bounds with exact regard,
As delving spades renew'd the mouldering sward;
Thence, while pale Eurus o'er the dusky surf
Roll'd his rent foliage like the billowy surf,
Thence led them from the young plantation grove
That skirts the bottom, to the slope above,
And bade, along the hill, the scattering train
Here set a sycamore, there plant a plane;
Here beds of ashkeys and of acorns sow,
There range the little elms in many a row.
“Yes! (cried Sir Humphrey, with a flush of joy,)
“To grace the birth-day of my generous boy,
“I sow my acorns that, in future time,
“May rise old England's wooden walls sublime.”

Yet oft he shudder'd at the woodman's stroke;
Tho' many a mighty patriarchal oak
Across the glens the extensive shadow flung,
Or down his shelving hills romantic hung.

Beneath his avenue's majestic shades
The Knight next hail'd the village-boys and maids,

As lambkins gamesome, the broad trunks between,
Or peeping shy as fawns from alleys green.

Strait at his beck as all drew near the Knight,
He bade, his bosom bounding at the sight,
The buxom troop their wonted sports renew,
Or hunt the slipper, or the ball pursue,
At “blindman's-buff” along the verdure play,
Or thread the needle, rang'd in quaint array;
Till now, to crown the whole with festal grace,
Sir Humphrey to the girls propos'd a race;
And, for the damsel who outran the rest,
Nam'd the fair prize, and ey'd each eager breast—
A prize that Allan's self would soon bestow,
Enough to set their bosoms in a glow—
A chaplet sweet (he cried) no maid would miss;
And mark, ye dainty girls, a sweeter kiss!
The garland, tho' it told October sear,
In each dim floret of the waning year,
Yet beaming thro' the cornflower's modest blue,
And the pale pansy of a fainter hue,

The marigold's intenser flame display'd—
“So (cried the Knight) shall burn the victor maid.”

Gay from the porch, to meet the rustic troop,
Advanc'd the ladies in a motley groupe.
There Madam Squintal ponder'd o'er the show;
And tripp'd her daughter on fantastic toe,
In fond idea join'd the rival throng,
And with the zephyr's lightness skimm'd along;
And, lo! her eyeballs stern on Juliet nail'd,
Prue stood, as in her mother-earth dovetail'd.

Now, all on tiptoe, singled out by lot,
Appear'd four lasses on the appointed spot—
One, for the match, perhaps, too tightly lac'd,
As taper'd, like the inverted cone, her waist,
Who struggling to be crown'd, it seems, the first,
Had, ere she started, all her braces burst—
More politic and wise, another maid
In azure bedgown airily array'd,
Its flowings by a sash of pink represt,
Her bashful cheek low bent upon her breast—

Her cheek, by which the bard might deem outdone
The melting peach, its side against the sun—
Another, neat at every pretty point,
And supple at each lubricated joint,
With features larger from a cap round-ear'd,
And shining elbows that so plump appear'd,
With lovely feet so famous at the fair,
That drew, where'er she stepp'd, the rustic stare;
And ankles that, so delicate and smooth,
Won vast applause from every buzzing booth—
The last, attracting to her easy mien,
Her native elegance, each eye, I ween,
Adorning, by her simple grace, a gown,
Tho' nicely needled, plain and russet-brown,
With kerchief snowy-white, without a flaw,
And light upon her head a hat of straw
Tied with a purple ribbon, whose bright hue
O'er her young bloom a kindling lustre threw,
Where gleam'd some sunny freckles, sprinkled thin,
To give new richness to her lucid skin.
Thus o'er the thorn, amidst the vernal beam,
Thin-sprent at first, its earlier blossoms gleam.

And quaintly lurk'd on that sweet face, a mole
Whence her blue eyes an arch effulgence stole;
Whilst, heaving as sweet Emma's bosom heav'd,
A ringlet's golden glow her kerchief's white reliev'd.
“Heigh, Emma (cried the Knight in waggish strain),
“What you, you saucy baggage, here again!
“Oft, to your proper parish, have I said,
“I'd send you packing, you young alien jade:
“But, mind you, beat your rivals in the row;
“Or off to Tamar-banks full speed you go.”
The ladies titter'd at the harmless joke—
But Madam Squintall trembled as he spoke.

Now from Sir Humphrey's o'er the level ground
To Allan's oak (whose stem was fenc'd around
By rails to every poet's eye, I ween,
Invisible, as spread with olive green)
The space was measur'd for each dainty lass,
In fancy passing quick as shadows pass.

