Young Arthur :: :: University of Virginia Library

Young Arthur

Or, The Child of Mystery: A Metrical Romance, by C. Dibdin

Dibdin, Charles (1768-1833)

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INTRODUCTION.

YOUNG ARTHUR.

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iii

—“Adsit gratia parvis.”

Wild flowers my wreath, Æolian is my lyre;
That may want fashion, this a master's fire;
Yet, if I should some casual violet bring,
Or some chance zephyr wake a tuneful string,
Scorn not the strain, tho' by no master play'd,
Nor cast the flow'r, to wither, in the shade.

INTRODUCTION.

And what is Poetry?—The Muse's Purse;
Knit into rhyme, or woven into verse;
For use or fame, alone, the texture fit
When judgment works with genius and with wit.
There is a figure, rhetoricians use,
Yclep'd Synecdoche, from this accrues
Custom of putting, by according art,
For part the whole, and for the whole a part.
Thus then is poetry the Muse's purse;
The thought's the Coin, its covering the Verse.
What various coins through circulation pass!
Gold, silver, copper—time has been that brass
Was the base medium of exchange; 'tis said
Some bards in brass pay now, and some in lead;

Others draw bills on Wit, and with them vapour;
Wit cries “No Assets ,” and the bill's waste paper.
Draw you on wit? the act would show so rank,
They'd try me for a forgery on the Bank.
I draw on Fancy, Hope's indorsement mount—
Why the man's mad, no creature will discount.
But to the Muse's money and the bard's—
T' ensure them money is beyond the cards.
This has been said; is all asserted true?
Bards get their thousands —though the fact is new;—
Bards get their thousands?—'twas not so of yore,
When genius flourished—genius now no more.
Such ever was the cry, I had said cant—
But, taste forbid that manners I should want.
Perhaps it is so; 'tis not mine to say;—
Bards get their thousands! and the thing must pay;
For publishers with thousands rarely sport—
Bards get their thousands, and I love 'em for't,
Go on and prosper; pour out themes on themes,
And “make your hay while Phœbus darts his beams.”—

Bards get their thousands! hope you thousands then?—
“Hope for the best,” has still impell'd my pen;
And Heaven forbid my modesty should set
A bound to public favour, Reader—yet,
When to fame's feast a craving bardling comes
You'll ne'er refuse a modicum of crumbs.—
Bards we have bushels—some like torrents pour
Cat'racts of cantos, with a torrent's roar;
Others, like soft, meandering streamlets, flow,
And, smoothly vapid, on their courses go,
But where or wherefore few affect to know.
Others, like fountains gush; where sprawling forms,
Of ev'ry fancy, spout their streams, like storms
Of equinoctial rain; and flounce, and dash;
Known only by their sputtering and splash:
Others, with winding wanderings, proceed,
Through cress-stor'd ditch; or through the daisied mead;
While humming bees along their margins come,
The stream as drowsy as the bees that hum:
While little fancies on their confines play,
Cull nameless flowers to “make a garland gay,”
To prank them out “in print;” while others prancing
To untun'd pipes, waltz wild, and call it dancing.

Some show in lyrics like the spreading lake
Smooth as its face; abrupt too as its break
When sudden gusts the glassy surface mar,
And little wavelings curl in watery war.
Some bards, on some high hill, they term a mount,
Espy a spring, and this they call a fount,
And dub it Helicon; and by it sit,
Imbibing water to engender wit;
There, mounted on a rocking-horse, they ride
Forward and backward, with triumphant pride;
The toyman's lash, and pointless spur, still plying;
Then call it Pegasus, and think they're flying;
Here, as they rock, the changing clouds they view,
And hence trace forms wild Rosa never drew.
To which of these, Sir Bard, do you belong?
Where is your station in the rank of song?
Is it with names the Muse delights to sing,
Who tune to heavenly harmony the string?
Or others, into Bardic choir who've crept,
And wake the lyre some think had better slept?
Possess you ('tis your boast this question brings)
All Homer's lyre, except—its golden strings?
The Mantuan reed; but crack'd, for tune unfit?
The art of Horace, save his warmth and wit?

The scourge of Juv'nal, save the lash (small part!!)
All Martial's shafts, while pointless ev'ry dart?
Is't Ovid's Love-torch unillum'd you claim;
Or, all Anacreon's fire, except the flame?
In short, good Sir—I'd not be rude or wordy—
Play you the fiddle, or the hurdigurdy?
Such as I am, few pages will express;
I ne'er claim'd much, and cannot be much less;
I read, and smile at many a lay I see;
Others, if any read, may smile at me;
Small was the hope which first inspir'd my task,
Thousands I'd take, but only units ask.

No assets:—a term used by bankers when a draft is presented, drawn by any person who has not left effects in their hands to meet it.

This has been exemplified in more instances than one.

YOUNG ARTHUR.

SUBJECT I.

Night.—The Cottage Fire.—A God-send.

Subtle, elastic, flickering, cheering, bright,
The wanton flame aspir'd with playful flight;
Again receding, while, amid the smoke,
Oft as one portion from the body broke,
And nimbly play'd, then vanish'd from the view,
The parent flame, still active to pursue,
Follow'd the track—so often may you 'spy
A group of butterflies, of brilliant dye,

By sunny bank, each volatile as bright,
Sporting—as play'd the fire's inspiring light,
With gameful grace.—The night was cold and drear;
Without the cottage crept mean-fronted fear,
And plunder prowl'd, and murder stole along;
And wandering madness howl'd her piteous song.
And superstition cow'r'd beneath her veil,
While horror whisper'd an appalling tale:
Or from her eyes the sable veil she drew,
Magnified mists, and, through the mirky hue,
Saw visions white, and direful phantoms walk,
And goblins gambol, and lank spectres stalk;
And heard the screech-owl, and the dying groan;
And saw graves open, and beheld—her own.
Within security and ease inclin'd
The brow of labour and of care to bind
With hop-cut tendrils, (as of old 'twas said
With vine-leaves Bacchus crown'd the vig'rous head
Of rosy mirth) for here the brown jug bore
A crown of mantling froth, projecting o'er
The ample brim, and proudly stood between
A sturdy hind, and her who still had been
For ten bless'd years his partner and his pride;
Not less by worth than holy rite allied;

His stretch'd-out limbs his mind at ease declar'd;
The loosen'd knee-strings dangled, and prepar'd
Sport for the kitten, which was frisking near;
Now lightly fixing on the old cat's ear,
Now her tail catching, and each oft-chang'd way
It wav'd, still following, with fantastic play;
While the more sober cat, with eyes half clos'd,
Prov'd by her purr she doted and not doz'd;
Till, angry made by some unlucky claw,
The prostrate kitten trembles 'neath her paw;
Yet, rising, looks if she again may dare,
Sees the paw rais'd, and hears grim tabby swear;
Then gives a gambol, and away she springs
And frisks, fantastical, at Hubert's strings:
Whose red-tipp'd pipe with grateful scent regal'd
His partner mild; its fragrance she inhal'd,
And smil'd, as Hubert would, in wanton play,
Puff in her face, then laugh the joke away:
A well-meant frolic of untutor'd love,
And what pleas'd Hubert, Ellen must approve.
Ellen, whose cheeks display'd the rose's wealth,
By nature painted, and preserv'd by health;
Ellen, whose eyes with winning radiance beam'd,
Whose truth-taught lips with gentlest accents teem'd;

Ellen, whose form, though not exactly grace,
Was to her Hubert all of grace he knew;
'Twas not her form, her fashion, or her face,
Alone, which won his heart and kept it true;
No, 'twas her mind, which, though untaught in youth,
Had heaven's own teaching, tenderness and truth.
Still as they chatted, innocently gay,
The mantling froth dissolv'd like snow away;
The nut-brown liquid, of its fleece once shorn,
Wastes, as the green leaf withers on the thorn.
He, though a hind, gallantly hands the jug
To her, who sips; then, ere a hearty tug
In turn he blithely takes (meanwhile askance
His chasten'd eye seeks her's with tender glance)
He turns the jug, that so his lips may meet
The part her's touch'd, to make the draught more sweet;
She sees the deed, and in her bright'ning eye
Love beams and languishes; a gentle sigh,
Half heav'd and half suppress'd, escapes, to prove
The grateful tenderness of genuine love.
To her his features now new charms unfold,
And of Adonis had she then been told,
She had rank'd for beauty him whose praise so ran
Second to none, except her own dear man.

And now, grown mellow, Hubert long'd to hear
The artless harmony he held so dear:
To hear that tongue its dulcet strains impart
Whose music won, and, winning, kept his heart,
A song he ask'd, a willing smile agrees;
A fresh charg'd pipe he lights, and waits at ease.
Simple the singer, simple was the song;
Such themes to wandering minstrelsy belong;
Two knights, two roses, and a lady bright,
Compos'd the legend, and the swain's delight;
Quaint was the phrase, historical the lay,
And told of civil feuds long pass'd away.
With gentle smile she view'd her own good man,
Then downward look'd, and modestly began.

A God-send, or sent by God, is a provincial expression, and applies to any thing which unexpectedly comes into any person's possession:—Such an accidental acquisition is superstitiously imagined by the vulgar to predict future advantage.

THE LEGEND.

1

Two bonny roses they blossom'd and bloom'd,
A white rose and a red;
And two gallant knights, with helmets plum'd,
That way by chance were led;

One pluck'd the red rose from the bough,
And the other he pull'd the white;
And a bonny rose bloom'd near the plum'd crest now
Of either gallant knight.

2

Two bonny roses they blossom'd and bloom'd,
More bright than I can sing;
On two bonny cheeks, with smiles illum'd,
Of a maiden fit for a king.
Whence came this maiden none e'er knew;
But over the sea came she;
And her bark was steer'd by a gallant crew,
And blue their livery.

3

Came then that lady, so bright, to where
Stood the knight of either rose;
Each gaz'd with ecstasy on the fair:
And became that instant foes.
For each in himself could a lover see,
A rival in his foe;
Each offer'd a rose on his bended knee,
But to each she answer'd “no.”

4

Two gallant knights I could ne'er refuse,
Then said that lady bright;
But two gallant knights I can never choose.
Then angry grew each knight.—
And will you take, O, lady fair,
A rose of the best of twain?
She answered not—and the bold knights there
Themselves to fight have ta'en.

5

By turn and by turn, each 'vantage gain'd,
In turn each 'vantage lost;
And that lady she wept, for her heart was pain'd
That her charms their friendship cross'd.
That lady she wept, and her tears flowed fast,
And the knights were sore to see;
Yet either was fain to contend to the last,
To gain the victory.

6

Now, seeing the tears that fair dame shed,
Their swords the scabbard find;

And together the roses, the white and red,
In a posey of peace they 'twin'd.
She plac'd the posey on her breast,
To either she gave an hand—
A moral within my tale doth rest
And peace to the British land.

Such was her song, and Hubert, in his turn,
First made the faggot with more vigour burn;
Resign'd his pipe, the cheering pitcher plied,
And follow'd thus th' example of his bride.

HUBERT'S SONG.

Hie o'er the sward, my faithful Tray,
There lies thy wandering master's way,
And dreary is the path;
A lonely cot thy master seeks,
Where no enlivening chimney reeks,
No circle crowns the hearth:
Hie o'er the green-sward, hie thee, boy—
Swift is thy course—so flew my joy!

Hie o'er the sward, my faithful Tray;
Ah! once transporting was the way,
Though now 'tis woeful wild!
That cot appear'd bedeck'd with flowers,
The social hearth beguil'd the hours,
And she, my heart's love, smil'd.
Hie o'er the green-sward, hie thee, boy—
My heart's love droop'd—then droop'd my joy!

Hie o'er the sward, my faithful Tray;
No longer hope beguiles the way,
Thy tricks my only cheer;
The bat now nestles in that thatch,
And echo answers to the latch
Which opes that door so drear!
Hie o'er the green-sward, hie thee, boy,
That lonely door is clos'd to joy.

He ceas'd, she sigh'd; he dried the tears she shed;
For soft her heart, in artless nature bred;
And woe, or real or fictitious, drew
Tears from those eyes whose power fond Hubert knew.
No sounds the place of silence now usurp,
Save the log's crackling, and the cricket's chirp;

The smug cat's purr, and snore of honest Tray,
At lazy length stretch'd out, who, sleeping lay;
Pure, social, sounds; that mock the excluded breeze,
And tell of comfort snug, and careless ease:
Ellen the fire view'd, tracing figures there;
And Hubert sat contemplating the fair;
When fierce and sudden, at the lowly door,
A blow made Hubert start, and stride the floor;
Quickly 'twas open, and, so black the night,
They had not seen, but for the faggot's light,
A basket small, with linen girt around;
And quickly Hubert bore it from the ground;
Secur'd the door, and to his wond'ring dame
Expos'd the basket, and the owner's shame;
For in it, wrapp'd in satin, and in sleep,
A beauteous infant lay, their lot to keep;
At length, “a boy” the eager Ellen cried;
“A chopping boy” th' astonish'd hind replied:
“A beauteous boy,” rejoining, Ellen cries,
“Ah! who could leave it, lovely as it lies,
“At such a door, on such a night of dread?
“Beshrew that heart, and horror on that head,
“Which plann'd, and could in such a crime take part—
“Hard lie that head, and heavy beat that heart!

“Sweet innocent! he wakes—O, Hubert, view—
“His eyes are open; bright, and lovely blue;
“He smiles, he clasps my finger: sweet, sweet, child!
“Bless thee!”—a kiss all further speech beguil'd:
Hubert beheld; to his enraptured view
More beauteous as benevolent she grew;
And where her lips had press'd his lips are gone,
And then, impatient, hurry to her own.
O, happy Hubert! two such sweets to prove,
The kiss of innocence, and kiss of love!
Pure was the picture at the cottage fire,
Such eager angels linger to admire;
He clasping both, the group supreme in charms,
Beauty and innocence in honour's arms.
Ellen broke silence—“Hubert” (and she smiled,)
“Be ours to rear this unprotected child;
“From hence who knows what benefits may spring?
“A God-send this, and God-sends good luck bring.”
Now, from its envelope the infant free,
Something falls bulkily from Ellen's knee;
Hubert espies it, 'tis a purse of weight!
“Gold! gold!” he cries, and tosses it, elate;
“Gold! gold!” he cries, “to keep thee, babe, 'twas given,
“But had it not been there thou still hadst thriven.

“And here's a paper—Read it,” Ellen cried—
The child cried too; and Hubert's knee supplied
A ready bed, his arm a pillow good;
While Ellen hastened to prepare its food;
The billet Hubert pocketed with speed,
Restless the child, and that no time to read.

VARIATION I.

Woman and Foundlings.

Leave we the cottage, and the happy pair
Pleas'd with their foundling, till time better fit
To dole its destiny,—What parents those
Of Chiron-form, half human, and half brute,
In nature neither—for the Hyena, fierce,
Forgets not that she bore her young ones—What
Parents are those who to the sport of chance
Can leave their offspring? judge they from themselves
Of others? if they do, can they have hope

That Mercy shall at any portal stand
To soften the effect of their gaunt sin,
By taking charge of what their shame deserts?
Should they not rather fancy that this charge
Would, like the sear'd and solitary leaf,
Be driven away, and in the waste be lost?
Curse on the father who could thus destroy
The offspring's right! mother it could not be.—
We have of mothers heard of such a cast;—
She who to Savage (Genius' hapless son)
Prov'd less a mother than the scorpion to
Its deadly progeny; and two or three
Of ancient name (but for oblivion fit)
Of equal infamy; but, O 'tis rare;
More rare than comet sweeping in its course;
Than wealth to bards; than modesty to wits;
To braggarts valour; or to quacks true skill.
Woman was form'd by Heaven—as one affirm'd
Of England's women, and with very pith
Of point, and poesy, and taste, and truth,—

“All nerve, and sweet good-nature ” prithee, could
Good-nature so unnatural a deed
Perform? or nerve play with a kind accord
Twitted by such a circumstance of woe?
Such women have been, though for angels meant;
So they have angels been who now are devils;
But still th' angelic choir out-number those,
Aye, infinitely, whom wild Dante erst,
And the sublimer, glorious, Milton sung
Ejected Paradise—Beshrew the thought!
Women? I've met me your philosophers,
Cold-blooded, musty, rogues, who only read
The abstract characters of nature's book;
As reptiles, leaving light and heaven's fair view,
Burrow them under stones; I've met me these,
Aye, and some others, whose distempered minds
Smarted with disappointment; and, again,
Others who, taking sensual for sense,
Have grown besotted from deep-drugg'd potations;
And more, it were but waste of time to name,
Who have belied and vilified the sex.
O, 'tis right shameful! nay, tis treason to

Right acceptation. O, go to; I tell you
Of all heaven's marvels in this sphere of ours,
There shines no grace which can that sex outshine:
Is life a flower? then woman is the dew,
Which moistens, softens, feeds it, and so forth:
Is life an hive? then woman is the honey:
Is life a day? then woman is the sun:
Is life a night? then woman is the moon;
Not the arch'd, fickle, Luna; but the full,
Who throws her mild beams on the desart waste,
Causing the wandering pilgrim to look up
To heaven, with gratitude to him who gave
That beauteous lamp to light him on his way.
Is ought for softness, sweetness, gentleness;
Is ought for sympathy, for hope, for love,
For rapture; exquisite, by heav'n proportion'd?
Then woman is the essence of those sweets;
Those heaven-born delicacies; and the soul
Of all that nourishes the social joy.
Adam, sir, was a wise man, though a weak one;
He found all nature body without soul
For that it wanted woman—she was form'd,
And he was blest—by woman, true, he fell;
And woman bears the odium of that fall;

Forfend me! Adam should have borne most blame,
Who knew his danger; and yet, not in joy,
But in delirium, rapt, he, in the gift,
Lost sight of his first homage to the giver.
Love is not frenzy; no!—the genial sun
Is no volcano to destroy this earth.
Woman was form'd for love, not adoration;
Though sonneteers, unread in common sense,
Adore their Delias, Daphnes, and the rest;
That adoration is an idle doating,
Which clogs by its excess, and puts the sex
But on a par with sweetmeats, which the child
Devours at once, with appetite and eyes;
Then sickens, wastes, and sinks beneath the poison:
For all excess is poison.—Talk we of women
We talk of that which seems proposed for paradise:
The wily Mussulman, whose Koran rules
The crescent's hemisphere, knew well this feeling,
And form'd his Houri but to practise on't;
And so succeeded with the sensual herd;
For on the Houri's credit rests his Koran.
Talk we of women? then we talk of love;—
Effects for ever on their causes wait,
Love waits on woman.—Whip me all the tribe

Who with a May-day-garland affectation
(Exhibited for that rank fools may gaze,
While wise men turn aside with scorn and pity)
Talk about love as 'twere a coxcomb's toy;
Others, who prate of it as 'twere a drench,
A low, base, brutal—pah! I needs must blush
To think such idiots and such recreants mar
The chequered catalogue of our creation;
O! these are gnats, or spiders, in our way,
Who sting us while we scorn 'em; and who lurk,
To dart on thoughtlessness; and only crawl
O'er sweetest flowers, engend'ring, from the source
Whence the Hyblean chemist draws his sweets,
Excessive poison.

Savage the poet, who was the natural son of the Countess of Macclesfield by Earl Rivers, born 1693; he was not only abandoned, but persecuted by his mother to the last; and after many vicissitudes, chiefly of misery, he died in prison at Bristol, where he was confined for a trifling Debt, 1743.

I cannot charge my memory with where I met this observation; it is, however, a quotation.

SUBJECT II.

Coquetry.—A Love-lorn Youth.—The Youth's History.

If your eyes are attractive, and mine they arrest,
No censure is yours, but shall censure be mine?
If, a moment, soft flutterings ruffle my breast,
Shall a weak indiscretion be construed design?
On your cheeks, and your lips, if all gaze with delight,
And mine eyes, wand'ring there, soft expression reveal;
No blame can be yours, that you're blooming and bright,
But shall I be condemn'd because fated to feel?

That you're bright, and your're blooming, I see, and admire;
That I am susceptive, you see, and you smile;
But shall fancy's warm glow be accounted love's fire?
And shall you boast a triumph you gain'd but by guile?

I gaz'd; it was thoughtless—no hope could be mine—
One sedate look of modest reproof had been kind;
Had made me the scarcely-form'd feeling resign,
And my homage transfer from your face to your mind.