Strait, at the signal, started “Bedgown-blue,”
And, as on airy pinion, Emma flew;

And “Boddice-burst” appear'd to mock the wind
In speed, and “Shining elbows” puff'd behind.
Hot was the race. Now, “Boddice-burst,” beside,
With strong exertion e'en with Emma vied:
Now “Bedgown-blue” had Emma far outstripp'd,
And now “Blue-bedgown,” on a sudden, slipp'd,
And half-recovering, slided off, as shod
With ice, and tumbled on the shaven sod—
When Emma pass'd; and distancing the rest,
Sprang to the goal, the victor-girl confest.
The flowery garland Allan wav'd in air;
With eager transport seiz'd the panting fair;
Deep as she blush'd, her hat of straw unbound,
And with the wreath her starting tresses crown'd;
And, hastening to confer a brighter palm,
Breath'd o'er her lips, and stole ambrosial balm.
The exulting Allan, as he look'd askance,
From Juliet met a cold repulsive glance;
Whilst Prue, who, half consum'd by passion pale,
Had view'd the buxom triumph thro' her veil,
Soon as on Juliet's eye a gathering cloud
She saw, with joy convulsive laugh'd aloud.

100

Yet, whether with its cloud caprice's blast,
Or jealousy had Juliet's eye o'ercast,
Yet Emma who, beneath a neighbouring shed,
By her neat needle earn'd her daily bread,
Assur'd to meet her Juliet's gentle smile,
Cross'd the fern-lane, and climb'd the shadowy stile,
Oft at Trevalso bade the morning hour
Sun with bright ray the favourite filbert bower,
Or met the nunnery's ivy to the beam
Of noonday, sparkling o'er the dimply stream,
Or with her friend, amidst familiar talk,
Imbib'd the freshness of a twilight walk.
Then Allan, with a boy's impatience rude,
Would on the rustling bower, perhaps, intrude,
Or sudden, in some glimmering woodpath, greet
The vagrant couple; tho' as kidlings fleet
They glanc'd, elusive, down the purple glade,
Or plung'd into the gloom of deeper shade.
But oft, 'twas his their wanderings to arrest,
And seize the woodnymphs to his service prest;
Clear their wild pathway thro' entangling dells,
Or lead them upwards where the hillside swells;

101

Thro' plashy roads o'erhung by many a spray,
Or thro' long meadows point their frolic way;
Conduct the virgins o'er the expanding downs,
To where the seabeat promontory frowns;
And guide their fancies to the yellow ship,
Or the faint sail that speck'd the distant deep.

The museful maids there stood, or wander'd slow,
Till darkness brooded on the dells below;
Heard the last murmur of the dying breeze
As twilight linger'd on the placid seas;
Or view'd with terror, to the rocky verge
Fast rivetted, the foam of every surge.

One evening to their custom'd rock, tho' red
The thunder lower'd, the fair-ones Allan led;
When to the margin, at a seaman's shriek,
Pale Juliet ran, and saw the billows break
O'er a rent ship, and shiver'd all aghast,
As groan'd beneath her feet the struggling mast!
And her faint frame their strength could scarce sustain,
To reach the cottage in the willowy lane.

102

Once, nigh that cottage, Allan rambling there,
To hail, as erst, the sweet, the eccentric pair,
Perceiv'd the semblance of a sailor's mien
Glide by, and rush the veiling boughs between;
Whilst a white dog across the threshold sprung,
And o'er his master's track low whining hung.
Suffus'd with blushes Emma droop'd her head,
And, “she was all alone”—with tremour said.
“Aye—aye—I'm sorry” ('twas but half in jest
He cried) “to interrupt an hour so blest.
“Where then is Juliet?” Muttering an adieu,
With sighs unbidden from the cot he flew.

Sweet is the springtide promise! But the Muse
Must quick revert her eye to cheerless views—
From vernal blossoms to the yellow leaf,
From young-ey'd Pleasure to lack-lustre Grief.

Whilst the good Knight still woo'd at morning break
The balmy spirit to his aged cheek;
Breath'd o'er that cheek, as erst, the roseate air,
But left, alas! too faint its tincture there.

103

Still would he down his winding pathway pass,
As the dews glimmer'd on the quivering grass;
And, ere the morn had shed a fervid beam,
View the mist parting from the pale blue stream:
But from the quivering grass, the streamlet blue,
A damp to chill his creeping blood he drew.

One melancholy morn, with quick surprize
The motes of faintness dimm'd his dancing eyes;
But, as he totter'd in his wonted track,
The South's soft influence brought his senses back;
When now his son's, his Harriet's hand he press'd,
And, lifting each with ardour to his breast,
To Allan cried: “My boy, all flesh is grass!
“See but the shade of what thy father was!
“But for the solemn hour I calmly wait—
“We all must kick the bucket, soon or late:
“I too must seek, as all my fathers did,
“A long, long sleep beneath my coffin-lid:
“Then hear, my child, and heed Sir Humphrey's words,
“When low he lies, enclos'd by narrow boards.

104

“Hard is, perhaps, thy duty to sustain
“Uninjur'd, thy transmitted old demesne;
“Hard in an age, where wanton Pleasure fires
“Her sons, with virtue to pursue thy sires.
“Behold, from high Sir Andar seated here,
“These quiet fields they lov'd, beyond the gear
“Of courts or camps; yet, nerv'd by courage, rose
“To guard their country from assailing foes.
“And long Andarton-grove to laughing day
“Might wave its boughs, unweeting of decay,
“But for those blasts from many a foreign land—
“Those pois'nous plants from India's fiery sand
“That scatter all the blooms of English birth,
“And wrap in pestilence intrinsic worth.
“With rapine's bloody spoils ignobly crown'd,
“See Nabobs purchase half the county round;
“Reducing many a little farm to one,
“Bidding each cot, heigh presto, heigh begone!
“And, as the luxury of the merchant spreads
“Its bane from halls to farms, from farms to sheds;
“The yeoman, overgrown and proud of purse,
“Damns each day-labourer with a hearty curse,

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“Assigns to all their work with priggish air,
“Nor aught of labour condescends to share;
“But, percht upon his pamper'd steed, looks down
“With grin contemptuous on the toiling clown;
“To view his far-extending acres, rears
“His crest, and in a canter disappears!
“Tho' Hawtrap, as with fond impatient eyes
“He marks thy wasted manors for a prize,
“Erelong may strive, by each insidious art,
“To wind into thy young unguarded heart;
“Yet never mayst thou heed his specious smile,
“But rise superior to a Nabob's wile.
“See thy weak neighbour—see Trevalso's lord
“Lur'd by the splendour of Sir Hawtrap's board;
“Foredoom'd, my son, to mourn, perchance too late,
“The exhausted acres of his old estate.
“What tho', with sly device, his Indian friend
“Each venal hope to yonder borough bend;
“Tho' Hawtrap's wit may sharpen Geoffry's ισυς
“In league against Halvenna's sacred house;
“Tho', wading thro' chicanery to a seat,
“The townclerk bow submiss amongst the great,

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“Or reel, by many a borough favour drunk;
“Yet shall he rue his race ignobly sunk.
“And, ah! my son, let no low lurking flame
“Awake in blushes at his daughter's name.
“Oft have I seen designing Geoffry ply
“The well-aim'd joke, and guide thy boyish eye
“To Juliet's beauties; but from no caprice
“I point thy nobler prospect to the niece.
“Where Landor-woods, in all their hoary pride,
“Wave high above the Tamar's pleasant tide,
“An heiress lives—Those woods may, haply, claim
“Some slight attention to their ancient fame.
“'Twas there, the townclerk, in his gilded coach,
“To Laura's aunt maneuvr'd his approach;
“And tho' his love, 'tis said, hung somewhat loose,
“Cajol'd his Alice into Hymen's noose.
“Of Hoel, tho' we scarce discern a trace,
“Hoel, perhaps, may live in Landor's race:
“And Laura may the union-ring possess,
“Thine heritage, thro' future times, to bless.”

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He paus'd; when, sudden, from behind the trees,
A clattering noise came wafted on the breeze.
And now distinct the sound of hoofs was heard,
Tho' neither horseman's form, nor horse appear'd;
Till, wheeling round the forest-skirts, was seen
The poor old Roany on the level green;
Who galloping towards his master sped,
And oft with feeble efforts rais'd his head,
Expanding his wide nostrils as for air,
While each dim eyeball cast a transient glare;
Then, as his master he essay'd to greet,
Stagger'd, and falling at Sir Humphhey's feet,
Neigh'd, with the triumph of a moment fir'd,
And faintly neigh'd again, and strait expir'd.
“Alas! (Sir Humphrey cried) my generous Roan!
“Faithful for thrice ten years! for ever gone!
“How often has thy back, from jocund morn
“To closing eve, thy grateful master born!
“How proud wert thou, with purple housings deckt,
“And prancing, too impatient to be checkt,
“When, sheriff, to the county-town I rode!
“Yes! with thy master's pomp thy spirit glow'd!