Your eyes oft met mine, but they look'd no reproof;
Their beams, trifling fair, were e'en softer than mild;
Some charm—what, I know not—kept reason aloof;
'Twas an indirect feeling, nor tranquil, nor wild;
I was caught for the moment; you triumph'd your time—
I censure not—let your own reason declare
If feeling entrapp'd is condemn'd as a crime,
How shall honour decide on the wish to ensnare?

I was caught for the moment, you triumph'd too soon;
A little more art had confirm'd your decree;
I was caught, and I flutter'd—when—thanks for the boon!
You smil'd with derision,—I sprung and was free;
I'm free! and your triumph now vainly pursue;
My fancy, not feeling, was caught—I respire—
Now your beams losetheir splendour, your roses their hue;
And I pity what, weakly, I thought to admire.

The turf was with daisies o'erstrew'd
Where, near to the closing of day,
A youth, in a petulant mood,
His tablets inscribed with a lay:
The lines I have sung he had trac'd with a sigh;
And, while love he disclaim'd, to the exquisite eye
Of sport fav'ring fancy, Love, laughing, stood by.

The turf was with daisies o'erstrew'd;
The daisy, meek modesty's flow'r,
Which Burns (scarcely rivall'd tho' rude)
Sung sweetly when “crush'd 'mang the stoure.”
O, Burns, to Old Scotia thou gav'st a green wreath,
Which fame to posterity, proud, shall bequeath;
And its nerv'd leaves shall flourish, defying decay,
When the flowers of trim fancy “are a' wede away.”

The youth thus for love all forlorn
He lay, tho' affecting to smile,
Bewailing the insolent scorn
Of the maid, who for sport could beguile;
Oh! Woman, whose face speaks perpetual youth,
Whose bosom seems form'd as a shrine for chaste truth,
Ah! why should they call thee coquette, and speak sooth?

But diamonds may specks have and flaws,
And the rose have a blight at the core;
Then pity the sex for this cause,
Man taught 'em deceit long before.
Poor youth! cease to languish, and idly complain,
For grief brings the vigour of life to the wane,
And, had'st thou thy wish, all thy prize might be pain.

“If thy speech be sooth.”—Shakspeare.

THE YOUTH'S HISTORY.

Young Allan he was of a noble race,
For a noble knight his sire;
Young Allan had all of true manly grace,
Honour seem'd stamp'd in his form and his face;
And his bosom contain'd its fire;
Now, his form was neglected, his face was wan,
And his bosom heav'd heavy; for peace was gone.

He claim to a noble line could lay,
And his sire was a noble knight;
Few could a prospect like his display:
But clouds will shadow the brightest day;
And hope has many a blight:

And now young Allan, at winter-fall,
No shelter could find in his father's hall;
There all was wassel, now all is woe,
And for old Sir Allan the bell must go.

The bell must go,
And the hearse move slow,
And deep the grave be made!
For, on the bier,
With a sigh and a tear,
A noble knight they've laid;
And now to the tomb, for aye and for all,
They've carried him forth from his father's hall.

The old knight dead,
To lay his head
No roof young Allan found;
'Twas his father's wrong;
For thus the song
Of old Sir Allan went round.

THE SONG.

1

He'd armour bright,
And his steed was white,
And his plume he proudly bore:
While scarlet and green
Were his housings seen,
And pages he'd a score.
That knight was the first at bow'r and ball,
And the minstrel sung in his father's hall.

2

His store was great,
His heart elate,
And all a welcome found;
There wit beguil'd
While beauty smil'd,
And it seem'd enchanted ground;
For pleasure o'er temperance threw the pall,
And revelry reign'd in his father's hall.

3

Day yields to night,
And wealth takes flight;
And flatterers with it fly;
That knight all spent;
And discontent
Soon lour'd in his downcast eye;
He look'd for honey and found but gall—
And the green grass grew in his father's hall.

Cross'd in his fortune, and cross'd in his love,
Young Allan he wandered to glen and to grove;
His grief, unobserv'd, to the winds to impart—
For there is a pride in the noble heart,
That, tho' with sorrow it heave and ache,
Before to another its moan 'twill make,
The burthen 'twill bear till it sicken and break.
A bright-eyed boy, with cheeks of rosy red,
His curling locks hung clustering 'round his head;
Just at that age when from th' enquiring eyes
Intelligence first darts, and hope supplies

An eager ken, which, thro' their lustre shot,
Impression makes by parents ne'er forgot.
Just at this age was Allan, when his Sire,
Victim of folly, died; with him expire
His hopes, his sole support; his prospects all;
They, with his Sire, in one sad ruin fall.
Overwhelm'd with debt; his lands all sold, save few
Which mortgag'd stood; the mansion mortgag'd too;
Too deeply mortgag'd all, for many a year
Of rigid, starv'd, economy to clear.
Allan no guardian had; his father died
Sudden, intestate: struck by wounded pride,
And hollow friendship's bitter, biting, blast;
And Allan's fate, which ev'ry hour o'ercast,
Poison'd his withering hope, and stung him to the last.
Allan no guardian had; no friend, yes—one—
Friend to the father, father to the son;
The poor old steward, in that mansion, who
“From youth to age in reverend service grew.”
Small were his savings; he for wealth ne'er strove,
Serving far less for lucre than for love.
Small were his savings, for though small his gain,
Still would he spare for poverty and pain;

Small were his savings, yet the sage had spar'd,
And Allan's wants were now his sole regard:
For lands and mansion to new owners fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall!
Lender and law the small remains divide
Of folly's pageant sacrifice to pride;
Thistle and cockle o'er the land wav'd all,
And grew the green grass in his father's hall.
This Allan saw, e'er man's estate he knew,
This Allan saw, and shudder'd at the view,
At once a lesson, and a loss he saw,
How pride and folly desolation draw;
The loss he felt; the lesson seem'd in vain,
For nought to Allan but his hopes remain.
The land and mansion to new owners fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall;
Yet wept not Allan; but the tear he dried
Of poor old Simon, hobbling by his side;
His reverend locks with speechless grief who shook,
And oft he turn'd to take a last, last, look
Of that old mansion, where his youth was spent,
And grew to age with comfort and content;
Of that old mansion where he nurs'd the boy,
Heir to his master, but no heir to joy;

Of that old mansion where, at life's last gasp,
He felt his honour'd master's icy grasp;
Heard the choak'd voice.—“O, Simon, all, all's o'er,
My boy! O save my boy!”—he spoke no more;
His eyes the rest,—“I'll guard him,” Simon cried—
The Knight look'd gratitude, and groan'd, and died!
The lands and mansion to the lender fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall.
To find a shelter from their home they go,
Their tongues were silent, and their steps were slow;
And though by many a gorgeous gate they pass'd
No porter hail'd them, and each gate was fast;
Yet at each cottage the swift-lifted latch
Seem'd to invite them 'neath the grateful thatch;
While the glad terrier, prancing 'round their feet,
Kind welcome bark'd, in ecstacy to meet
The good old man, and generous boy, who there
So oft had call'd to sooth the 'plaint of care;
Yet on they went, in virtuous hope secure,
With man's best praise, the blessing of the poor.
Two days they went; for food and sleep alone
Resting; their slumbers short, their meal soon done;

Two days they went, then reach'd a fertile spot,
Where, by a shade embower'd, arose a cot
Of decent structure; there an ancient dame
Illum'd life's evening with a pious flame:
Old Simon's sister, fix'd within the place
By him, and, with him, last of all their race!
Last of their race; and soon themselves shall fall—
So when some grove, fair, flourishing, and tall,
Yields its fell'd honours to the woodman's hand,
Two aged elms, alone remaining, stand;
The woodman stops—sun-setting stays the blow;
Sun-rise returns him, and the elms lie low:
Clear'd is the ground, the thoughtful woodman sighs,
No Scion left, no future grove shall rise!
The cot they enter with a grateful tear,
And Simon's looks to Heaven pray'd “peace be here!”
“Margaret,” he cried, and pointed to the youth;
A sigh declar'd his fondness and his truth:
“Margaret,” he cried, “this honour'd charge receive,
The only legacy my Lord could give;
For fifty years, in honourable state,
His sire and grandsire's generous bread I ate;

This Scion now of all the stock remains;
Clear is my conscience, for but few my gains;
Yet something sav'd my gratitude shall prove;
All Allan's legacy Old Simon's love.”
Here Allan dwelt 'till manhood's dawn took place;
Sigh'd for, in vain, by many a rustic grace:
Old Simon's savings, with a small supply
From many a secret hand, could want defy;
Old Simon's skill, for he'd a leech's lore,
Could simples cull, and con Culpepper o'er;
And little fees, for simple service paid,
With Allan's earnings, add their welcome aid:
With Allan's earnings; for the youth knew well
The pencil's magic, and the Muse's spell.
His draughts from Nature many a parlour grac'd;
But mean the tribute traffic pays to taste;
Small were his gains, but grateful as they grew;
His mind was humble, and his wants were few.
Thus frugal plenty bless'd the cottage board,
And Simon bless'd the Donor, and ador'd;
In Allan found, from gratitude and love,
All that a father and a friend could prove.
Beyond the cot, with sculpture proud adorn'd,
A mansion stood, and stood as though it scorn'd,

Scorn'd, like its owner, every humble roof;
From cot and cotter, each stood far aloof;
An high born knight there kept an awful state;
Fear'd, but not lov'd; and heedless he of hate;
His fortune splendid, his enjoyments spare;
One lovely child his only bliss or care;
High in her spirit; Edith was her name,
For beauty caroll'd by admiring fame;
Her form commanding; symmetry and grace
Compos'd the 'witching contour of her face;
Two lovely arches, with majestic rise,
Confirm'd the magic of her radiant eyes:
Those eyes—ye fair, what flatteries have ye heard
Of your bright eyes, by ardent love preferr'd?
That they beam'd heavenly, and resistless shone?
Did you believe? judge Edith's by your own—
Her skin the softness of fair morning's sky,
And freshness, pictur'd, with its blushing dye;
Her lips—near those the dimples' 'witching play
Seem'd as if loves for ever in them lay
To guard those lips from every soft appeal,
From every kiss but what themselves should steal.
Her locks were auburn, and her neck appear'd
Beauty's own column, by the Graces rear'd;

Her mien the grandeur of the Graces wore,
Yet, with a softened majesty she bore
Her maiden step—Her father's wealth she knew;
Valued her birth, and priz'd her beauty too;
Coquette from praise, and of her conquests vain;
Her pride was homage, and a captive's pain:
On Allan, artless Allan, had she thrown
Her magic spell, and made the youth her own;
Her magic spell—as Highland witches “throw
The glamer o'er him” whom they work sweet woe;
So Celtic mermaids 'witching spells pour forth,
As sings the modern Minstrel of the North ;
(The Syrens these, who shall for ages last,
Sung by the bard who their sweet strains surpass'd .)
Her magic spell? and could the haughty fair
Spread for a peasant youth an artful snare?

Ah, no—his birth from Simon's tale she knew,
Nor his a form with apathy to view;
And Simon's triumph at his manly grace,
Proud of his charge, and mindful of his race,
Gave him the dressing of a fairer lot,
Which spoke him no true tenant of a cot;
Mode was consulted, and, his habit on,
Taste and not tissue spoke Sir Allan's son.
The maid, too, oft had seen him in her way,
And dreams recall'd the visions of the day;
And though her hand full many a knight had woo'd,
Full many a youth, with many a charm endued,
None had attach'd her—had young Allan then?
Alas! she knew not; but felt restless when
Allan appear'd not; as was still his way,
While in the garden 'twas her care to stray,
Oft as he pass'd by Edith's proud abode;
And that seem'd ever to be in his road;
For ever and anon, no matter where
Allan must go, he found the track lay there:
Still, as he pass'd the garden, she was nigh,
And ever blushing as she caught his eye;
Their eyes would meet, to gaze each scarcely dar'd,
A transient look,—both instantly on guard;

Allan was caught, yet scarce his danger knew,
Fear'd to persist, yet fated to pursue;
Till one chance moment all his passion prov'd,
He felt, and yet dissembled, that he lov'd.

When the Highland witches, or rather gypsies, bewitch any person, and irresistably attach their affections to themselves, they are said “to throw, or cast the glamer over them,” or in other words to fascinate, spell-bind, or bewitch them. Glamour. Allan Ramsay.

Walter Scott, the popular author of the Border Minstrelsy, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, The Lady of the Lake, Marmion, Lord of the isles, &c. &c. &c.

Homer.

A spot there was, nor wood nor grove, but where
Tall spreading trees were scattered here and there;
Within that spot a simple fountain flow'd,
And, near, the vestige of a ruin stood;
Among those trees the nightingale would stay
And cheat with Love's lament the night away:
There, on a night, when gentle moon beams play'd
On the small fountain, and illum'd the shade;
While the tall trees with soothing whispers mov'd,
And Philomel lamented that she lov'd;
While the fount's stream that in the moon beam play'd
With dancing stars the spot resplendent made;
A spot where fabled Dryad, or the Faun,
Had frisk'd by moon beam, nor forsook at dawn;
Had Faunus' piping, or the Dryad's play
Grac'd other region than the poet's lay;
Close by that ruin Allan sat, and spied
A graceful figure near the covert glide;

It seem'd a gentle Genie of the night,
Moving all-graceful, and array'd in light;
He sat o'ershaded by an ivy tall,
Which 'twin'd its tendrils 'round the mouldering wall:
Oft had he view'd it with the poet's eye,
These lines had trac'd, and these his mind supply.

THE RUIN AND THE IVY.

A mouldering ruin seem'd sullen to stand,
Like the spirit of Greatness oppress'd by the band
Of tyranny; scorning the arrogant hand,
But too feeble to stay its rude fall;
The portal, thro' which noble guests had flock'd fast,
Now, open, admits but the boor and the blast;
And nothing remains to the present of past
But the ivy that clings 'round the wall.

O, many the strain there has echoed around,
And many the feet that have danc'd to the sound;
Now the owl and the bat are sole visitors found
Where the Brave and the Fair grac'd the ball;

For ruin came there; and the Fair, and the Gay,
All fled, as, when sun sets, flit shadows away;
And nothing that pictures of friendship will stay
But the ivy that clings 'round the wall.

It grew when the Gallant with gaiety came,
When the castle tow'rd high; far resounded its fame;
Now nothing is left but its sear and its shame,
For its form scarce can mem'ry recall:
But, by all though forsaken, in ruin still proud,
It moulders in silence, its wrongs speak aloud;
Yet friendship still cheers it, despiting the croud,
In the ivy that clings 'round the wall.

Seeing, not seen, young Allan view'd the sprite,
Oft veil'd by falling shadows from his sight,
And oft emerging from the partial shade,
Its graceful form in perfect view display'd;
He thought 'twas Edith; doubt his mind imprest;
And hope and fear, alternate, rul'd his breast.
As on the beach some longing maiden stands,
Watching the moment when her sailor lands;
To where the ocean, blending with the sky,
Bounds the fix'd sight, she casts a wishful eye;

A sail appears, in that he may be borne,
Hope views the bark, and whispers love's return;
Comes it, or not? for heaving billows roll,
Check all presuming, and fond hope control;
And, as the towering wave the vessel hides
Or shows it floating as the swell subsides,
Her spirits mount or sink; now end her fears,
Broad spreads the sail, and all the hull appears;
Slow comes the vessel, but the bark she knows,
Her lover comes, and with him love's repose.
So Edith came—so Allan felt—for now
Hope whisper'd, “Allan, what a scene
To breathe the lover's gentle vow!”—
He sigh'd, not sorrow could that sighing mean—
Edith ne'er saw him; passing on her way,
A root branch tripp'd her, and she prostrate lay;
She scream'd—upstarting, eager Allan flew,
And, trembling, rais'd her; and he press'd her too:
She blush'd, she frown'd—she thank'd him for his zeal;
But he had press'd her, and her eyes reveal
All that could give him penitence and pain,
The glance of anger fierce, and cold disdain.
Ah! why?—Birth's pride, and Beauty's haughty pow'r,
The scene so lonely, and the moonlight hour,

His tender pressure thrilling to her heart,
Impell'd 'rous'd prudence to the tyrant's part.
Excuse he stammer'd; with the port of scorn,
Sudden, she fled; for the least stay had torn
The veil from artifice, and, in the grove,
Had pride's coquetry been unmask'd by love.
Pensive, piqued Allan to the cot returned;
Pensive went Edith—lov'd—yet love she spurn'd.
The peasant Allan? (tho' his birth was proud)
While peers, imploring, to her beauty bow'd?
The peasant Allan?—by fierce conflicts torn
Restless her night; love hail'd no happy morn,
Pride was triumphant, and the issue scorn.
With equal conflict pass'd sad Allan's night;
He hop'd, yet hail'd not, the returning light;
Fix'd to convince her, should he cross her way,
He, too, had pride; could scorn for scorn repay;
And yet to meet her and contempt to prove!—
He would—he would not—yet his footsteps move
To Edith's garden first—so vacillating's Love!
The morning came; instinctively he went,
Tim'rous his step, uncertain his intent;
At length, assur'd, (her fav'rite walk he knew)
He caught her eye; she smil'd—derision too!
A laugh succeeded, and the fair withdrew.

VARIATION II.

The Hermit and the Youth.

A hermit he sat at the door of his cell;—
And, “list to the sound of the passing bell;”
The hermit he said to a stripling near,
“It teaches a lesson for faith and fear,
“The knell shall cease, and the priest shall sing,
“And, merry, the bells on the morrow shall ring:
“For though life's spirit must pass to death,
“Peace shall follow the passing breath;
“And the bells that ring on the morrow shall say
“There's joy when sorrow hath pass'd away.
“There is a spring, there is a sear;
“A falling of blossom, but fruit is near;
“There is a rain beats down the flower,
“But there's a sunshine, after that shower—
“In the sear and the shower time's emblems see,
“In the fruit and the sunshine eternity.

“I chanc'd a feather to behold
“Dancing upon the breath of air;
“And it seem'd as of human life it told
“Toss'd by caprice, and crosses, and care;
“And it seem'd the emblem of thoughtless ease,
“Buoy'd on the unsubstantial breeze;
“And it seem'd the moral of martyr'd mind,
“Driven at will by misfortune's wind;
“And I mus'd thereon till I saw it fall;
“And this, said I, whether sorrow or joy
“The heart may harrow, or bosom may buoy,
“This, said I, is the end of all!

“There's a heart that dies, and then falls the tear
There's is an heartless dies, and then smiles appear;
There's a death when mock sorrows their sable show;
And a death that goes by, and none care to know.

“When man's breast for his kindred no sympathy wakes
What matters to man when that life-thread breaks?
When death bids the title a step descend
Herald and hatchment the tomb attend;
Then moves the long cavalcade sullen and slow—
O! this is a wailing devoid of woe.

“When the manor and mine pass off with the breath,
From the hand that grasp'd till unclos'd by death;
The suit it is sable, for custom's grace;
But the merry smile plays on the mourner's face.

There's a heart that dies, and then falls the tear;
And the fame of that heart to the soul is dear;
And the soul of that heart it shall lightly rise,
Wafted to Heaven by gratitude's sighs.

“Then look to life while the hour is young;
Folly is mad when the hour grows old;
And wisdom has listen'd, as if hope sung,
When e'er for the tomb the bell has told:
As the tree falls it lies, my son”—
The hermit ceas'd, and the youth pass'd on.

SUBJECT III.

The Grave of the Good.—Allan and Edith.—A Stranger.

Fresh is the turf, with osier twin'd,
Simple the stone which records it's lot;
Mournful the cypress whose boughs, declin'd,
Wave, murmuring, over the hallow'd spot.
The turf, stone, and cypress, shall wither and wane,
But the seed in that grave it shall flower again.

And who has there made a lasting bed?
And whom does that stone record?
Now happily rest that humble head
In the bosom of the Lord!
O'! sweet is the sleep that the virtuous take,
But sweeter the sound that shall bid them awake.

Simon and Margaret slumber here,
And Allan he rais'd this stone;
And he heav'd a sigh, and he dropp'd a tear,
For loss of the love that's gone!
Farewell, gentle hearts, ye shall smile in the day
When many a proud one shall sorrow for aye!

In poor Simon's cot is the hearth still bright,
But the stranger houses there;
For that cottage for gold is the stranger's right,
They've sign'd, and they have seal'd, and the bargain's tight,—
The cot Allan sold
To have and to hold,
For Allan was Simon's heir.