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“And old, my Roany, we together grew,
“To the first vows of youthful friendship true.
“Yes! thou wert true, tho' struggling in the grasp
“Of death—yet faithful to thy latest gasp!
“Blest, if from every taint of vice so free,
“Full soon, poor Roany, shall I follow thee!”
Thus spoke the Knight: and, weeping like the child,
Thro' many a tear with conscious pleasure smil'd;
As memory, viewing Time's unruffled course,
Trac'd back'd his fondness for his aged horse.
And the sad presage o'er the beast he lov'd
Too true, alas! his failing stomach prov'd.
To tempt his appetite, vain every cate;
And smok'd the rich sirloin, alas! too late.
Oft, fancying a variety of food,
Pickles, he thought, might do his stomach good.
But, ah! while Indian baubles mock'd his sight,
In green, or yellow, or vermilion bright,
Ah! then, poor Rachel! then we mourn'd thee most—
Thy pickles were, alas! thy proudest boast.

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E'en tho' his lovely wife, with fearful eyes
Would strive to dress a capon Rachel-wise,
And froth the juicy breast, so plump and brown,
He pick'd, but not a morsel could put down.
Idle was every effort to bring out
The viscid humours of a floating gout;
And, as the stomach felt inflaming pain,
The potent balms of Usquebaugh were vain.
Behold, as Allan o'er his pillow hung,
The fire renew'd his tale with faultering tongue:
And, as he seem'd to feel the fainting close
Of life, Sir Humphrey on his pillow rose:
“Court not, my boy, Ambition's dizzy seat—
“Prize the rare blessing of a safe retreat.
“But if thy genius urge thee to explore
“The domes that dazzled in the days of yore,
“O chief to Landor-abbey turn thy heart,
“Tho' Juliet may, perhaps, deserve a part.”
Arch look'd the Knight—the Knight must still be arch,
With every heartpulse beating the dead march—
Then said, on Harriet fixing his fond eye,
“Beside my fire Sir Richard let me lie”—

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And calling his domestics, with the tone
Of dying goodness, bless'd them; one by one;
Then rais'd, in token of the expiring breath
His feeble hand, and clos'd his eyes in death.

Tho' Death! thy every feature chill the soul,
Yet, lo! thy herses more terrific roll!
How lengthen'd to the view the Andarton-glooms,
When thy pale steeds high shook their sable plumes;
And at the waving of the lurid torch,
Where, hung above the little woodbin'd porch
Thy hatchment seem'd to tremble in the glare,
How darken'd round the deep nocturnal air!
But, whilst thy herse in long procession drawn,
Display'd its dreadful trappings down the lawn,
Whilst good Sir Humphrey's venerable coach
Made to the churchyard stile its slow approach,
How teem'd, as Fancy all her visions brought,
With grief and terror every pause of thought.

Yet Allan, as the whole impassion'd crowd
Or wept in silent woe, or sobb'd aloud,

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Drew from the funeral sob, the funeral tear,
The joy of grief that scatter'd every fear.

The vault now left, amidst the charnel air,
One solitary mourner linger'd there—
One poor domestic breath'd the unnotic'd moan,
And, with cold nose, still press'd the dripping stone.
Yes! poor old Cato there his head reclin'd,
And to his master all his soul resign'd:
And had not butler Frank, at break of day,
From the chill pavement dragg'd the dog away,
There Cato had erelong expir'd, to prove
The attachment of a more than human love.
“Oft, while my lord was ill (the butler said),
“Cato howl'd sore, and sadly droop'd his head!
“Then, weeks ago, while shudder'd every limb,
“I saw the fount o'erflow its rocky brim;
“And, where so late it cast the limpid gleam,
“Swell round its mossy beech, a puddled stream.
“Yet master's end so near I never thought;
“No frightful dove came fluttering to the cote:

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“But, oh! the moment when the Knight was dead
“The tenants knew, for all the rooks were fled:
“And not a rook, to mend the nests, I ween,
“Amid the dismal elms hath since been seen.”

Alas! while grief and fear survey the tomb,
All Nature wears a sympathetic gloom.
Hence, ere the valued friend hath clos'd his eyes,
From every breeze we steal presaging sighs;
See, cold and sallow, the forsaken grove,
And hear lorn fountains wail o'er those we love!

END OF THE THIRD CANTO.