Young Allan has buckled him on a sword,
And fix'd in his cap a plume;
And a gallant, gay, ship he has gone aboard,
With many a spirit of valour stor'd;
And his heart beat high,
But he heav'd a sigh,
And his face was o'erspread with gloom.

Fair Edith has taken her way to that grove,
To list to the nightingale's lay,
And sigh for the youth who had all her love—
“And, say, have ye tidings, or can ye prove
“Where Allan is gone?
“For I must moan
“For the youth I have driven away.”

Young Allan has ta'en himself o'er the sea,
Forfend that the gallant should fall!
And fair Edith she sits all pensively
By the ivy that clings round the wall.

A STRANGER.

O, ride ye, knight, and where ride ye, knight?
And a bonny steed you stride;
And gallant and gay is your harness dight;
Like a meteor you dart on the wondering sight,
So few in this lone path ride.

O stay ye, knight, and, O, stay ye, knight,
And alight at my father's door;
For a knight is he, and his heart is right,
And to honour the brave is his high delight;
Then spur on your steed no more.

Nor deem that I, and ne'er deem that I
Against maiden reserve offend;
My sire he saw you, and bade me fly,
And crave that his gate you'd not pass by,
See, his grooms your will attend.

O, lady fair; and, O, lady fair,
I rest me at your say;
Sure ne'er was a beauty so rich and rare,
Like a vision benignantly beaming in air
You come to adorn the day.

Who was that lady and that knight her care?
The knight a stranger; Edith was the fair.
He stopp'd, alighted; ready grooms attend—
Fashion still finds the welcome of a friend—
Grooms, lacquies, pages, ready at his call,
The stranger bows in Brandon's lofty hall:

Sir Brandon meets him, pompous welcomes pass;
The youth receives them as the courteous glass
Reflects, and faithfully, the image warm;
All without substance, fallacy, and form:
Contrasted manner told this tale aloud,
The stranger humble, and Sir Brandon proud;
A stately banquet stately welcome waits;
There Edith rules; and there the youth relates
Varied adventures: as the maiden hears
Smiles speak her pleasure, half-heav'd sighs her fears;
Alternate thus the stranger's heart they try,
And still to Edith they attract his eye;
Sir Brandon fill'd; the youth ne'er backward stands,
But fills; yet, e'er each pledge for drinking's up;
Respect to beauty gallantry demands,
Each bow'd to Edith, kissing first the cup;
Their gentle courtesy the maid discern'd,
With smiles receiv'd, and modestly return'd;
At length fair Edith, and the haughty man,
The youth's adventures ask'd, who thus began.

THE STRANGER'S TALE.

My name is Ernest; tir'd of tranquil life,
To see the world, and mingle in its strife,
I left the spot where being first I knew
When eighteen summers light, and winters, drew
The mind to active hope; my guardians fir'd
My thirst for glory; as, by that inspir'd,
I drew the bow, the Britons' native pride;
And plac'd the arrow where but vainly tried
All of my age; for well my nerves were strung,
And sanguine hope this song for ever sung,
“Sloth and the coward win inglorious care,
The brave and active fortune and the fair.”
Near to the sea I dwelt; a vessel there
Once moor'd by chance, some damage to repair;
A front and port the captain bore that told
The wary leader, and the warrior bold;
His looks were fierce, yet gentle forms he knew,
And told of deeds that rapt attention drew:
A week he stay'd; my eager heart he won,
And still to greet Sir Gorman would I run;

Pleas'd, he caress'd me, and still plied mine ear
With all the soul, by valour rous'd, holds dear;
And as he spoke mark'd well my eager mind,
My sparkling eye, that told my soul inclin'd
To noble daring; doubly then he strove
To tempt my longing, and secure my love;
Enough—in short he won my soul's esteem,
I long'd for glory, and I saw its gleam;
The bold Sir Gorman tow'ring by my side,
I reach the vessel, and the deck I stride;
The anchor weigh'd, the sails unfurl'd to view,
I leave the old world, panting for the new:
Young hope look'd round; new was the scene and grand,
The spreading ocean and receding land,
The arching sky a bound'ry to the whole;
The heaving billow, and the vessel's roll;
The careless crew, the unaccustom'd cheer;
The pride of honour, and contempt of fear;
The seaman's nerve, activity, and skill;
The bark obedient to the master's will;
The trim set canvass, and the compass true,
The captain's rule, and order of the crew.
New was the scene, inspiring was the sight,
My mind all wonder, and my soul delight;

Soon delight shudder'd; wonder stood aghast;
One horrid night, that look'd like Nature's last,
A storm, tremendous, burst; down stream'd the rain,
Heard but not seen, for darkness hid the main;
Save, when the vivid sheet expos'd all 'round,
Then vanishing, made darkness more profound;
While shrieking winds with roaring billows vied,
Thunder's dread burst with rattling peal replied:
Now to the clouds we mounted, torn, and toss'd;
Then plum-down, sudden, in a gulph were lost;
While flying yards and spars against us dash'd;
Mast by the board went; quick, the sailors lash'd
Booms in reserve, with well-twin'd cordage fast,
And rais'd to service the fictitious mast.
A leak we sprung; “lost! lost!” the sailors cried,
“Dastards!” Sir Gorman furiously replied;
Flew to the pump himself, and set them on;
He who, though chief, through all had wonders done.
But to a pleasing picture let me turn;
The winds relax; with gratitude we learn

The leak is stopp'd; and now the waves subside,
And morning shews that 'neath bare poles we ride.
Yards, sails, sheets, blocks, and braces, strew the deck;
All hands are busied to repair the wreck;
From splic'd yards, sails (patch'd up in haste) expand;
Slowly tow'rds some dense mass a-head we stand,
And one rude burst of rapture hails the land!
A shore we near; a well known creek they view,
Cast anchor there; Sir Gorman and the crew
Now to refit prepare; at his command,
The boats are lower'd, and he rows to land;
The crew, part follow, part behind remain,
To guard the vessel; I the harbour gain;
I tread the land once more; with youthful zeal,
And grateful heart, to providence I kneel;
They mark the action, and with shouts decry,
And for thanksgiving large libations ply;

Venting dread oaths; 'till, reason drown'd, they fall,
And one insensate sleep envelopes all!
Shock'd by the savage horde; enrag'd, deceiv'd
By false Sir Gorman him I had believ'd
Honour's true son, and not a bandit, given
To brave humanity, and blaspheme Heaven;
Though strange the shore, chill'd horror bade me fly,
I plied with ardour ev'ry energy
To climb a cliff, o'ertowering where they lay;
And through a strait, chance, chink, an oft check'd way,
(By careful clinging, stopping, striving, oft,
Hanging by ledges, then from footing soft
Slipping) I found; and vigour gain'd from zeal,
I reach'd the summit; made to Heav'n appeal;
Then ran, nor rested till I reached a spot
Where in a grove had nature form'd a grot;
On heav'n relying, here, fatigued, repos'd;
And on my tablets thus my heart disclos'd.

The mast is said to go by the board when it is snapped off short near to its insertion in the deck.

Booms are used in this sense by Falconer in his Shipwreck, as spare masts or yards in reserve.

A ship is said to ride beneath bare poles when all her sails and yards are torn away by the violence of the tempest, and nothing but the masts are left standing.

Yards are the transverse lengths of wood to which the sails are attached; the sheets are ropes used with the clue-lines in regulating the sails; but the term sheets, is often improperly used for sails. Blocks, pullies—braces, ropes belonging to all the yards, except the mizen.—Marine Dictionary.

HYMN.

There is an eye that all surveys,
A hand that all directs;
There is a power for all purveys,
A power that all protects.

There is an hope can ne'er deceive,
A trust can ne'er betray;
There is a grace when mortals grieve
Can wipe the tear away.

There is a guide, there is a guard,
Who watches while we sleep:
And trust is sure, in watch or ward,
The desart or the deep.

Sweeter than morning's incense rise,
To him whom mercies move,
The humble, unaffected sighs
Of gratitude, and love!

Sleep, from exhaustion, sooth'd regretting sighs;
A hand awoke me, and my half-clos'd eyes
Beheld Sir Gorman; sternly he survey'd;
“Follow,” he cried; defenceless, I obey'd.
“Ernest,” he said, “our manners please thee not;
“But thou hast sought us, and must share our lot;
“A pirate I, freebooters are my crew,
“And those who join us must our course pursue:
“Zeal in my service rich reward will gain,
“Resistance, Death—reflect, escape is vain.”
Silent I heard; in silence soon we reach
Where the crew labour on the busy beach,
To right the vessel; and their toils prevail;
Again we board her, and unfurl the sail,
And move, majestic, with a fav'ring gale.
Forc'd, I submit, and wait some fav'ring hour
To give me freedom from the pirate's pow'r;
Southward we bear, to where her hundred heads
Rears Terra Firma —deep the valley spreads

Below each height; far spreading floods rise here,
And sap the soil for half the rolling year;
Here lenient balms, rich gums and fruits abound;
And here the precious emerald is found.
Enriching earth with constancy's green hue,
While sapphire veins it with celestial blue.
Here beasts of blood, in frowning forests, roar;
And birds of loveliest plumage grace the shore;
A wond'rous tree, the Manzunello nam'd,
Here spreads its boughs, far fatal, as far fam'd;
The brutes, instinctively, at distance keep;
And racking pains await unthinking sleep
Stretch'd 'neath its shade; its fruit the foe of breath,
Delight to gaze on, but to taste is death.

Here poisonous reptiles swarm; and here, too, trees
Whose fruit th' envenom'd from the venom frees.
Next is Panama and the pearl is there;
Pure, lovely emblem of the graceful fair:
A fish contains it in transparent shell,
And daring divers seek it in its cell,
With weapon arm'd; for here the fish of prey
Watches the diver on his watery way;
The fish (the weapon failing in its blow)
Feeds on the diver in the deeps below.
Here Porto Bello, by Columbus nam'd,
For tainted air, and ample harbour fam'd;
And there Capira's towering head supplies
A “cloud capp'd” index to capricious skies.

Peru, the grave of Spanish faith, we found;
Rude Terra Firma on the north its bound;
Andes the east; Chili the south extreme;
The west the Sea Pacific—hence its stream,
Its endless stream, to which with tribute flow
Two hundred streams; then, blending with it go,
Rolls the proud Amazon; upon whose banks
Once “unsex'd” women led th' embattled ranks
Of glaive-arm'd war; and, harness'd in array,
Led mankind captive from the bloody fray;
A race (to some few instances decreas'd)
In every land who live, in Britain least;

Where women conquer by endearing wiles,
Their bucklers softness, and their weapons smiles.
Peru the realm of wealth; where mountains grow,
Their towering heads capp'd with eternal snow.
Fertile the centre, barren is the coast,
Vein'd by the precious ore, its bane, and boast.
Here the Quinquina's medicated rind
Gives wasting life new energy and mind;
And here a tree, whose each integral part
Presents some benison to health or art.
Fam'd for ne'er drinking, the mild Pacos tall
For toil's convenience and for hunger's call,
Here among beasts ranks paramount to all.
Here the Vicuna yields the bezoar stone,
The subtle leech's grand specific known;

In every clime some superstition rules,
And knaves find nostrums to impose on fools.
Here stern Pizarro spread the fatal war;
Gold was his god, ambition was his law:
Before the chief the wondering Indians flew,
As sheep are scatter'd when fierce dogs pursue;
Soon Tumbez fell, where, in Sol's temple, lay
The splendid treasures of the orb of day;
Caciques were slaughter'd at the altars there,
And screaming vestals rent th' astonish'd air.
But what gave fell Pizarro the command,
Intestine feuds divide the golden land;

Atabilipa, of base birth, rebell'd,
The lawful Inca from the throne expell'd,
And golden chains depos'd Huascar held.
The fallen Inca's loyal friends appear,
And civil feuds the bloody standard rear;
The foul usurper to the Spaniard flies,
Believes, and trusts; and by the Spaniard dies.
Now Manco Capac mounts Peruvia's throne;
All feuds forgotten, all his empire own:
The Don mistrustful that his power should cease,
Projects a parley, and proposes peace.
By art the Inca in his power he gains,
Loads him with policy's deceitful chains,
And, in the Inca's name, Pizarro reigns.
Of bonds impatient, the Peruvian tries
Deceit in turn; and thus his purpose plies:
“Pizarro, gold, our hapless soil which veins,
“Tempted your host to desolate our plains;
“Much have you master'd, much more have you miss'd;
“My rule usurp'd, but vainly I resist
“Your cruel force; and since I cannot fly,
“Since truth and justice can no aid supply,
“My state I'll barter, and my freedom buy.

Reserve I wave, plain dealing now is best,
Treasure your bait, I try the baneful test,
And cheaply with her gold buy sad Peruvia rest.
My royal signet on this edict shown,
Where'er it reaches riches are your own;
Nay more, to purchase for my country peace,
There is a treasure, sacred to the land—
O Sun, 'tis thine!”—with tears his accents cease;
Quick he resumes, while all impatient stand,—
“Rear'd by the priesthood of that sacred fane
Where Peru's sons in prostrate awe remain;
In antient days, with sacred rites perform'd,
While rich devotion every bosom warm'd,
To yon bright power by Peruvians prais'd
A form gigantic of himself was rais'd ;
The statue gold, with every gem inlaid
Peru could boast; the spot, a secret made,
Alone the Inca and the high priest know;
Him you have slaughterd; guarded then I go,
Expose the treasure, and my country free;
That sacred image of thyself shall be,
O Sun! thus dedicated best to thee.”

He ceased; the Spaniard, by his cunning 'snar'd,
A double guard to watch the prince prepar'd;
To hidden Yarico, a sacred vale,
He led the guard, amus'd by crafty tale;
Through many a secret pass he took his way,
Known to himself alone; and some where day
Its beams ne'er darted; here the king they lost;
Freedom he gain'd, and gain'd it to their cost.
His ready subjects his intention knew;
Thousands on thousands to his standard flew;
War strode o'er slaughter; by a hapless stroke
The Inca fell;—and dying, thus he spoke:—
“My words fulfill'd, the sacred image I;
“My country ask'd it, and content I die,
“A patriot sacrifice; then, taught by me,
“Be each the image, and Peruvia's free.”
Due honors paid the self-devoted king,
A sacred fury to the field they bring;
The Spaniards felt it in the wounds they gave,
And, with their gold, battalions bought a grave.
But,—Heaven sure will'd it!—still remains to tell
Pizarro triumph'd, and Peruvia fell!
He triumph'd—but what is in blood begun
Must end in blood—Almagro's base-born son—

Almagro, who with proud Pizarro plann'd,
Murder in heart and holy cross in hand,
Peru to ravage, and destroy the land;
And stain'd the Cross; cov'ring the blood it bore,
Those sacred spots for man's redemption shed,
With clotted streams of base-shed human gore;
Such as call vengeance on the murderer's head,—
Almagro 'gainst Pizarro would conspire,
Spaniard with Spaniard fought; by treachery slain,
Almagro fell; the son avenged the sire,
And clos'd at Lima, fell Pizarro's reign.
Peru abhors, Spain, disavow the name,
Pizarro! “d---d to everlasting fame.”

Terra Firma Proper, or the Isthmus of Darien, joins North and South America; the climate is very sultry during the whole year; particularly in the northern divisions. It abounds with prodigious high mountains and deep vallies.

From the end of May till the beginning of November, there is an almost continual succession of thunder, rain, and tempest; the excessive heats raise the vapour of the sea, which is precipitated in such rains as seem to threaten a deluge. From the middle of December to the middle of April the rains cease, and the weather becomes more agreeable.

The bird called the Preacher is found here; so called from its custom of perching on the tops of trees, and making a noise resembling ill articulated sounds; its bill is variegated with all those bright colours which adorn the plumage of other birds.

In the woods about Carthagena, is a species of willow, which bears the name of Habella de Carthagena, or bean of Carthagena. This bean contains a kernel resembling an almond, but less white, and very bitter: It is a remedy against the bite of venomous reptiles, with which the place abounds. The inhabitants take a little of this kernel fasting, and are then under no apprehension of danger.

Fine harbour, so called from its capacious size, profound depth, and certain security; this place abounds in forests and mountains. Columbus subdued it in 1514.

The principal mountain in Porto Bello, which serves as a barometer to the inhabitants. The changes of weather are singularly abrupt, and the inhabitants are only fore-warned of them by the various appearances of the clouds on its summit. The heat here is excessive, the torrents of rain impetuous, and the storms of lightning and thunder dreadful; so that the inhabitants die very fast; and the beasts brought from other places soon lose flesh, and become scarcely eatable.

It is bounded on the north by Pompayan, a part of Terra Firma; on the east by the Andes or Cordillera Mountains, which divide it from the country of the Amazons and Paraguay; on the south, by Chili and La Plata; and on the west by the South Sea or Pacific Ocean. The river of Amazons, the largest river in the world, (its course being between four and five thousand miles) has its rise in Peru, and running east, falls into the Atlantic by eighty-four channels, which in the rainy seasons overflow the banks and fertilize the country. Its mouth is 159 miles broad, and it receives in its progress near 200 other rivers, and about 1500 miles from its mouth, it is from forty to fifty fathoms deep.

Peru, it has been said, was not known by any general name when it was discovered by the Spaniards; but an Indian being asked its appellation, answering, Peru, or Beru, (What do you say?); from that circumstance it received the name it now bears. This may appear absurd, but many records apparently as ridiculous have their foundation in fact.

Peruvian Bark.

The Magney—it produces a delicious drink; honey, vinegar, timber, hemp, and thread; the two latter being made from the leaves, stalks, &c. Needles are made from the prickles, and its fruit is converted into a kind of soap.

The Pacos or Huanca, or Peruvian sheep: it is as large as a stag, and resembles a camel. It is a beast of burthen as well as of food; will carry an hundred weight; walks extremely erect and stately, and no beating can make it quicken its pace; its wool is extremely coarse, and its flesh is as white as veal, and as innocent as that of a chicken; it is never known to drink, and grazes on very rough and common grass.—The Vicuna is another species of sheep, smaller and lighter than the Pacos, and is called also the Indian goat.

Notwithstanding the play of Pizarro has given some publicity to the fall of Peru, I thought it a subject necessarily connected with a description of that country, as the circumstance occurred during the century in which the action of the poem is placed, (16th) The Spaniards landed in Peru in 1530. I have however to apologize for a glaring anachronism (for which, I hope, I may plead the poetica licentia, or any other licence the reader may be pleased to give me,) in Ernest's relation—because the reader will discover from other incidents in the poem, that the Spaniards did not land in Peru till some time after Ernest had left it.

A Colossal image of the Sun, made of pure gold enriched with numberless gems, was concealed, or supposed to be concealed, in the secret and sacred vale of Yarico.

VARIATION III.

A short Stop for breathing, with Hints in Hudibrastic.

When travellers long journies go
Direct they rarely travel through;
But stop at many a licens'd gate
At once themselves and steeds to bait.
So, Gentles, as we've far to jog,
Lest the spirits tire and clog,
We'll pull up here, with your permission,
To keep our cattle in condition:
Refresh ourselves and “bits of blood,”
And gain new vigour for the road.
Silence assent is, since agreed,
Ostler, here give the tits a feed,
Waiter, a room—you yawn, Sir—steady—
I hope you're not fatigu'd already.
But, haply, you may have bethought you
To ask me why so far I've brought you;

And ask yourself how you could be
Trepann'd into such company;
When you might join, in track of letters,
So many dozens of my betters;
Or (metaphor apart to draw)
How you and I the ancient law
Of common sense could so exceed,
That I should write and you should read.
There is a pow'r all fascinating,
For ever pertly fabricating
Laws of mummery and moonshine,
Which mankind fancy with a boon shine
Worth all their bending, bows, and scrapes,
And worship her as Indians apes;
While reason out ne'er farther bore 'em
Than that their sires did so before 'em.
This power is Fashion, goddess sinister;
Pride is her priest, Caprice prime minister;
And all the land she rates and rules,
And leaves 'em, as she finds 'em, fools.
It matters not how wild her whimsy
Be it in substance firm or flimsy,
Some advocate is always found
To prove 't as Magna Charta sound;

With doctrine coin'd on Gall's construction;
Who proves by dogma and deduction
That the mind's grace, or twist, or twaddle,
Is evidenc'd by bump on noddle;
That every skull, or thick or thin,
Is but a map of what's within;
Proving the brain divided into
Apartments, lett each grace or sin to;
Deem'd by wise Craniologic codgers
A tenement let out to lodgers;
Fitting each passion, inclination,
Temper, or taste, with situation;
Plac'd in a separate chamber all,
The skull, of ev'ry room, the wall;
And as each inmate works about
For room all straiten'd, passing doubt,
'Tis sure to push the bone wall out;
And make a bump in skull, and (bar jest)
Which pushes hardest makes the largest.

Some up stairs live, and some below;
The grossest ever downward go;
The cellar drunkenness they pitch in,
And gluttony usurps the kitchen:
Each grace lodged true to systematic,
And wit and wisdom rent the Attic.—
At least 'tis said so—pardon doubt,
For I my head's roof search'd about,
But found there no sagacious bump;
To me my head seem'd all one lump.
No deed that fashion does, when mind
Determines an excuse to find,
But reason's rankly warp'd to do it,
And even Scripture proof brought to it:
For so expert is sophistry,
She'll make, to serve a theory,
A thing seem truth which is but trick;
As boys whirl round a lighted stick,
And from one little spark they bring
What seems of fire an ample ring.
When Mahomet in zeal's vagary
Enamour'd grew of Coptic Mary;

He fix'd upon expedient nice
To fit her for his Paradise:
Resolv'd to make her, barring crime,
One of the Houri 'ere her time:
For zeal is Reformation's stud-horse,
Possessing all the fire of blood horse;
And, unless well you break and curb him,
So many fantasies perturb him,
Especially if full you rack him,
A task of danger 'tis to back him;
For if he finds the seat of saddle
To him uneasy who may straddle
His reeking sides, to instant fretting
He takes, capriccio, and curvetting;
The whip and spur his care beneath,
He gets the curb bit in his teeth,
And—of his master little minder—
Now on his fore-feet, then his hinder,
He'll play, as, (hands and feet) you've seen
A tumbler on the trampolin;

When tir'd of this on hind legs get
And try his power at pirouette;
And though, when to this caper giv'n,
You might be on high road to heav'n,
And just presuming on election,
You're serv'd from saddle with ejection;
And, from some quagmire, look about you,
And see th' horse gone to Heaven without you.
Or, if you are not thrown this play with,
'Tis chance but what you're run away with.
So, reader, mount not, with bravado,
Till you've digested sage Gambado;
Or you yourself secure may feel
As Mahomet when mounting zeal;
And by some similar vagary
Find your steed start at many a Mary.

His converts Mah'met guess'd would blame him,
And by their turn'd-up eyes would shame him;
Although experience here supposes
He'd more to dread from turn'd up noses;
For turn'd up noses still have borne
Precedence as the types of scorn:
For there exists, where left is one sense,
Antipathy 'tween nose and nonsense;
And vice, however wits agree,
Is nonsense at maturity;
Since, prov'd by logic and the schools,
Your knaves are but the greatest fools.
There is a something makes alive
The nasal nerve, when sensitive,
And curves it in an up-direction
At vice or folly's chance defection;
A certain sign of some detection
Ungrateful to olfact'ry feeling,
Too powerful for art's concealing:
For turn'd-up nose beyond a doubt,
Ask casuists, means “I smell you out;”
And Mahomet in his ambition,
Had dread of nasal inquisition.

“What shall I do,” thought he, “to hide
This act, and keep my saintly pride;
To hide it from my fools and followers?
Who, though they're most determin'd swallowers,
And gulp'd the Koran, caught my snare in,
They'll not gulp this, unsanction'd there-in;
They'll cock their noses; but, deuce take 'em!
Who makes the laws may surely break 'em;
As he who manufactures pottery
May any break he finds has got awry:
Besides, (thought he) the devil's in it,
If saints must be (like old crack'd spinnet,
Nor perfect e'er in that or this chord)
For ever stumming drone and discord.
Some sins are sweet, and some are shining,
And, haply, these are virtue's lining;
For your œconomists Sartorial
Their prudence prove by strong memorial,
The habit made best superfine
With something worse they always line,
And till 'tis lin'd, by their averment,
The thing is not a perfect garment.
We deprecate the sour and sad,
Then sweet and shining can't be bad;

My virtue's vest, too, wants a lining,
And so I choose the sweet and shining;
And if a little sin I would
'Tis to effect a greater good;
And learned casuists have prov'd oft,
When prudent conscience off has mov'd, oft,
And turn'd her back while they were pleading
To shew her wit if not her breeding,—
They've prov'd no matter what's detected
I'th' progress, if the end's effected.
Else why have holy saints, like me,
Enslav'd mankind to set 'em free?
Or why do misers pleasure find
To starve themselves and cheat mankind?
Should they be censur'd the employment
From which they never gain enjoyment?
And rated be, tho' it appears
They wash their hands in widow's tears;
And that their rushlights oft, no doubt,
An orphan's sickly sigh puffs out?
Shall they be blam'd, since such vagary
Springs from aim elemosynary?
In them the future's almsmen see,
Post Obits all of charity!

For many their memories are giving
Blessings, whose grandams curs'd 'em living.
This reasoning aptly comes for fact,
The aim still sanctifies the act;
She'll be a saint through holy knackery,
And heaven must wink at pious quackery.”
Still as he tried to, “cheat the devil,”
Conscience and shame were both uncivil;
Conscience look'd black as any inkhorn,
Or, “Belzy looking over Lincoln :”
While shame stood by, and whisper'd, “hush!”
Too much astonish'd e'en to blush:
And shame alone he fear'd, be't noted,
Conscience he'd long before out-voted;
For shame remains though conscience travels,
And virtue such a lure unravels,
That, when men lose her idiocrasy,
They choose her will-oth'-whisp, hypocrisy;
And often as its apings teaze 'em
There comes a “smelling out” don't please 'em.

He saw th' intrigue was not quite fit,
So on a neat expedient hit;
Wrote a new chapter in the Koran
Whose subject this nice bus'ness bore on;
A difference making, learn'd and lenient,
'Tween sins condemn'd and sins convenient.
This shame prevented 'mong his pupils,
And Mary's beauty cur'd his scruples.
So men, a deed resolv'd before on,
Each adds a chapter to his Koran;
And Fashion's an excuse for all
We do, or wise or whimsical;
'Tis this that makes the dolt and dribble,
If wits and scholars publish, scribble;
Perhaps made me—then (others leading)
Do find excuse for farther reading.

A fashionable word for travelling horses.

Dr. Gall, of the German school, who, with his countryman Spurzheim, has propagated a new system of mental analyzation called Craniology, in which he proves (to his own satisfaction) that the character of the mind may be discovered from that of the skull: on this principle head-gauges would be very serviceable, and prevent much trouble, disappointment, and misconception.

“Such as take lodgings in a head
“That's to be let unfurnished.”

Hudibras

I hope the tasteful author of Lallah Rookh having (in four lines) merely alluded to this circumstance, will not be objected to my dilating upon it; though I must candidly own my reading those four lines occasioned the present: at any rate, my wild and straggling furze will not interfere with his cultivated and elegant flowers.

A trampolin is a spring board used by tumblers.

The elegant rotary motion of an opera dancer, poised on one foot—and he who spins longest is considered the best dancer, a custom probably derived from some sects of Indian priests, whose religious qualities are estimated by their powers of spinning to imitate the revolution of the sun.

Geoffrey Gambado, Esq., a luminous writer upon riding on, and off horseback—and who gives his readers one piece of advice which ought to be written in large letters at the corners of streets—pro bono publico.—viz. “Never set out on horseback till you have ascertained the probability of how you are to get home again.”

The origin of this old saying I am really at a loss to account for, except it be that Lincoln is famed for having fifty churches; a fact sufficient to offend the “Great Deceiver,” and make him look angrily.

SUBJECT IV.

Wild Flowers.—Edith.

There's a little red flower grows in the high grass,
Minute, but more fanciful form never grew;
It catches the eye as you carelessly pass,
And seems like a little bright ruby of dew.
Fair lady, go look; and, the fact while you prove,
Though you may not think so, ah! many may say,
“That flower looks like bashful, and innocent Love,
“Peeping at beauty, and wooing her stay.”

The name of that flower I never yet knew,
So I wrote in Love's Flora, the ruby of dew.

There's a little blue flower, too, blooms in the grass,
A variety this, and as brilliant in hue;
And it seems as if Morning, there chancing to pass,
Had dropp'd a bright bead from her bracelet of blue.
Fair lady, go look, and, the fact while you prove,
There are who may think, and admiring, may say,
“That flower looks like modest, ingenuous, Love,
“Peeping at Gracefulness, wooing her stay.”
And its name as the bead of the morning you'll view,
Where I traced in Love's Flora, the ruby of dew.

There's a little sensation awakens the breast
When true love is peeping, and beauty espies;
Perhaps you have been by that feeling imprest?
Though beauty be bashful, young lovers have eyes.
Fair lady, go look; there's a flower yet unsung,
The may-blossom, gather'd by Love in the morn;
'Tis Simplicity's gift; and if true love has hung
A garland for you let him ne'er feel the thorn.
And the may-blossom ever shall wreath'd be for vou,
With the bead of the morning and ruby of dew.

The Bead of the Morning and Ruby of Dew
Were emblems of Allan; had Edith been kind,
O, she had been happy, for he had been true;
But the May-blossom, Hope, is the sport of the wind.

Thus thought sighing Edith, when leaving the board,
As Ernest his story had ceas'd for that day,
With the promise the next should a sequel afford;
And his eye follow'd Edith who glided away.

That her pain and her pleasure, while Ernest he told
His adventures, were mark'd by her smile, and her sigh
Was notic'd; but, sure, 'twere unmanly as bold
To say she coquetted to rivet his eye.

Ah! no—as he spoke of each danger so drear
She sigh'd, for young Allan might equally fare;
She smil'd at the pleasant, for Hope whisper'd here
That he might be happy tho' she could not share.

'Twas the false praise of Flatt'ry, of Beauty the bane—
Of beauty so anxious to listen and love—
Which gave to her mind the unthinking and vain,
To her heart the sad penitent's anguish to prove.

She saw all her folly, but saw it too late;
She thought her heart safe when she laugh'd him to scorn;
But 'twas gone with young Allan; whatever his fate,
Or safety or sorrow, sad Edith must mourn.

I am ignorant of the name of this flower, but I have found it among the grass in wild spots more frequently than in cultivated meadows. I have also found it among the straggling grass on arable land left fallow. It is very small, the flower of the cup kind, with points; and there are two varieties, a bright red and a beautiful azure. I think I have also seen a white variety.

THE STRANGER'S TALE CONTINUED.

Next day, when seated at the festive board,
Remov'd the viands, and the mansion's lord
Had pass'd the grace cup, and the pledge had gone,
Edith first honour'd, Ernest thus went on.

“Peru astern, a gallant sail we spy,
And Spain's proud colours from her ensign fly;
We clear for action, hail the coming prey,
And Spain's insignia, as a lure, display;
The foe, deceiv'd, bears down; and when she nears,
Hailing with confidence (her hope, a breath!)
Dread to her view the bloody flag appears,
The pirate's signal, victory or death!
As when, by chance, th' incautious fly may get
Within the trammels of the spider's net,

Seeing his foe down-darting, though too late,
Desp'rate his struggles to divert his fate;
A fate too sure; so the brave Spaniard tried
To ward his peril, and our flag defied,
Vainly defied; his efforts show despair—
My soul revolts that I in guilt must share;
My plea necessity; with crafty art,
Death to evade, I act the pirate's part;
One doubtful act, one look of fear put on,
I seal my fate, nor benefit the Don;
And hope inspires me that the direful horde
Through me a warning shall to guilt afford,
When time shall answer: thus resolv'd, I show
A desp'rate brav'ry, and I board the foe,
Close by Sir Gorman; but, such art I use,
None can suspect, and none my truth accuse;
I saw the Spaniard vainly, madly, brave,
Saw all was lost, and us'd my art to save,
All lives else forfeit—as conceal'd I stood,
My vest and visage I besmear with blood;
Vict'ry I cry, and, with a false renown,
Rush to the staff and tear the colours down.
These arts prevail, Sir Gorman proudly pays
My fraudful daring with disgusting praise;

The ship a prize, (a glorious prize she prov'd)
On board the pirate was her wealth remov'd;
And captive came a lovely maiden there,
The captain's daughter, and divinely fair;
Virtuous as lovely; her Sir Gorman views
With eyes of horrid love, and rudely woos;
His passion tenders, and the maid's disdain
Fills his fierce soul with fury as with pain.
One day on deck, while weeping by her sire —
For free was he to walk the deck; his crew
In chains, for slav'ry's mart, the pirate threw. —
Sir Gorman seiz'd her with a fiend's desire;
The mad'ning father aim'd a fruitless blow
At Gorman's heart, who headless left his foe;
His mangled body is to ocean given,
His head, with impious triumph, hurl'd to heaven;
While on the deck the maid insensate lies,
And clos'd for ever seem those beauteous eyes.
The bark was mann'd from ours, to sea she stood,
And sail'd our consort on the cruise of blood.
The wretched maid, reviving, in despair,
To heaven for death address'd her frantic prayer;
With keen reproaches, furious, or sedate,
Wearied the chief, to tempt a desperate fate;

Refus'd all sustenance; while I alone
View'd her with sympathy 'twere death to own.

“One day to Gorman's cabin was she sent,
I heard the orders and presag'd th' intent;
Then follow'd secretly: the trembling fair
The cabin enter'd, and the chief was there;
His eyes flash'd light'nings of illicit loye,
And hard to sooth her agonies he strove,
But vainly strove; entreaties were in vain,
His vows but scorn receiv'd, his threats disdain.
Now rose the fiend, desire to rage gave way,
The door he bolted; (I in secret lay,
Where, through an aperture, I all survey'd;)
Fierce, to a couch he dragg'd the fainting maid,
And then no longer could my rage be stay'd:
Heaven lent me courage, soon a pannel old
A crow-bar shatter'd; and the wretch I hold
Fast by one hand, his eyes with fury glare,
I seize his poniard, yet not his despair;
Speechless with rage my throat he seizes; I
Of all regardless but that hapless maid,
And virtue's sanctity, the poniard ply
To gain my breath; for life on balance play'd

With death, so hard he grasp'd; one desp'rate blow —
His hands fall helpless, and his head lies low;
Speechless he falls; I stagger with surprise,
And scarce can credit that in death he lies.
An instant pictures my terrific state,
His crew remaining to avenge his fate;
One hope remains; none saw the monster fall;
With ardent pray'r on providence I call —
“Protect me, Heav'n, for virtue's cause I dare,
“That cause is thine; then hear, O, hear my pray'r!

“A sudden valour seizes all my soul,
I see my course and hasten to the goal;
The die is thrown, and I the cast must stand;
Rush upon deck, the poniard in my hand,
(The maid insensate when the monster fell
Could ne'er my prompt and specious tale repel,
Part in truth founded, part deception fram'd,
Desp'rate the case and desp'rate efforts claim'd,)
“Behold,” I cried, “the blood this hand hath shed,
And, if I err'd, hurl vengeance on my head;
But hear me first — and justice of the brave
Boon never ask'd but honor nobly gave.

“Low lies Sir Gorman, by this hand laid low;
But, dead to honor, he deserv'd the blow;
For him you fought, still lavish of your blood,
For him, whose fraud your honest claims withstood;
Prompt at his mandate you the fight sustain'd,
The conquest yours, Sir Gorman only gain'd;
From ev'ry prize all secrecy could veil
The wretch purloin'd; nor trust me for the tale;
A hoard of riches shall his guilt proclaim,
For which you fought, yet shar'd not, to his shame;
For which you fought, for which your comrades fell:
So sordid traitors generous friendship sell.

“When our last conquest he was prompt to board,
'Twas but to add an harvest to his hoard;
From the state cabin, in my sight, he took
A chosen casket, with an anxious look
That none observ'd him; I, obscur'd from sight,
Beheld the diamonds by the cabin's light;
Larger I ne'er had seen; and were they shar'd?
No! you were basely robb'd of your reward.
To day the shares allotted he bestow'd;
By him allotted, and my anger glow'd

To see no jewel of that casket there:
Hence to his cabin boldly I repair,
When he was dallying with the captive fair.

“Boldly I enter, and, to hide his shame,
In secret, justice for your wrongs I claim;
Demand the casket for your equal prize;
He spurns, he strikes me, and — the robber dies —
He dies! — for tyranny who curs'd as he?
Your cause was mine — I felt it — you are free:
But e'er my blood, thus risk'd for you, is spilt,
Go, search his coffers, and confirm his guilt.”

I ceas'd, and down the reeking poniard threw,
And an undaunted front oppos'd the crew;
A while with wonder all in silence stood,
Then o'er mysterious whisp'rings turn'd to brood;
Some rush'd below; on deck a box they bore,
New to their notice, bursting with a store
Of unaccounted gems, and ponderous, precious ore.

“Ernest is free! the deed was nobly done,”
Exclaim'd each voice, and every voice as one;

A share they offer'd, I the gift disdain'd;
“Enough,” I cried, “that glory I have gain'd;
Your blood 'twas bought it, yours be then the prize,
Amply for me this bauble will suffice;
This will remind me how my arm has dar'd;
Weigh you my future actions for reward.”
So said, this cross (and here a cross he show'd,
Gold, and one single ruby in it glow'd)
So said, this cross I took; amaz'd they view,
And admiration fascinates the crew;
My modest claim and high prais'd zeal, combin'd,
Mislead their judgment and their reason blind;
They choose me chief; I scarce the choice believe;
The hand of friendship they and fealty give,
And all Sir Gorman's honors I receive.

Nor think my youth the thoughtless choice could bar;
They saw me desp'rate in the daring war;
And my high tow'ring form and vigour show
More years than time had licence to bestow;
The horrid honour I with dread accept,
While desperate plans within my bosom crept,
Secret and deep; as 'neath some fated fort
Lies the dread mine, whose ruin and report

Together burst; so hid my plans remain,
'Till hope should justify to fire the train,
And spring the mine which should confound them all,
Warn'd of their ruin only by their fall.
To drooping Isabel (to me resign'd)
My plans imparted, peace compos'd her mind;
Her honour sacred, she affects regard,
And I seem happy in the feign'd reward.
A sail we see: a trifling force it shows,
And two stout barks our baneful power compose;
We hail, she strikes; 'twere madness to contend;
Bloodless the victory; on board I send
My first lieutenant, licens'd to command,
But give the plunder wholly to the band;
Disclaim all share; they by this artful trait
Deceiv'd, I rule them with despotic sway;
Affect a sternness foreign to my soul,
And with a savage justice crown the whole.
The vanquish'd captain to my bark remov'd
A secret friendship kindred views improv'd;
Yet, that suspicion's hundred eyes may sleep,
At well-feign'd distance I my prisoner keep;
In secret cypher we converse, and form
A plan to crush the desolating swarm

Meanwhile a storm the ill-found vessel tore,
Our consorts, parted, we beheld no more;
The calm returning, weakened in our force,
To a known pirate haunt we shape our course.
The coast we reach, and pleasant was the scene,
And wild deer greet us bounding o'er the green;
We near the shore; 'tis night, and I command
The crew next morning, for the chace, to land;
There we cast anchor, and, when morning came,
The crew debark'd, impatient for the game;
Four but remain'd, whom trifling duties stay'd,
And I departure to the last delay'd;
The boat return'd for me — but one our boast,
It's fellow in the storm was stav'd and lost —
The boat return'd, but, while it sought the shore
With its last freight, I sent the stationed four
Below, provisions for the boat to bring;
All at command flew with an instant spring
Down the rais'd hatchway; triumph was assur'd,
I fix'd the hatchway, and the whole secur'd!
The Spanish sailors my associate freed,
Yet kept below till useful in our need;
The boat return'd for me, but row'd by two,
The idlest, worst, and weakest of my crew;

Aboard commanded, none presum'd delay,
Up rush'd the Spaniards and secur'd their prey;
And 'ere the pirates from our ken were gone,
The boat was hoisted, and the bark our own.
The anchor rais'd, Spain's colors we display,
The canvas floats, and we are under weigh;
All sail we crowd a Christian port to gain,
Seek the Atlantic, and resolve for Spain.

VARIATION IV.

Apology for Piracy and other Pleasantries.

There was a man once, called Paul Jones,
In seventeen hundred eighty-six,
Or thereabouts; who sail'd the zones,
Playing strange free and easy tricks;

Sir Gorman like, a pirate he,
A sort of highwayman at sea.
His mother, who from Scotia came,
Was told her son was much to blame;
She snuff'd and answered “troth mon, how?
“The chield's in honest track I trow;
“Aw's clishmaclaver may be said,
“The bairn mun get a wee bit bread.”
This is the reason often given
Why many a roguery has thriven:
Hence minor authors pirate major;
The smuggler hence out-wits the gauger;
For this the sophist steals our senses
By tricksy truths and pert pretences;
For this the soi-disant reformer
Becomes of sacred holds a stormer;
For this, too, many a canting wretch
Fabricates, with trick and fetch,

A code of laws, and calls 'em God's,
'Gainst which might Mah'met lay the odds;
For this, too, fiends, like great Voltaire —
(Great little man! of pride's worst lair;
In genius shining 'bove his peers,
In grace decrepid as in years;
Who damn'd the pow'rs by God's grace given
By, Titan-like, attacking heaven;
And yet not Titan-like, declining
Open attack for undermining;
His Helicon mad Folly's Fountain —
A mite would undermine a mountain!—)
For this, like Voltaire, many a fool
Has called in question Christian rule;
Assum'd a why for every wherefore,
With blind “because,” and stumbling “therefore;”
All plainly proving, while they flout it,
They know no single thing about it;

And ask you why these cheats and drones
Are suffered?—Answer, Mrs. Jones:
“Aw's clishmaclaver may be said,
The bairns mun get a wee bit bread;”
Tho' in the stale, but shrew'd retort,
“I really see no reason for't.”
Why did I write? it may be said;
I only plead — “a wee bit bread;”
And if “no reason for't” you see,
Why should that reason prove to me?
But much I fear our mincing taste
May argue elegance disgrac'd
By this rude metre; pardon, pray!
My Pegasus, with ears distended,
Haply from Balaam's is descended;
And native asinine note's bray.
Still if to fine ears there's offence in't,
There's some degree of common sense in't —
Not in my verse — I mean in braying,
Which is, tho' coarse, pure nature's saying;
And Nature, unsophisticated
Reason yet never under-rated.

Taste, who contemns it is — a brute —
Refinement, who its worth dispute
Scout 'em — yet glossy is not grac'd;
Nor is fastidiousness fine taste:
The spreading oak and poplar spare
Show what we are, and what we were.
See, by some stream, a graceful show
Of towering poplars; to and fro
Waving, like birth day plumes of pride,
Bowing discreetly to the tide,
Their flatt'ring mirror; while there plac'd
The stream they, by absorption, waste;
And by their blighting pow'r confound
The soul of vegetation round;
Mere weed and water, soon they drop,
And, turn'd, augment the toyman's shop.

The native oak, like freedom's form,
Stands ever struggling with the storm;
No evil spreads, yet shows the eye
The picturesque of dignity;
Its clustering boughs a shelter spread,
And awful honour crowns its head;

Friend through a life which ages boasts,
When fell'd, the bulwark of our coasts.

But of our tale if more you'd learn,
On — to the God-send we return.

Paul Jones was a celebrated naval adventurer in the time of the American war: he was a most brave and daring man, an excellent seaman, and a good officer; he was born at Selkirk in Scotland; but, proving a traitor to his country, fought under the Ameriean flag, and committed many depredations. He died at Paris in 1792. I have rather taken a liberty in calling him a pirate; though he was generally considered so at the time of his numerous and remarkable exploits. The anecdote related of his mother I met with in an old newspaper.

There are many evidences in Voltaire's writings of insidious attempts to bring into contempt the Christian religion; and it has been said that he joined with Frederick the Great, D'Alembert, Diderot, and Condorcet, to undermine it.

The commonly received opinion is, that the oak does not arrive at its prime under 100 years, continues 100 before it begins to decay, and is 100 in decaying. — Its longevity is unquestionable.

SUBJECT V.

The old Harper. — The God-send. — The Orphan. — The Tale of Alice.

LAMENT.

O, the blue eye of morning with cheerfulness beam'd,
And her soft cheek was tinted with health's purest hue;
Her breath like the spice gale of Araby seem'd,
Its poignancy check'd by the freshness of dew:
Such my morning of youth; I rov'd, buoyant as air;
'Twas the sweet dream of transport when chasten'd by truth;
'Tis past like a shadow — O, mem'ry, beware!
Recal not the dream of the days of my youth.

Yes — Recal me that morning while memory's warm'd;
On its fairy delusion I ever must dwell;
Like the bird by its beauteous destroyer when charm'd,
I fly to my fate, and to peace bid farewell!
Yes, recal me that morning, when Hope told a tale
Like the flatt'ry of fondness, I fancied all truth —
But 'tis gone, as the gossamer goes on the gale —
I wake from the dream of the days of my youth.

O, the bloom of that morning for ever is gone!
But coeval with life will its mem'ry remain;
As the bright form of beauty lives carv'd in the stone
Shall mem'ry the form of that morning retain;
Yet by fancy alone the chaste sculpture is warm'd
With softness, with sweetness, taste, tenderness, truth; —
Like the genius who sighed for the statue he form'd,
I sigh for the dream of the days of my youth!

O his locks they were grey,
And his temples were bare,
O'er his broad forehead lay
The deep furrows of care;

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Yet his eye retain'd fire,
But was dimm'd by a tear;
'Twas a theme for the lyre
Both sacred and dear —
The sorrows of youth young hope may cheer,
As light mists fade in the golden ray;
But the sorrows of age are dark and drear,
As the black cloud frowns when the moon's away.

Yes, his locks they were grey, and he sorrow'd, in sooth,
Who sung of the dream of the days of his youth;
Aside him sat, earnestly list'ning, a boy,
Of Hubert and Ellen the pride and the joy;
Young Arthur the God-send; and goodly he grew,
As the evergreen, hope, in content's genial dew.

A garden I had, and it chanc'd on a day,
When the flowers were all seeding, the pods open lay,
And many a seed with the breeze took its way;
On a spot one alighting, where wild flowers grew,
(The blue-bell, the dog-rose, the fox-glove, and more,)
By chance it took root, and when flow'ring all knew
Chance planted it there by the blossom it bore.

The mode in which birds are charmed by the rattle-snake is too well known to need comment.

Pygmalion.

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So Arthur he bloom'd among flow'rs and weeds,
From the youth of the village discern'd by his air,
His form, and his beauty, his diction, and deeds;
His instructor that sage, the grey-crested Beauclere:
Whose youth had been happy, whose age had been cross'd;
He had lov'd, been belov'd, and his love he had lost.
He had known fortune's favour, and smil'd with delight,
And the gayer his morn the more gloomy his night:
He had cherish'd an orphan, whose soothing supplied
To his sorrow a solace — that solace he died:
How frail is fond hope! — See yon infant with joy,
Its life but a smile, and its time but a toy!
With cards, how delighted! a fabric it rears,
Each story encreasing its hopes and its fears;
See, it tow'rs like a Babel, the builder's delight;
One puff, and 'tis scatter'd as leaves at the blight.
So hope from its tow'ring less permanent grows —
This Beauclere discover'd, and, robb'd of repose,
To the village he came where young Arthur was found,
And as the green ivy the grey elm clings round,
So the sage and the scion affection soon bound.
And oft to young Arthur the story he sung,
For he trifled with verse, could the harp's strain prolong,

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And Arthur, absorb'd, on the harmony hung,
While he sung to the harp, and the Orphan his song.

THE ORPHAN.

The rain it fell, and the wind it blew,
And the heath was drear, and the flocks they drew
Beneath an oak that shelter cast;
And there sat a shivering boy, aghast;
Drench'd by the dropping and numb'd by the blast.
His clothes were torn, and his feet were bare,
His face was famine, his eye, despair:
I reach'd the oak, and I mark'd him well,
His sighs were deep and his tears fast fell —
And the foot which the innocent sorrow can't stay
Ne'er shall it follow a flowery way.

I look'd request, and he look'd a prayer;
And I learnt his grief, und I sooth'd his care;
A wanderer he, and his want severe,
And his were the orphan's sigh and tear;
Sacred to all who hold heaven's aid dear.

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The orphan's tear is an heavenly dew
Which ne'er fell on heart but there heart's ease grew;
And the sound which the orphan's sigh imparts
Is the whisper of Heaven to human hearts.
And the ear that the innocent sorrow can't win
Ne'er shall let heavenly harmony in.

His eyes he rais'd, and his hand I took,
And there was a blessing in his look:
It made the trembling tear so bright —
As when, at the noon of a cheerless night,
Some chance star beams it's benevolent light.
And he reach'd my cot, and he bless'd it too,
For where innocence treads there joys pursue;
And, to fancy, the innocent steps ne'er cease
To beat time to the song of the angel, Peace;
And the heart that can harden at innocent woe,
Shall never that harmony's healing know.

He bless'd my cot, for his grateful smile
Was a sun-beam there; an endearing wile;
The winter pass'd and he cheer'd its gloom;
Spring smil'd, and the summer laughed off with bloom,
And thro' autumn no care in my cot found room.

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And winter return'd, and return'd with joy,
But his smile, like Old Craft's, was a mere decoy;
He came with grace, but he went with gall,
And, passing, threw o'er my child the pall!
And the soul that the innocent death shall die
Shall be bless'd like the orphan who wakes my sigh.

So sung the sage, and wip'd the tear,
His orphan treasure lost;
But Arthur's looks his sorrow cheer,
And thaw his age's frost.

Be Hubert now our subject made,
And that mysterious night
When Ellen's eyes the babe survey'd
With wonder and delight.
The infant, lock'd in angel sleep,
On Ellen's pillow plac'd,
Hubert, to sound the myst'ry deep,
The billet's meaning trac'd.

And these the words the scroll convey'd:
“The child is Arthus nam'd;

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“Doubt not your pains shall be repaid,
“The boy hereafter claim'd.”

And every year by varied ways,
But none which they could trace,
Gold for the infant's rearing pays,
Address'd with words of grace.

And Arthur he grew as the poplar grows,
Planted where smooth, deep, water flows;
And Arthur he grew as the flower of May,
Hardy the stem, but the blossom gay;
And Arthur he grew as the sweet-briar green,
The pride of the garden, though modest in mien;
And Arthur he grew as the life-giving grain,
The boast of the peasant, and joy of the plain.
In a garden the white spreading bindwort I've seen
Entwining the flowers with its tend'rils of green;
Of Arthur an emblem the picture imparts,
His grace was the bindwort, the flowers all hearts.
He lov'd that sage and the sage lov'd him,
A reflector he seem'd to a lamp grown dim,

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For, ever as near the sage he came
His eye emitted a waking flame;
And he taught him many a page of lore;
And he told him many a tale of yore;
Cheering ever the winter's night;
While Arthur he listen'd with young delight.
Once the sage to wake the harp essay'd
When mem'ry dwelt on a hapless maid:
Sweetly he touch'd it, and, faltering, sung
A maiden for whom the death peal had rung.

ELEGY.

Oh, hast thou seen the dolphin dying
Tints most exquisite of hue,
As it pants for life, supplying,
While all the sight with rapture view?
Oft like those tints do beauty's graces show,
The gazer's magnet but the owner's woe.

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An humble turf scarce rears its head
But the daisy and buttercup o'er it are spread;
And the daisy and buttercup picture the maid
Whom sorrow beneath that turf has laid.

Humble was she like her grave's meek flow'rs,
The modest adorning of sylvan bowers;
But the proud man passing with ruthless feet
Has trodden the flow'r that bloom'd so sweet.

She's gone! O, she's gone!
Ah whither?
To the seats of rest,
The bow'rs of the blest;
Spirits of pity, come hither!
Now gather me rue, and the rose's dew,
That type of beauty's tear;
And gather me dew from the nightshade too,
That poisonous drop so drear;
Which kill'd the rose —
And a tear there flows
From pity; that tear drop save;
Mix that tear with each dew,
With them sprinkle the rue,
And scatter it o'er her grave:

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Memorial meet
For a beauty sweet
Whom false love clad in a winding-sheet.
Her virgin hour was the blooming flow'r,
But there comes a bitter blast;
That flow'r so sweet its death must meet,
And all like a dream hath past!
Farewell! thy stains have been wash'd with blood
For man a ransom giv'n;
And thou hast pass'd o'er Jordan's flood,
And thy pardon is seal'd in heaven!

But where is he
Who wither'd thee,
And where lays he his head?
Like a rock, sure, his pillow
His bed a wild billow;
If mercy he craves,
Sure, the howling blast raves
When his guilty night prayr's said.
For sleep in peace, O, ne'er can he
Who murder'd the peace he found with thee!

The dolphin when dying exhibits perpetual transitions from one beautiful colour to another: and they grow more exquisitely brilliant the nearer the fish approaches its end.

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THE TALE OF ALICE.

Fair Alice she bloom'd like the modest flower
Which forms the grace of the bosom and bower;
Blight came to the bower, the bosom grew cold,
And the story of Alice with tears is told!
Young Alice she liv'd in an humble cot,
A sylvan life was her father's lot;
But her father's cot seem'd a lovely shrine
Where beauty and grace kept valentine:
The eye of the old with “God speed” turn'd there,
For the fate of a maiden so passing fair;
And the eye of the young to that cot would rove,
The maidens' with envy, the swains' with love;
And many a love-lay Alice she heard
Through her rose-cover'd casement; none preferr'd,
None e'er promis'd, nor any allur'd,
Did Alice; yet many a youth ensur'd;
And, O, there was sighing from many an heart —
But the object of love fell the victim of art!

O thou, who can'st look on the maiden charm
And feel in thy bosom, soft, thrilling, and warm,

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The vibration that spreads an endearing so sweet,
It to harmony makes e'en the savage heart beat;
Ah! how canst thou, once having known such a bliss,
Like Judas, betray with a smile and a kiss?
Hast thou seen all the strings and the veins of the heart?
Dost thou know there's an exquisite life in each part?
Hast thou heard at each thrill ev'ry nerve is in play,
That the smallest if wounded will all disarray?
Dost thou mark this fine structure of net-work divine,
Where each mesh has a pulse, and love lives in each line?
And canst thou, possessing it, tear it; yet know
All its millions of pangs, its vibrations of woe?
O! lives there the man? drooping shame, answer yes —
Fiends possess'd human bodies the Scriptures express;
Sure all not ejected were — this marks the breed:
For such deadly destruction's attach'd to the deed —
'Tis to poison the spring of all social delight;
To paralyze purity; confidence blight;
Hope's barrier destroy; honour's landmark remove,
And blast the best image of heaven and love;
And reason identify must with the deed
The mark of the fiend, and the cast of the breed.

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Young Alice has over the gay meadow gone,
And her's was the foot of the careless fawn;
The scene was inspiring so blooming and bright,
And her mind was a heaven, her heart so light.
O! virtue, whose paintings such pleasure transfuse,
Dipping thy pencil in heavenly hues;
From thy art, though familiar to Alice, the scene
Wore the brightest of bloom, and the gayest of green;
Thy tints give the king-cup and daisy more grace
Than guilt in the rarest exotics can trace;
For guilt, whose perceptions corrodings consume,
Sees grace through the jaundice-hued medium of gloom:
'Twas a gay scene to Alice, and Alice was gay,
But the flow'rs and the fair one all wither'd away!
A stream thro' the mead took a graceful sweep,
Its banks were distant, its bed was deep;
And over it many a year had stood
A crazy, tottering, bridge of wood;
And Alice she tripp'd on that bridge with glee,
But little she reck'd of treachery;
For over that bridge she from childhood pass'd —
But friendship may flatter and fail at last.
The bridge gave way; and a piercing scream
Scarce given e'er Alice was plung'd in the stream;

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When a youth, who saw from an upland shade,
Like lightning darted, and sav'd the maid.
A fate with that moment appear'd to move;
Her looks beam'd gratitude, his spoke love;
And, “gratitude rais'd by graceful youth
“Soon ripens to love,” is a saying sooth.
The youth had a presence and manly grace
That told his claim to a high born race;
And he had a manner that told no art,
And he had a tongue could toil an heart;
And ever they met from that morning of fear
Allur'd by the memr'y of moments dear;
On the spot where their love began they'd stray,
And love made it Eden's flowery way;
An Eden appearing, an Eden it prov'd,
For repentance lamented where innocence lov'd.
There sigh'd her preserver, confess'd his soft pain,
He languish'd for pity, nor languish'd in vain;
Each sigh her cheeks' crimson, repaying, could prove
That gratitude's blush was the blooming of love.
She lov'd, but unconscious of who had her heart;
Yet he vow'd to explain, and she dreamt not of art:
A day when her sire he should visit he plann'd,
His name to develope, Love's sanction demand:

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For a cause there existed, imposing, to claim
A present reserve of his note and his name;
And he gave her a pledge of his honour, the Ring,
Which hallows the pleasures the chaste loves bring;
But ne'er could that ring be of virgin gold,
By treachery form'd in a faithless mould;
When it press'd her finger, where he by art
Convey'd it, that pressure it thrill'd her heart.
And now the hour's awful, and now was her fate,
And Alice blind secrecy mourn'd too late.
The night was all lovely, soft-eyed was the moon,
And the nightingale sung, and the hour was in tune
To all of the sensitive, yielding, and soft;
And he breath'd deep vows, solemn, ardent, and oft;
And he talk'd of the rapture the day would ensure
Which twin'd them in bands, lasting, hallow'd, and pure;
She sigh'd and was soften'd — A moment there is
The ordeal of Nature, our bane or our bliss;
The alternative's heaven or horror's abyss. —
That moment was her's — bless the hand which applies
That shelter for tears to those pitying eyes;
Weep, weep, gentle heart; be thy guard heaven's pale,
Who canst pity poor Alice, the fair and the frail!

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Ah, why, fickle moon, for bright chastity hail'd,
Ah, why were thy beams in that moment unveil'd?
Ah, why, plaintive Philomel, did not thy lay
To the night-bird's scream yield, which drives softness away?
But the moon brightly shone; sweet the nightingale sung,
At the moment when o'er her fate's equipoise hung—
Draw a veil o'er that night—to the cot she return'd,
At the threshold she trembled; she blush'd not, but burn'd:
Her bosom that morning was Eden; at night
'Twas as Eden to Eve when accurs'd with new light;
And when the fond blessing paternal was giv'n,
Ere to rest she retir'd, to what pangs it gave birth!
And those eyes, which erst gratefully rais'd were to heav'n,
Abash'd and confounded, were lowered to earth.
That night—'twas the first—O, she shrunk from the eye
Whose fond smiling was won't gentle peace to supply,
Give joy to her heart, to her eyes balmy sleep;
No joy it gave now, and she wak'd but to weep!
Where was merciful hope, for repentance was there?
And Hope follows her footsteps as pardon does pray'r.
Next morning—that morning how dreary its dawn!
With the peace she had lost its destroyer was gone;

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Was gone, and for ever—alas! for the maid,
Who, loving, is lost, and when blessing betray'd!
Sweet sex! how maltreated, how cozen'd, and cross'd,
If ye listen to us, ah, how oft are ye lost!
No wills of your own—should some youth be your care,
Unless he pursues, you must pine with despair;
If we love you must listen; if you love, alas!
On your unask'd confession shame's censure must pass.—

Thus sung a sad maiden, thro' fondness forlorn,
Who, unveiling her heart, prov'd the victim of scorn.

I scarcely need remark that the word cast is used by the Hindoos to denote the marks which distinguish the several sects of their superstition.

BALLAD.

O, alas! for the maiden
Who sighing must sue;
Her return is derision
Tho' pity her due!
O, shame upon manhood
Enjoying her smart;

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While her face ting'd with blushes,
Betrays her sad heart!

And can you for ever
Thus treat my fond love?
Should our sex slight your passion
How keen you reprove!
But if love wounds a maiden
Disdain'd she must sigh;
She but owns love to sorrow,
Conceals it to die!

This Ballad is adapted to “The Groves of Blarney.” Irish Melodies.

Deceiv'd and forsaken; heart broken, and stung
By the pangs of remorse, yet preserv'd from scorn's tongue,
(Her cheek told her anguish, her form told her shame)
Alice pin'd—more the object of pity than blame.
Her father with sorrow forgave, and conceal'd
What tho' poor made him poorer; to heaven appeal'd
For pardon for her who his hope had alloy'd,
For vengeance on him who that hope had destroy'd.
A boy was the issue of Alice's shame,
Whose birth was her death; on its natal night came

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To the cot, or a witch, or a gypsey, and pray'd
For pity, nor vainly her meek appeal made;
The sire tho' oppress'd knew the selfish alone
In their own sorrows bury all claims but their own;
For safety who hopes must be eager to save;—
A shelter was pray'd and a shelter he gave.
By his fire, kindly ask'd, see the stranger appears,
And the bread he bestow'd was bedew'd with his tears;
His sorrow she learn'd, and a skill she possess'd,
And her service, officious to thank him, address'd;
The infant she nurs'd as the mother expir'd,
And, e'er miss'd, with her charge from the cottage retir'd:
In vain art and effort her flying to trace,
But a bag and a billet appear'd in her place.

THE BILLET.

“The child will be cherish'd; this gold will ensure
“The rank of its father; with patience endure
“The heart pang of parting; for silence alone
“Will ensure the child's welfare, its life, and your own.”
Here ceas'd the Sage, nor could the youth prevail
To gain that night a sequel to the tale;

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The old man melted with the grief he told,
Oft dried the tear, nor could he more unfold.
With ardent force the Sage Young Arthur press'd,
With warmth unusual gaz'd on him and bless'd;
Arthur, a foundling, ne'er had father known,
Hubert and Ellen pass'd him for their own;
Childless themselves, and lest the truth should spread,
In a far village they sought other bread;
And by a clue (instructed from the hand
That plac'd the annual gold at their command)
Their change of residence to him convey'd
Who gave the charge, and for his nurture paid.
What made Young Arthur's artless heart beat high
When beams of love illum'd the Sages's eye?
What fill'd that Sage's bosom with alarms
When folding Arthur in his wither'd arms?
Who was that Sage, who happier days had known,
Who mourn'd hope foil'd, but not for ever flown?

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THE SAGE'S HISTORY.

Beauclerc, of reputable race,
In youth rich culture knew;
He'd Heaven to thank for many a grace,
And many a virtue too.

His parents e're his manhood died;
Youth's sorrows are but brief;
A decent wealth, which want defied,
Allay'd the pangs of grief.

He lov'd a maid, he wedded too,
For she was good as fair;
Like oziers twin'd together grew
Their comfort and their care.

And long they liv'd, and long they lov'd,
Yet childless; till, at last,
A daughter born their dotage prov'd,
Who, growing, all surpass'd.

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And fifteen years of grace she grew;
When death her mother's lot;
Her father's wealth expended too
They tenanted a cot.

And cheerful labour pass'd the day,
At eve his harp he strung;
His youth's delight, and many a lay
In concert Alice sung.

For Alice was the hapless fair,
Whose sorrows have been told—
Her father left his cot of care,
And took the witch-left gold.

Yet kept the secret in his breast,
Dreading the threat'ning given;
And, tho' his bosom heav'd for rest,
His hope was fix'd on heaven.

His dear-lov'd harp slung o'er his back,
A minstrel's life he led;
The joy of others smooth'd his track,
And rais'd his drooping head.

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At length, of way-worn wand'ring tir'd,
An hamlet fix'd the Sage;
The little wealth his skill acquir'd
Was competence for age.

And there he found the orphan boy
Who half his heart engross'd;
The other, and his hope of joy,
Were fix'd on him he lost.

One night, when sitting pensively,
(That orphan boy no more)
A deep groan broke his reverie,
And rous'd him to the door.

Low at the threshold lay a man
Whose wounds bled fresh and fast;
The needful care the Sage began,
But soon he breath'd his last.

But e'er he died a tale he told,
For well the Sage he knew;
He was the witch who left the gold,
And stole the infant too.

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He told who was the infant's sire,
And told the infant's name;
And where he had convey'd for hire
The heir to love and shame.

Night-robbers him of life bereav'd,
E'er harden'd guilt was shriv'n;
He look'd repentance, Hope believ'd,
And augur'd him forgiven.

The sage, instructed by his tale,
To seek his grandson rov'd;
And found a village in a vale,
And in it all he lov'd.

A boy, had not his name when known,
His mother's looks of grace
Had told him Arthur was his own,
Now lock'd in his embrace.

But he the secret ne'er betray'd;
Resolv'd no more to roam;
And Arthur's grace and fondness made
A heaven of his home.

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VARIATION V.

A few trifling Mistakes rectified.

Give me, O, give the rural cot
With modest mild flowers deck'd around;
A shade, embow'ring, near the spot,
With reverend, mellow age embrown'd;
Whose charms no idle gaze invite,
But which the trav'ler weary
May, seeing, gladly bless the sight,
And feel his heart grow cheery;
Then o'er the threshold pass will he
Crying “Benedicite!”

Give me, O, give the circle gay;
Unfetter'd where the fancies move
To pleasure's dulcet roundelay,
And all is life, and joy, and love:
Where beauty all resistless shines,
And wit the song composes,

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And mirth the willing hour entwines.
With wreaths of blooming roses.
Take the grave, the gay give me,
Crying, “Benedicite!”

Thus passions contrasted their bias disclose,
For rivalry panting, or wooing repose;
Discontent and depravity fly to extremes,
And, equally idle, one doats and one dreams;
The cot has its charms, and the circle its graces,
And one fans the fires which the other effaces;
Those fires heaven gave, and our caution they claim,
Our part to refine not extinguish, the flame;
We sigh for the cot when o'erburthen'd with care,
And fancy felicity paramount there;
We pant for the circle when buoyant the mind,
In extacy's spell the coy phantom to bind;
Mistaken in both: for when innocence fled
Felicity follow'd; and hope in her stead
Came to raise, not to wreathe, Nature's shame-drooping head.
The cot has its care, and its vice, and its strife,
And mere vegetation's no licence of life;

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The circle has sorrows, though trick'd out with joys,
'Tis a welcome that wearies, delight that destroys.

O, see gentle peace, lovely angel of light,
Whom the smiles, at the call of benevolence, crown;
And health attends ever, bland, cheerful, and bright;
And innocent sleep with his mantle of down;
And love, such as angels survey with a smile,
Which purity teaches, and virtue ensures;
And friendship, unknown or to gain or to guile;
And hope, blue-ey'd maid, who endears and endures.

Where is peace found? explore the hermit's cell,
And ask the anchorite if there she dwell;
Ask him, who sits a fixture of the scene,
Vapid, not peaceful; sullen, not serene;
Wasting the present to regret the past;
Whose fast is famine, and whose feast a fast;
He, whom the poet sings, in specious lays,
“Prayer all his pastime, all his pleasure praise.”
Ask him if peace within his cell reside,
Where silence sits, and coward passions hide,
Fetter'd not rein'd; go ask if peace dwells there—
What flies the social but disease and care?

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He'll answer, “yes,” but shall his word suffice?
His haggard cheek speaks plainly that he lies.
What can he pray for, he, who all resigns?
How praise the God whose service he declines?
Are pray'r and praise alone for duty given?
Easy and indolent the way to heaven!
And in that way, (twin born) by God's command,
Sweet peace with piety goes hand in hand.
Bound to no rank, and to no place confin'd,
Peace, heavenly seraph, mansions in the mind;
The mind that fix'd on duty's high behests
“Reads, marks, and learns, and inwardly digests.”
Digesting acts, and, acting, truth obeys;
Seeks that by pray'r, and sweetens this by praise;
These are the pray'r and praise, devoutly giv'n,
Which rise a grateful holocaust to heav'n;
At best all doubtful else, or pious strife;
Ask my authority, “The Book of Life.”
Duty's a pillar; pray'r the prime or base,
Practice the shaft, the capital is praise.
Here, cries some zealot, with fanatic bawl ,
“Faith is the base, shaft, capital, and all;

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All else is vanity! turn Hindoos, Turks;
And hope for Heaven as wisely as from works;
“Mere rags of righteousness” ne'er saints beseem,
The “filthy dowlass,” of a madman's dream.”
And where for saints, good bigot, shall we search?
Dream they with Southcot or deduce from Church ;
Who, fix'd in faith, let all base passions in,
Hymning Hosannas as a grace to sin.
O, fools and Pharisees! two faiths are found;
One saves, one damns; go, ascertain the sound.
A tree of life God planted; Faith the root,
And works (his word my oracle) the fruit;
And useless both, to profit or to please,
These wanting that, or that unbless'd by these.
This from Faith's fountain flows; there drink, and live;
Opinion's rivers no chalybeate give.
Where is peace found? Where virtue is belov'd;
Where by each other faith and works are prov'd;
When man the precepts of his teacher bind,
Who loving him, like him, loves all mankind;
To all a brother, and to all a friend,
Self to the social nobly can extend;

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To man whose wealth, whose time, whose pow'rs are giv'n,
To teach, to lure, and lead the way to Heav'n;
Those whom weak faith to partial good impels
Peace sometimes visits, but with him she dwells:
Where dwells that man? peculiar to no place,
Of cot, of city, and of court the grace;
He shuns the cell; no stagnant water's good;
Virtue loves transient not fix'd solitude;
What e'er but dearth or rude invasion sprung
From land uncultur'd or the bow unstrung?
Give rest to age, but why supineness preach?
Youth's task to toil, the task of age to teach.
Close me the cell for ever—fool, decline
To hide in holes “the human face divine:”
If thou art sad seek comfort in thy kind;
Disease no nostrum will in desarts find;
If to avoid temptation is thy boast,
We scorn the sentry who deserts his post;
From ill abstaining is but half thy task;
That, and pursuing good, Heaven's mandates ask.

“Take up thy bed and walk”—thou shalt be whole;
Sloth wastes the body and confounds the soul;
Plain, honest perseverance wins the goal.

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Repentance, rous'd from guilt and stung by shame,
Seeks the fair field to renovate his fame;
Opposes hosts, nor like a recreant flies
To nurse vain sorrows and to vent weak sighs;
A goading conscience all his soul impels,
“He groans in spirit” while his bosom swells
With active ardour, nor the combat stays
Till conquest crowns him with eternal bays.
“Go, and do likewise” wouldst thou win reform;
Our's a Church Militant; take Heaven by storm:
To coward sloth the sensual's fate is giv'n;
The bravely virtuous are the sons of Heaven.

I wish it to be understood that I attack no sect—only the “troublers of religion.” Fanatics are the enemies of all faiths.

Of the impostor Joanna Southcot who has not heard?—“Tell it not in Gath, &c.”

A dissenting preacher of the 19th century.

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SUBJECT VI.

Edith.—Continuation of the Stranger's Tale.

O, sleep, who, wrapp'd in the veil of shade,
And shod with film, dost, trackless, steal
On the weary mind, with the balmy aid
Before which the feverish fancies fade,
When thy downy fingers the wild pulse feel,
And it's throbs by their magic touch are stay'd;
My form in thy cherishing arms enclose,
My fancy sooth and my cares compose,
And smooth my pillow, confine my mind
In thy silken trammels, which sorrow bind;
And give me, O, give me peace again.

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O'er me transfuse in showers unseen
The dews which the night breezes brush from the flow'r
Which grows where the Crescent displays its sheen;
And give my soul to the shadowy hour,
When fancy sports in her wildest play,
And with wing-footed freedom the energies stray;
And the mind's a king, and the world it's throne,
And a fairy phantasy forms the zone;
And give me to float on the ambient air,
And give me to glide o'er the heaving wave,
Where sails Young Allan, the gentle and brave;
Round the bark to hover which bore him there;
And the winds I'll woo that they kindly blow,
And the waves I'll kiss that they gently flow;
It's rocking I'll stay, and its helm I'll guide,
And 'round it with guardian care I'll glide:
O, cruel the bark that my lover has borne,
But the power that impell'd it was Edith's scorn.

The poppy from which opium is made is a native of Turkey.

And sleep o'er sad Edith her mantle cast,
But bound the benevolent fancies fast:

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And Edith she stood on a towering rock,
And saw the bark which young Allan bore;
She saw it strike, and she felt the shock,
And she saw his corse on a friendless shore;
And she stretch'd her arms, and a spring she gave,
To bury her grief in the ruthless wave;
She gave a spring to embrace the billow—
Sleep fled, and her arms entwin'd the pillow.

ERNEST.

The pillow may be of eider down
And the head lie restless there;
And sleep with her poppies the brow may crown
But the mind may awake to care.
Young Ernest, tho' clos'd were his fever'd eyes,
That night was a prey to the mock'ry of sleep;
Restless and murmuring, as misery lies,
His startings were frequent, his sighs were deep.
O! Edith, thy pow'r all were fated to prove,
And deep from thine eyes drank young Ernest of love.

And have you heard the wild-maid's song
As she wanders thro' the vale?

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“I've bound young Love in a silken thong,
His quiver it floats the stream along,
And I've scatter'd his darts to the gale.
And, its O, gather blown roses, maids,
And weave with 'em garlands gay;
For Love is crost,
His arrows are lost,
And we shall be merry as May.”

Heav'n sent love to bless mankind,
Passion made him wing'd and blind:
There is a weal transform'd to woe—
All is not love we carol so.

THE STRANGER'S TALE CONTINUED.

“For Spain's proud shores, (young Ernest he pursued)
Our hearts elate with gratitude, we stood;
The beauteous maid now lifts her heavenly eyes,
And hails the Paradise with blissful sighs:

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For native scenes the spirit still entice,
The Arab's desert is his Paradise.
E'er we the harbour reach'd 'twas gloomy night,
I purpos'd landing by the morning's light;
But, wild with extacy, delay none bear,
Won by entreaties I allow their pray'r;
With cautious haste we meditate to land,
I press fair Isabel's consenting hand;
O'er the bark's side her timorous steps attend,
While no bright moon beams kind assistance lend;
A casual torch directs our devious way,
Whose reeking flame emits a gloomy ray;
A treacherous guide! the boat lay sidelong by;
To reach it, eager, with my charge I try;
The maid, too eager, in joy's wild alarm,
Quits but an instant my supporting arm,
One heedless step, she buries in the wave—
The sailors follow, but she finds a grave!
Myst'ry unmatch'd, though instant ev'ry aid,
A wat'ry winding sheet enfolds the maid;
All sprung, all div'd, but zeal and speed were vain,
The maid for ever buried in the main.”
Here a deep sigh denied the youth to speak,
A burning tear roll'd down his manly cheek;

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“The maiden lost”—a sigh, tho' half suppress'd,
Too soft for pity, labour'd in his breast—
“The maiden lost in all the blooming pride
Of health and beauty, to each grace allied,
May well the sigh of deep regret inspire,
And check the ardour of a soldier's fire.”

He dried the tear, a tear fair Edith dried,
And pensive sat, and oft, responsive, sigh'd;
The maid and Allan her deep griefs divide;
Pity and love a double anguish gave,
Her fear assign'd them one according grave.
A short-liv'd silence at the table reign'd;
Some moments glided e're Sir Ernest gain'd
Resuming calmness his detail to try,
And let a simple lay that pause supply;
Each griev'd a true love lost, and each, forlorn,
Review'd past days, reviewing but to mourn.

LAMENT.

Alas! for the days that are gone!
When rude care with content never strove;
But life seem'd a flow'ry lawn,
And my cot was illumin'd by love.

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I hail'd ev'ry day with delight,
But sorrow laughs pleasure to scorn,
And morn's but the herald of night—
Alas! for the days that are gone!

And now I must sorrow and sigh;
Will thy tyranny, Fancy, ne'er cease?
Ah! quickly those days they went by,
And pain came abruptly on peace.
Two linnets they sat and they sung,
A sportsman his trigger had drawn,
The female her little head hung—
And her song's like the days that are gone!

Her mate perches now by my cot,
Where together they oft sung before;
Now a note like complaint he has got,
But he warbles his carol no more!
And lonely he sits on the spray,
I watch him at dew-fall and dawn;
And the silence of both seems to say
“Alas! for the days that are gone!”

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Returning cheerfulness their eyes relum'd,
Fair Edith listen'd, and the youth resum'd.
“Charles of that name the fifth, at once who reigns
O'er Austria's princes, and Iberia's plains,
Deign'd, for his subjects by my act restor'd,
To grace my shoulders with th' imperial sword;
A knight I rose, the warrior's badge he gave,
I own'd his standard, and I join'd the brave.
Th' imperial Charles to Tunis led the train,
The Moorish Hascen's sceptre to regain
From his rude hands who, in the Othman's name,
Had seiz'd the throne, and barr'd the monarch's claim.
In Lesbos' isle, proverbial for a race
Nurtur'd in guilt's antipathy to grace,

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Two ruthless sons a base born potter rear'd,
Horuc and Hayradin, whom monarchs fear'd:
Horuc (whose beard display'd a grisly red,
Hence Barbbarossa call'd) a squadron led
Of pirate gallies with a daring skill,
And brutal bravery; second to his will
Rank'd crafty Hayradin, by nought appall'd;
“Friends of the sea,” themselves the ruffians call'd;
“Friends of the sea, and foes to all beside
“Who hop'd securely on its waves to ride.”
Their names terrific, fatal was their force,
From where the Straits of Dardanelle have course,
To where Gibraltar stands, whose towering rock
Seems all to brave save nature's final shock;
The ancient Calpo, and in days of yore
Was, with Abila frowning on the shore
Of fronting Africa, his pillar nam'd,
The pagan Sampson, and a god proclaim'd.
Eutemi, who the Moorish sceptre sway'd
In barbarous Algiers, burning to invade
With native fraud, ferocity, and hate,
The rights of Spain, and ancient vengeance sate;

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Doubting his force, to Barbarossa sent
To aid, with energy his dire intent;
The Redbeard, joyful at the summons, flies;
Five thousand corsairs, laden with supplies,
The city enter and a league is made;
But cunning treach'ry cunning hate repaid;
Algiers o'eraw'd by Barbarossa's power,
The king fell victim by a secret blow:
The Moors now curse the inauspicious hour,
And Redbeard reigns, their monarch and their foe:
Firm on the throne, (so well he play'd his part,
With force, with kindness, cruelty, and art;)
Tremecen's king with jealous eye he view'd,
His throne attack'd, and delug'd it with blood;
His throne ascended, and, devoid of fears,
Left Hayradin his viceroy in Algiers;
Then with new conquests devastation spread,
'Till Charles hurl'd vengeance on his recreant head.
Horuc dispatched, Hayradin Algiers' throne
Secur'd; in turn as Barbarossa known;
By all detested, and by fear oppress'd,
Fear the dread inmate of each tyrant's breast.
With subtle aim he seeks the Turkish court,
And holds his crown as liegeman of the Porte;

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The Crescent's navy by his rule now rides,
And with the great Doria he divides
(For one the Crescent, one the Cross unfurl'd,)
The palm of naval glory from the world.
Tunis of savage Barbary the pride,
Which stands where Carthage in her pow'r defied
The world's great Sov'reign, many-laurell'd Rome,
Who gave to Carthage what she found, a tomb—
Tunis (weak Hascen fill'd the barbarous throne)
The corsair mark'd, “and mark'd it for his own.”
The Othman aids him, valour and surprise
Obtain the victory, and Hascen flies:
To Charles he flies, protection he implores,
And Christian banners wave on Moslem shores.
Th' imperial warrior led th' embattl'd train;
Doria led the warriors of the main;
Her well-train'd infantry Almagne supplied,
The Infant's gallies bore Iberia's pride;
Shadow'd by laurels, torn from humble France,
The knights of Spain and Italy advance;

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The cross of Malta many a galley bore,
Whose bands breath'd hate to ev'ry Moslem shore;
The Papal Sire, with pious zeal impress'd,
The force augmented and it's purpose blest;
A brief crusade; 'twas not for Hascen's loss,
Their aim the sacred glory of the cross;
At Cagliari, on Sardinia's coast,
Guasto marshall'd the imperial host;
Naples and Sicily join gallies there
With the proud squadron of Iberia's heir,
And Malta's barks; with his whose standard told
Him chief, Doria, not less sage than bold;
Converging there, each banner was unfurl'd,
That fix'd the doubtful aspect of the world;
None knew the purpose, secret zeal prepar'd
The force their wonder and their fear which shar'd;
But guilt, whose doom is never rest to know,
With keen suspicion rous'd the Moslem foe;
Fell Barbaorssa silently survey'd
The storm collecting o'er his wretched head;
He knew his vices, dreaded their desert,
But his was fear that made his soul alert;

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No coward stream his vigorous veins impart,
Furious his blood rush'd from a ruthless heart:
Secret he saw, and secretly he strove
To ward the blow; and royal claim to prove:
His floating corsairs from all points he drew,
From Algiers strengthen'd the marauding crew;
From ev'ry foe the Cresent gave the Cross
Aid he implor'd: and urg'd their common loss
The cross triumphant; urg'd their common gain
The cross defeated, in the pow'r of Spain.
All to his standard flock'd, one zeal inspir'd,
One hate impell'd them, and one fury fir'd.
Within the impregnable Goletta's fort,
He plac'd the well-train'd succours from the Porte,
Skill'd in the tactics of each Christian court,
These Sinan marshall'd; of the Corsair crew
None dar'd more bravely, or more keenly knew;
Sinan, than whom Christ's cross could never know
A scourge more bitter, or more baleful foe;
Doubly a foe; the Rabbi taught his youth,
The Koran now his oracle of truth:
Yet his were deeds which such a soul display'd
The brave might praise, but piety forbade.
Myst'ry at length imperial Charles declin'd,
Avow'd his purpose; and his force combin'd

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Approach'd Goletta; there the zealous band,
Encamp'd before, each avenue command;
All for the siege impatient, wait the word
To storm, and victory to the cross afford:
But e'er began the glory of the day,
Thus to his generous ardour Charles gave way.
“Soldiers of Christendom,” the monarch said,
“To day shall Mahomet conceal his head;
Our faith's sworn foe, our land's eternal scourge;
What further impulse need I add, to urge
Your generous valour, and resistless pow'r,
To crown with glory this eventful hour?
More were but waste, but time and triumph's loss,
Strike home! for victory, and the holy cross!”
The siege commenc'd with cool and wary aim,
But soon the spark burst fiercely to a flame;
Sinan, whose valour e'en his skill surpass'd,
Prepar'd, receiv'd them as the oak the blast;
Thin leaves may scatter, and weak branches fly,
But the stem's type is fix'd rigidity;
Boldly he prov'd, all trusted to his aid,
His sov'reign's foresight and the trust repaid.
For Cross or Crescent mutually all dar'd,
And rapid breaches were as quick repair'd;

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Now the bright falchion with the lightning vied,
By Moorish blood and now by Christian dyed;
New breaches form'd to worse destruction led,
Each passage choak'd with dying and with dead;
While o'er the heaps of fury's victims rush'd
The fierce invaders, and the dying crush'd,
To night consign'd them; then, by Moorish might,
Themselves as qnickly were consign'd to night.
The thundering cannon from Goletta's towers
With horrid carnage rak'd the Christian powers;
The well-serv'd ordnance on the Christian side
With equal havoc to each charge replied;
The fight was fury in its maddest rage,
Not men but demons seeming to engage;
Whole ranks hewn down, their place fresh ranks supply;
Fate, the fix'd Moslem creed, forbids to fly;
The Christian's hope of martyrdom in death
Impels and proves him prodigal of breath.
Thus Cross and Crescent equal valour fire,
And equal views, but not results, inspire.
Here Charles, exalted, foremost in the fray,
To glorious victory points the bleeding way;

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Sinan, like Satan there his head uprears,
With hate inspiring his malignant peers;
From wall to wall, from breach to breach, he flies,
Works to delirium his fell energies;
Incites, enrages, frantic with despair,
Points paths of hope, and leads the ruffians there;
And where weak fear the coward arm gives rest
His streaming falchion buries in that breast;
And ne'er since Mahomet his cheat began
Was fitter champion for the Alcoran.
When some slight dam a peaceful stream repels
Which sudden influx to a torrent swells,
The gathering waters confluently press
Full on the barrier, and its bands distress;
Accumulating still, the barrier gives;
Wave over wave forward, impetuous, drives,
The barrier bends; resistance is in vain,
Sudden it bursts and floods confound the plain.
Thus press the Christians on Goletta's towers,
While vainly Sinan congregates his powers;
Goletta's walls, for tactic science fam'd,
Boast of the age, impregnable proclaim'd,

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No dam afford to stop the raging tide,
All hearts conjoin'd, and ev'ry nerve applied;
The bulwark cracks; the engineer applies
Incessant art's destructive energies;
The bulwark trembles; Sinan on the walls
To fruitless fight and hopeless victory calls;
He leaves the rempart frantic with despair,
The breach is made, and Sinan braves us there:
In, like a torrent, rush the Christian band,
And none their fury and their force withstand,
Save Sinan and a few, who from the fray
Retreat, but fly not, daring us at bay;
These seek the city, and the broad bay ford,
To tell the tidings to their lawless lord.
Sinan, receding, curses as he goes,
A front audacious glorying to oppose;
Grinning while cursing, and, to fancy, then
The “foul fiend” standing by the worst of men
Whisp'ring with smile malignant seem'd; to urge
Hate to the cross beyond e'en mercy's verge;
With fate resistless and a deathless fame
To toil his reason and his pride inflame:
And, as he whisper'd, the dire precepts burst,
With looks demoniac, from the lips accurst.

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To Tunis come, the Moslem Jew inform'd
His ruthless sov'reign of Goletta storm'd;
The ruthless sov'reign knew the city weak,
And knew 'twere vain his subjects' hearts to seek
For other aid, such hatred he inspir'd,
Than self-love wrought, or common good requir'd;
The barbarous King resolv'd the foe to face,
And, should he fall, with glory shield disgrace.
But e'er he left the city for the plain,
To soothe the manes of the ruffians slain,
And save the city from internal foe,
His fiend-like foresight meditates a blow
Thirst for destruction could alone desire,
Or demons execute, or hell inspire.
Ten thousand Christians, of their rights bereft,
He doom'd to slaughter e'er the place he left;
His chiefs consulted (sovereign of his band
As much in cruelty as in command)
His chiefs consulted, but, though nurs'd in blood,
His chiefs, indignant, the dire act withstood.
Fiend-like that eye whose glare his rage express'd,
The spark lay buried in his artful breast;
Left to ferment there 'till securer hour,
When triumph's terrors should confirm his pow'r;

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Then burst with fury and devouring flame
On all who dar'd to deprecate his aim.
He fear'd defection, for he knew their hate;
The moment critical, one failure fate;
“Moslems,” he cried, “your safety 'twas inspir'd
The piteous sacrifice my care requir'd;
The city's sole defence yon fort you view,
While o'er yon plain the Christians you pursue,
The slaves escaping, or by fraud or force,
The fort assail'd, what stems their 'vengeful course?
The fort subdued your entrance here they spurn,
And vain regret shall witness your return.”
He ceas'd, accord awaiting with his plan;
But rebel murmurs through his legions ran;
For he who deign'd for mortals to atone
Mov'd their fierce hearts to mercy not their own.
Foil'd in his purpose, with insidious mien,
He cried, “Thus valour will to mercy lean:
Alone your safety 'twas your sovereign sought,
His sacred duty, and his ceaseless thought;
Your wishes his, your interest his own,
Your zeal the prop and safeguard of his throne;
I yield me freely to the general voice,
Your looks inspire me, and your words rejoice;

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Back'd by such hearts, I leave the city, free
From recreant fear, and march to victory.”
A secret sneer from ev'ry chief replied,
Though fix'd to aid the leader they deride:
Not love to him the steady ardour fir'd,
No, 'twas the hatred by the cross inspir'd.
Now the green standard of the prophet rear'd,
The Turk's palladium, sacred as rever'd,
“Alla alone is God,” the Moslems cry
“And Mahomet his prophet—Victory!”
This said, one motion, simultaneous, bar'd
Ten thousand scymitars for blood that glar'd;
The Red King seiz'd their impulse as a fate,
And dash'd his charger through the ample gate;
Legions on legions o'er the desart stride,
The tyrant led, and Sinan by his side;—
Th' intrepid Charles his wasting march begun,
His soldiers fainting 'neath a burning sun;
O'er scorching sands their blister'd feet they ply,
While quenchless thirst (the wells impure or dry)
Compos'd the acmé of their misery.
But for the cross they fought, and who might grieve
Deserv'd no blessing that the cross could give.
The armies met, nor long on parley stood,
The desart's dust too quickly laid by blood.

150

Here Sinan fought, and how he fought is known,
But here rank'd second, by his King outshone:
Bred to the faith he own'd, by Moslem law
In death a paradise the tyrant saw;
Sinan saw nothing but the dreadful meed
That waits the apostate of a barter'd creed:
This nerv'd his arm and soul like magic spell;
To live no heaven, but to die was hell.

From van to rear, from rear again to van,
Piercing the centre, Charles or rode or ran;
As thickening ranks or spreading wings requir'd,
And all address'd, encourag'd, and inspir'd.
The furious Moor, with threat'ning and with thanks,
Urging and irritating, pac'd his ranks;
Thanks to their zeal with promises he gave,
Death to the coward, bounty to the brave.
“On for the Koran!” Barbarossa cried;
“On for the Cross!” imperial Charles replied:
They spring, they fly, war's clangour rends the air,
And drowns the cries of fury and despair.

While fiercely flying thro' the embattled plain,
Charles saw the Corsair, and quick check'd the rein;

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The valiant Corsair saw, his foe he scann'd,
Then stopp'd his steed, and front to front they stand.
As when the lion, roaring for his prey,
Meets the fell tiger in his fatal way,
With horrid fire their redd'ning eye-balls flash,
With rage they tremble, and their sides they lash;
Each waits the moment when with hope to spring
And to the earth his dreadful rival bring;
Then teeth and talons, with a direful roar,
Sudden they fix, and drench their foe with gore.
So Moor and Christian with fierce parley stood,
Then sprung to battle like the beasts of blood;
Sabre and falchion in an instant meet,
Their foaming chargers mingle hostile feet:
The Moor at Charles a 'vengeful stroke essay'd,
The monarch parried, and his brittle blade
Shiver'd in splinters; yet, though hope seem'd past,
It broke the blow which else had been his last:
A soldier saw, and, with the speed of thought,
Toss'd him a sabre which the monarch caught;
Then rose indignant from the saddle bed
With desperate aim to cleave the Moslem's head;
The wary Moslem shifting from the blow,
Charles fell, his strength o'er shot, and roll'd below.

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The Moor, above, his gleaming falchion swung;
The blow avoiding, up the emp'ror sprung,
The ruffian's foot then seizing, with a bound
Unhors'd and sent him thundering to the ground.
The Corsair, staggering, rose; and foot to foot,
And inch by inch, the 'vantage they dispute;
Charles on his foe with force terrific darts,
Again his blade with treach'rous weakness parts;
And death seems certain; but, with timely spring,
He seiz'd the sword arm of the barbarous king;
Wrench'd from his hand the deadly biting blade;
“Yield! yield!” he cried—the Moor no answer made,
But, as the lion springs upon his prey,
On Charles he sprung, within his sword arm's play,
His mail-clad neck with vig'rous arms he clasp'd,
His legs entwin'd with his, wrestled, and grasp'd;
The monarch, strain'd, gave way; the agile Moor
Clutch'd his lost scymetar, and grinn'd, secure
In meditated vengeance; and he broke
Ground back two paces, to effect a stroke
Dire as his hate; and had his purpose kept,
But, backward striding, on an helmet stepp'd;
The treacherous step derides his madd'ning mood,
And sends him headlong amid dust and blood.

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A troop now, flying, by a troop pursued,
Approach'd: and each its panting sovereign view'd;
The rallying Moors their fallen monarch shield,
And, by his danger fir'd, disdain to yield;
The Christians, by their sovereign's safety sway'd,
A loyal rampart for the warrior made.
Remounted, now the monarchs pant to try
Again their prowess, when a clamorous cry
Bursts on their ears and sounds like “Victory.”
“To whom?” cried Charles, and dash'd along the plain;
The Moor too darted; each the spot to gain
Where the main battle fill'd the field with dead,
By brave Guasto and dread Sinan led:
The Moors were breaking ground, the Christians press'd;
The Corsair, madness raging in his breast,
Plung'd in the centre of his panic host,
And fell'd-a chief receding from his post;
The sacred standard seiz'd and rais'd to view,
Then cried, “For Alla and his prophet!” threw
The standard 'mid the Christians, crying, “there
“Save it; or all of Paradise despair!”
Like wolves they rush'd by gnawing famine stung;
Like wolves receiv'd a lion herd among;
Charles and the Moor again their valour tried,
Again contending troops the fray divide:

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The direful scene ungrateful to renew,
Enough that Charles drove back the turban'd crew;
To Tunis back, in Barbarossa's spight,
By all but miracles who fir'd the fight;
To Tunis back; to Tunis back in vain;
They find no succour, and no entrance gain;
The Christian slaves their keepers had suborn'd,
These sold the wretch whose tyranny they scorn'd;
Their fetters freed, the fort, the walls, they fill,
The ordnance there, abandon'd to their will,
Against the tyrant in his flight they turn'd,
Who first from this his worst disaster learn'd.
Rav'd he'd not doom'd 'em to a secret death,
And curst the warriors who redeem'd their breath.
Between two fires the desperate ruffian stood,
Cursing his fate, and howling like the flood
That raves in tempests; then like lightning fled,
And hid in Bona his dishonor'd head.
So furious whirlwinds, raging in their force,
Tear nature's form and wrest her genial course;
Their power expended, suddenly they're gone,
Their being known but from the ill they've done.
But Sinan fell—nor charge my words with pride—
Slain by my hand the wretch, despairing, died;

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No hope for him so impiously who durst;
Abjur'd Jehovah and the Saviour curs'd!
He fell as the first fiends their conflicts clos'd,
His power blaspheming whom their hate oppos'd.
The town surrender'd, death's dread work is done,
And Muley Hascen mounts a blood-stain'd throne;
Himself a liegeman of the cross he swears,
And as a fief of Spain the crown he wears;
The Christians, free, high heaven for Charles implore,
And Hascen swears the reign of slavery o'er;
Now to Spain's shores Imperial Charles withdraws,
Oppress'd with laurels and the world's applause.

The historical fact of, and some of the occurrences at, the siege of Tunis, are taken from Robertson's Charles Vth. It took place in 1535. In a former note I accused myself of an anachronism, from an unaccountable momentary impression that this siege occurred in 1529, and the sheet which contains it was worked off before I recollected my error. As the Spaniards landed in Peru in 1530, and Ernest is supposed to be at Tunis in 1535, there is full licence for the probability of his being acquainted with the history of the Peruvian War.

Aruch and Heyradin. Univ. Hist.

Under Solyman IId. or the Magnificent; Watkins's Biog. Dict. says Selim II. (quoting from Univ. Hist.) but Selim II. began to reign in 1566.

The Great Genoese, called “The Father of his Country.”

The Marquis de Guasto, a brave and experienced soldier.

The Goletta was provided with near 300 cannons, mostly brass.

I have put two allusions to Paradise Lost in the mouth of Ernest, though it was not written till about a century after. I hope this anachronism is not unpardonable.

VARIATION VI.

Love, War, and Music.

There is in female breasts a feeling,
When valour (youth and grace revealing)
Tells his deeds of fame and glory,
That, so bewitching is the story,

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Gives fancy such a range to rove
There's danger from the toils of love. And why?
Their softness, like the zephyr breathing;
Or silken fly in rose leaves sheathing;
Or bending flowret, bearing never
E'en the sigh of gentlest gale;
Or plant susceptive, shrinking ever
E'er the hand its leaves assail:
This yielding softness seeks protection,
Safety guiding love's election:
And then the joy to hear the story
Of a graceful lover's glory;
The thousand, thrilling, sweet sensations
Which prompt the magic animations,
That flush the cheek, and give the eye
Beauty's most charming brilliancy.
To hear his prowess crown'd with praise
Which must in rivals envy raise;
She listens, rapt, love stronger growing
By each palpitation shown;
Loving on she listens, knowing
The hero's glory is her own.

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These like magic 'twin'd together
Make resistless sword and feather.
Love is the flow'r
Of the poet's bow'r,
And love is the life of the poets' lay;
But, love to sing
When he wakes the string,
The burden's too often “ah! well-a-day!”

THE LOST FOR LOVE.

Zephyr is toying with the rose,
Whispering love and wooing blisses;
Her fluttering leaves her joy disclose,
Coquetishly curling to zephyr's kisses;
Yet zephyr seems jealous the dew, more blest
Than he, on her redolent leaves should rest;
And he ruffles her leaves with his angry breath
The drop to chase and pursue to death;
But the dew in the drapery of her leaves
Conceals itself, a sweet death to prove!
Yet envious zephyr, defeated, grieves;
And the dew drop's lost, and is lost for love.

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Zephyr is angry with the rose,
Whose head plays with scorn as he mourns lost blisses;
When a golden fly, whose wings disclose
Many a gem, now courts her kisses;
And, hovering round, to alight essays
On a gay green leaf, on her charms to gaze;
But zephyr so angrily fans his wings
That when from the leaf the gay fly springs,
To kiss the flow'r, 'tis his fate to find
A rival resolving his claim to prove,
Whose breath to him is a stormy wind,
And the gay fly's lost, and is lost for love.

Zephyr exulting, round the rose
Wantonly playing, snatches blisses;
Her reddening leaves her rage disclose,
While ever anon he blows her kisses:
And the rose would the darting sun-beam woo,
Which fades her leaves, exhaling the dew;
And the rain to woo the rose appears,
Whose wooing the rose repents in tears;
And zephyr, by fanning, her tears would dry,
And her wet, matted leaves by his curling move;

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But the rude wind drives and zephyr must die—
Lost with the rose, who is lost for love.

There is in female breasts a feeling,
Tho' valour be his deeds revealing,
With all of grace and youth combin'd,
Which guards from soft approach the mind;
'Tis when, anterior, the fond heart
Has love imbib'd devoid of art;
And then, if mutual truth it meet,
It loves till life's last pulses beat.

Hence Edith she listen'd, but love took no part,
For with Allan had wander'd her virgin heart.

Let love be sung 'tis ne'er in vain,
Every ear complying;
Fancy listens to the strain
Till half her breathing's sighing.

For love is so woven in human heart
Its fibres entwine the core;
And love is of life an integral part,
Whose loss no balms restore.

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Beat but the drum and the town's in alarm;
The trumpet sound, all, in fancy, arm:
Thus the tale of the battle, the siege, and the storming,
The mind ever seizing, the breast ever warming,
Irresistibly fixes and fires with its story;
And dead is the ear never open to glory.

Thus poets of love and of glory sing
Rapt fancy to draw to the lay;
And if they touch not an according string,
And the soul of the mind to the purpose bring,
'Tis—alas! and a well-a-day!
And alas! and a well-a-day for me
May an apt burden, haply, be.

I hear the harp as my lay I write,
And the hour is the growing age of night;
When care is a king, his labour o'er,
And traffic has clos'd his restless door;
When all is watchful, and all is still,
And nature resigns her weary will
To the wandering thought, and the waking dream;
And rest contemplates the taper's beam;

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And the senses are wasting with apathy,
The dim eye fix'd on vacuity;
And sleep comes stealing, and points the hour;
Health and peace, to his will resign'd,
Seek the couch, as the bee the flow'r;
For O! honey-sweet is the balm they find.
But grief and disease his pow'r defy,
No collyrium has he for the wasting eye.
And the muse awakes, for the hour she loves
When the nightingale warbles in lonely groves;
The muse awakes, and the minstrel's strain
Is the cooling balm to her fever'd brain.
I hear the harp, and the cares they flee
When I list to its soothing melody;
For oft my cot from that minstrel's art
Is made the home of a joyful heart.
O, minstrel maid, when thou wak'st the strings
'Tis to me as when peace a love-lay sings;
O! could I tell what those sounds reveal,
How I fancy, and how I feel—
While o'er the strings flying thy fingers strive,
Like rivals in sweetness, all-sensitive,
As if all were th' affections of harmony wooing,
With jealousy ev'ry sound pursuing,

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Each seeming, when waking a note, to watch
Lest its rival the exquisite tone should catch;
Thro' the strings still appearing to peep at each other,
As if to catch tones from a blissful brother;
Each ever impatient accord to be keeping;
Languishing, gliding, or swelling, or sweeping;
With energy striking, or tremblingly trilling,
Seeming to swoon from their own sweet thrilling:
Yet such sweet emulation the soul's should be
For ever “resolving in harmony:”
And at the arpeggio's brilliant play
All seem to be running with joy away,
Like love and gay innocence toying with blisses,
Or the dimpled smiles wooing the dulcet kisses.

O, melody, thou art the heavenly beam
That comes from hope to the heart of woe;
And, O, thou art like the good man's dream,
When with him the minis'tring angels go.
Now, as if thy melody, minstrel maid,
Like the painter's light requir'd deep shade,
The church clock strikes, solemn and slow!
Deep bass to thy light, harmonious flow.
O, take it a lesson while in youth's prime;
As must thy measure be rul'd by time,

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So time rules all; and, when hearts rejoice,
His guiding hand, or his friendly voice,
Is heard or seen, and they point to, or tell,
By the fading leaf, or the sounding bell,
Of where, sweet minstrel maid shall be,
For ever, for ever, all harmony!

Fair minstrel! how dear are thy strains to me!
Thy day summer's dawning, O, bright may it be;
May thy mind and thy strain vary never;
May the spirits of harmony dwell on thy lay,
Compose thee by night, and inspire thee by day,
And with Amaranth wreathe thee for ever!

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SUBJECT VII.

Young Allan.—A Fair Slave.

Fancy dipp'd her pen in dew,
Distill'd from leaves of gayest flowers;
Her paper from soft fibres grew,
Purloin'd from buds in rosy bowers;
Then she wrote a lay, to prove
Hearts might safely toy with love:
Archly smiling, Love was there,
And cried “of Fancy, maids, beware!”

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Roguish Love took May dew then,
And from his wing a feather taking
He dipp'd it in, and chang'd her pen:
And all her lay seem'd Love's own making:
She wrote of love with such sweet art,
She read, and sigh'd, and lost her heart:
Archly jeering, Love was there,
And cried “of Fancy, maids, beware.”

This has been sung by Miss Stephens, composed by Mr. Whitaker.

'Twas sporting with fancy lost Edith repose,
And Love, archly jeering, derided her woes.
But where is young Allan, and will he return
To the victim of Fancy, the maid who must mourn?
Young Allan he stood 'neath the sultry sky
Of the barren, yet beautiful, Araby:
Where ever a parching sun is known,
And the withering grasp of a burning zone;
Where the spices and gums the charm'd senses assail,
And with incense impregnate the soft breathing gale:
There wild, like its rider, the far carol'd steed
Is unmatched for sagacity, beauty and speed;
There the mild camel paces the plain, or the steep,
His days without drinking, his nights without sleep;

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A membrane organical solely possessing,
A cistern where water when drank remains pure,
Whence a muscular motion, if thirst is distressing,
A medium to moisten his food can procure.
When crossing the desart the caravan, spent
With parching fatigue, mark his exquisite scent;
If within half a league well or stream may be found
He looks kind assurance, and, rais'd from despair,
To his guidance submitting, with bosoms that bound,
The caravan follow and find water there.
Nor fancy the camel, doom'd labour to know,
Confin'd in his paces to stately and slow;
Whose feet soft and spongy, yet rough, never crack
As o'er burning sands he pursues his drear track:
There oppress'd by rude burthens he'll calmly proceed;
Yet he vies with the courser in trials of speed;
The distance extended the fleet courser fails,
And by vigour o'er speed the rude camel prevails.
Unwieldy his form, and, tho' sombre his hide,
In the garb nature dress'd him bright beauty takes pride;
For the shawl which encircles the graceful and fair
Was first worn by the camel; whose pliable hair
The painter supplies with his medium of art,
The pencil, which tinted can magic impart;

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Which gives to the canvass, when Genius designs,
All the features of soul Taste's creation combines;
Who, grasping sublime, spurns mechanical care,
And we view only nature, no canvass is there.
The camel, a lesson to pomp, pride, and spleen,
Who dare to God's forming give epithets mean;
All nature created from moss to the man,
Inform'd or inanimate, serve heaven's plan;
All requisite; all can some blessing bestow,
And, save man, all obedient discharge what they owe.
Young Allan he stood 'neath the sultry sky
Of the barren, yet beautiful, Araby;
Where roves the rude native by law unrestrain'd,
By freedom made bold, and by plunder maintain'd;
His dwelling a tent, rudely pitch'd where he roves,
But to point out its scite hospitality loves:
A lesson to you, O, ye graceful and gay,
In courts or in circles who flutter your day:
A lesson to you, who philosophy trace;
Go, learn one true rule from wild Araby's race;
A lesson to you in the cross who believe,
From the Arab one trait of your duty receive:
In his tent no deceit, all is sacred and sure;
At his door no rude porter to banish the poor

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The Arab a pledge deems from heaven who halt
In his tent, and partake of his bread and his salt;
And one Christian precept his sympathies yield,
If his enemy claims it his roof is a shield.
Can ye boast as much, ye blind leaders of blind,
Who religion in trammels and phantasies bind?
Sanctimonious professors, how oft at your door
May one see the dust shook from the feet of the poor;
A witness against you in that proving day
When the heart shall be bar'd; and God's sentence display,
In religion there's more than to preach and to pray?
See your friend, e'en your friend, at your board, when he's full
“Of the things of this world,” and he's welcome's as wool,
Soft, warm, and inviting; but blows the wind cold?
Does he want? no warm welcomes his sorrows enfold,
But the wool thread-bare grows as a tale often told.

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How oft do your actions the riddle impart
Of the tongue tipp'd with honey, yet gall in the heart?
The friend whom your homage shall banquet to day
To-morrow your profit shall spurn and betray:
Yet religion's profession's the badge of your tribes;
So the wing'd chemist's balsam the spider imbibes,
If it falls in his way; which, distill'd in his frame,
Becomes venom, and death is its issue and aim.
“Go learn what that means”—He who only can save
Express'd, “I will mercy, not sacrifice have,”
Go learn, and when taught the pure precept pursue,
Or the Arab, professor's, a Christian to you.

Bread and salt bear so sacred a character with an Arabian, that should his mortal enemy enter his house and taste of either he ensures to himself the most religious exercise of the rites of hospitality; the host conceiving himself bound to risk even his life for his guest's safety.

I wish distinctly to be understood, I refer only to the sanctimonious and not to the sect. The Deity permits difference in opinion to exist for his own wise purposes; and as Hervey observes pertinently on the subject, a bed of pinks presents varieties, but still they are all pinks—we certainly quarrel more about opinion than religion.

And Allan he stood 'neath the withering sky
Of the barren, and barbarous, Araby—
O, children of nature, who boast a descent
From the sire of the Faithful; when sad Hagar went
From the anger of Sarah, and with her but one,
The offspring of Abram, Ishmael her son;

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Ishmael, the Adam of Araby's race;
Ishmael, from whom a stain'd lineage ye trace;
Like Ishmael, still wand'ring by choice or by curse,
To the true son of promise for ever averse;
The sire whom you boast, faithful Abram, ador'd,
The Almighty, Jehovah, the Life, and the Lord.
Are you his descendants? then blush while you bow
To Mecca's impostor, the mark on his brow.
But the day may arrive when the Fountain of Light
Shall uncloud your conceptions, and strengthen your sight;
Then the sons of the base born Ishmael shall soar;
And the true Son of Promise accept and adore.
And Allan he stood 'neath the sultry sky
Of the barren, yet beautiful, Araby.
Three divisions, two barren, one fertile, it owns—
Arabia Petræa, a region of stones;
Where the rock and the mountain for ever look drear,
And their heads awful Horeb and Sinai rear;
Reflection, go weep, by due horror oppress'd,
That the land by God's visible presence once bless'd,

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His honour confounding, disclaiming his name,
In ignorance steel'd, boasts and triumphs in shame!
Arabia Deserta, where parching winds blow,
The sun burns above, and the sands scorch below.
Where the feet seem to tread, while the lungs heave for breath,
On the burning bridge Mussulmen cross after death.
But a region remains, and the Muse loves the scene,—
Arabia the happy smiles, fertile, and green;
There rolls the Euphrates, which proudly can boast
It water'd the Paradise Adam soon lost;
Near Erzerum, in Turkish Armenia, its head,
Where the caravans rest on a nitrous bed;
Erzerum for drugs, furs, and cottons, far fam'd,
And the web of the silk-worm, for luxury fram'd;
Euphrates, whose waters from mountain tops flow
Which glitter for ever, encrusted with snow;
Armenia (the Turcoman's region) it parts
From Natolia, devoid of or culture or arts;

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Parts Diarbec (where Tigris impetuously flies)
From Syria, where sanctified Palestine lies;
Thro' Irac-Arabia fertility leaves,
And the waters of Tigris, as tribute, receives
By the Persian Kursistan; then laves, not the least,
Bassorah, renown'd in the Tales of the East;
Then enters the gulph of the Shah's domain,
Where ignorance, lust, and base luxury reign:
It bounds, the parch'd desart, but, distantly plac'd,
Nor refreshes the wand'rer, nor waters the waste.
Here the waves of the ocean of India spread:
Here heaves that fam'd sea ever restless and red;
Thro' which Israel pass'd, by the heavenly word,
While the waves, rais'd like ramparts, a passage afford,
And Pharoah he follow'd, in heaven's despite;
The waters roar'd scorn at his impotent might,
And, ingulphing, involv'd him for ever in night!
In whose bed, as old legends and chronicles tell,
The spirits departed are destined to dwell;
The magical charm of the mystical prayer,
And the Cross and the Cowl, ever binding them there.

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And rough are its waves and the waters red,
For red is the sand of its shores and bed;
And restless its waves, like the spirits it binds,
And the sand a swift current still upward finds;
There toss'd, and for ever, it tints the flood
And ever it seems to flow with blood.
So barren the region that form's its shore,
A spring is a mine beyond golden ore;
And a spring once found is an heavenly friend,
And the parching tribes for the prize contend;
Precious the treasure, and dire the strife,
And each drinks at the price of contested life.

The Mahometans believe they must cross a red hot iron bridge to Paradise: and that, to preserve their feet from the fire, every piece of paper they have preserved while on earth, with the name of Alla written on it, will come and place itself under their feet: for this reason, they are extremely careful in securing all chance throws in their way.

Called Holy-land from having been the scene of man's redemption.

And Allan he stood 'neath the cloudless sky
Of the barren, and parching, Araby;
For Allan had compassed sea and land,
Careless of where he found a strand.
Bereft of his parents, his right, and his friend,
Scorn'd by Edith, impatient of scorn,
Where chance might lead, or his wand'rings end,
Little he reck'd if from Edith borne.
And the bark which his hopeless fortunes bore
For Smyrna weigh'd from his native shore;

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And “adieu,” he cried, as he left the strand,
“For ever, adieu! to my father's land;”
But, ere he came to the destin'd bay,
Wreck'd on a friendless shore he lay;
There by a wretch was senseless found,
Who robb'd, then, rais'd him from the ground,
Restor'd life's spark, and convey'd him home,
But counted on guerdon and gold to come.
For he was a man of a ruthless mood,
And his was the traffic of human blood;
The rights of nature he trampled o'er,
And the ties of the heart asunder tore;
Gold was his god, and craft his grace,
And he liv'd by the wreck of the human race.
He foster'd Allan with fraudful care;
To Aleppo he sail'd, having 'lur'd Allan there;
Then the mask threw off; and to swell his hoard,
The gold is weigh'd at the merchant's board,
And Allan's the slave of a Turkish lord.
And his was labour from dawn to fall,
And he sigh'd for the land of his father's hall.

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ALLAN'S LAMENT.

There was a day, how passing bright!
When lightly I rov'd in my father's land;
There is a memory gives delight,
But mine to me is a burning brand:
Lightly my father's land I rov'd,
Proudly I stood in my father's hall,
But all beloving, and all belov'd,
Have pass'd away like the autumn fall!
And my grave shall be dug, with unholy hand,
By the foe to the faith of my father's land!

There was a hope wore an angel's smile,
When lightly I rov'd in my father's land;
With rank and riches it would beguile,
And high in honor I look'd to stand;
Airy the visions of hope have been,
Revelry reign'd in my father's hall;
But he lies where the marble urn is seen,
And left not to pay the priest or pall:
And my grave shall be dug by unholy hand,
For ever remov'd from my father's land!

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There was a friend, and he form'd my youth,
When lightly I rov'd in my father's land;
In wealth for ever he told me truth,
In want he alone held a fostering hand.
His humble roof was my shelt'ring room
When driven away from my father's hall;
But silent he lies in a peaceful tomb,
And he fell as on man sweet slumbers fall:
But my grave shall be dug by unholy hand,
Far, far from my friend, and my father's land!

There was a maid, and she won my heart,
When grieving I stray'd through my father's land;
But heavenly beauty can stoop to art,
And torture the bosom it has trepann'd.
But she compeer'd with the great and gay
When driven was I from my father's hall;
And her scorn drove me, sorrowing, far away
In the land of the stranger to fade and fall!
And my grave shall be dug by unholy hand,
Far, far from her scorn, and my father's land!

There was a pang, and my soul it rent,
When drooping I sail'd from my father's land;

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And my youth must wither and age be spent
In slavery's chain, at the Turk's command;
But Heaven it heard my orphan sigh
When driven away from my father's hall;
And there is a hope can a charm supply,
As we look for the fruit when the blossoms fall:
Yet my grave shall be dug by unholy hand,
Far from all that I lov'd, and my father's land!

The turban'd Hassan had a prize,
Born beneath more kindly skies
Than where the prophet, balanc'd even ,
Suspended is 'tween earth and Heav'n,
As Imaums say, ('t had sav'd some strife
Had it but happen'd in his life.)
This lovely prize rich Hassan, who
Had purchas'd Allan, purchas'd too;
Queen of his haram meant to be,
For her's was beauty's witchery:
A Christian maid, who death preferr'd
To Hassan's love, whose lordly word

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Was the capricious tenure by
Which she held hope of liberty,
Allow'd her through his passion's power,
Which clear'd his brow so won't to low'r;
By flattering art he hop'd to gain
The love coercion urg'd in vain.
Hence, deeply veil'd, attended by
A youthful slave; from prying eye
Conceal'd by walls high towering, he
Left her to rove his gardens free;
And there with pensive mind she stray'd,
At morning beam and evening shade;
For ever sighing, hopeless she
Of the land she lov'd, and liberty.

Mahomet's coffin is supposed to be suspended between Heaven and Earth, by magnetic power.

THE VIRGIN.

The virgin dresses her all in white,
By Purity bleach'd in the morning light,
In the morning light when the day's too young
For Folly to wake, with her wanton tongue.
And Meekness robes her with artless grace;
Simplicity's hands her adornings place;
And Modesty blooms her cheek with dew
From the loveliest rose; that drop the hue,

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The bashful hue of the morning sky
Reflected, imbib'd, will that dew drop dye.
And Piety prompts her morning prayer,
And Truth holds the glass to adjust her air;
And her heavenly kiss to those lips imparts
Whose melody fascinates human hearts.
And Benevolence plants in her bosom a rose,
In the garden of Eden alone which blows;
And, O, a charm'd fragrance it breathes around,
And wherever it is there smiles are found.
Then forth she comes, like a heavenly day,
Surpassing the bride of an Eastern lay;
Of an Eastern lay; where luxuriant bowers,
And spicy gales, woo the wanton hours:
And fancy-dress'd graces wild love invite
To the rosy bed of uncheck'd delight;
Where flowers that seem with a soul to live,
Such perfume to languishing zephyrs give
That the senses faint from their fragrant breath,
And die with a sweet, but unholy, death.

Ah! these are the scenes the maid should shun,
By genius and fancy too sweetly sung;

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For there beams a charming, not cheering, sun,
And delirium wanders those bowers among.

O, fancy, when chasten'd, thy elegant play
Is the genius of grace, and the graceful of gay;
But, O, unrestrain'd, 'tis the wanton dance
Of the hirelings of luxury's 'wilder'd trance;
When the mind, enslav'd by the mazy wile,
Barters grace for the kisses of guile.
Fancy, a fickle and fervid power,
Building for ever a fairy bower;
Where richer far, and more redolent, grows
Than nature imagin'd the poet's rose:
And the dew-drops that from its charm'd leaves depend,
Like witch-drops that from the moon descend,
By the hand of the wild wizard-wit are caught,
And into bewildering spells are wrought.
Fancy, who pierces the inmost cell
Where gnomes are pictur'd to lurk and lie;
Revels where sylphs and genii dwell,
And wreathes her in wanton witchery.

As the virgin comes so the lovely maid
In the garden where Allan was toiling stray'd:

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And once in a bower she sat, and she sung
A pensive air in a Christian tongue;
And Allan, who veil'd by a rose-tree stood,
Oppress'd by fancies a lurid brood,
The melody heard—'twas like the sound
Of hope's sweet steps on enchanted ground;
For at hope's approach dark fancies flee,
And her steps are attended by harmony.
He started, he listen'd and scarce believ'd;
'Twas fancy distracted, his mind deceiv'd—
Ah! no, for he peep'd through the flow'ry screen,
And a lovely vision the youth has seen:
For the maiden the veil from her face had flung,
And he sigh'd, while he listen'd, as thus she sung.

LAMENT.

Where is the balm can heal my heart,
Where is the hope can a gleam impart
To cheer me?
My tears and sighs, to heaven address'd,
Like pray'rs unanswer'd bring not rest;
Ah! will he hear me?

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But there's an hour to man unknown
When Heaven shall smile on the hearts that moan.

Sorrow who bears with a patient mind
In that blest hour shall a solace find:
Hope, cheer me!
Ne'er was the sigh of confiding pain
Heav'd to heaven and heav'd in vain;
Heaven will hear me!
Yes, there's an hour to man unknown
When Heaven shall smile on the hearts that moan.

Rapt, he listen'd, and check'd his breath,
As enamour'd he gaz'd on the maid so fair,
For there to be heard or seen was death,
And her slave, young Fatima, waited there.
And softly he stole from the vision bright,
Yet many a lingering look he cast
Thro' the foliage which shielded his form from sight,
And each look seem'd as wishing an age to last.
Ah! who could the lovely Christian be,
He thought and he sigh'd—while mem'ry flew
To where, in his fancy, was fairer than she,
“But for ever, for ever, she's lost to me,”

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Burst from his lips, and himself he threw
On the turf that twinkled with morning dew;
And he thought of the days with the smiling hours,
When youth's fond vision form'd fairy bow'rs,
And he thought of the knell, and the priest, and pall,
The death that had darken'd his father's hall!
And he thought of good Simon, his only friend,
And his looks to heaven's blue vault ascend;
And his thoughts fly there to the friend of all,
While his asking eyes for mercy call:
And he spurns despair; and his labour plies,
Till broad is the sun in the western skies,
And then as he sat on a sculptur'd stone,
He saw that maiden straying alone;
She saw not him, on the flow'rs she gaz'd,
But no thought in her absent mind they rais'd;
She saw them not, to her grief a prey,
For she thought of the land that was far away.
And Allan, obscur'd by a citron grove,
Which bounded this scene of voluptuous love,
While fear's nerveless thrillings his frame ran o'er,
He sung in the language she sung before.

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ALLAN'S SONG.

O, thou who wander'st here to weep,
Whose tears are as drops of pearly dew
Which from the fairest lilies creep,
Falling on rose of heavenly hue:
Whose sighs are like the zephyr's breath
Which sweetly wakes in beauty's grove
The Æolian lyre, with rosy wreath
Suspended there by artless love:
Thy tear and sigh are echoed here,
From humbler grief, by sigh and tear.

Ah, dry those tears, suppress those sighs,
The eye of hope sees far away;
And there's an aspect in her skies
That tells a more celestial day:
O, there's a day-spring in the east,
And soon the night of grief shall fade;
And morning come, like a pardoning priest,
In the robe of mercy and peace array'd.
Thy tear and sigh are echoed here,
From humbler grief, by sigh and tear.

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Thus Allan sung, and the trembling maid
Darted her eyes through the citron shade;
And she saw the youth, and her gaze he saw,
And sympathy broke the tyrant law
Of fear; and within the grove they met,
The time was precious, the moment set
When she to the haram must return;
Time had no license for hope to learn
The tale of sorrow each long'd to know,
But that moment of meeting was balm to woe.
Here Fatima's voice—and 'twas music—was heard,
But to them 'twas the scream of th' ill-omen'd bird;
Their eyes told their sorrow, and instant she flew,
But whisper'd, departing, “To-morrow—adieu!”
While Allan as swiftly retir'd to the grove;—
So two timid fawns that have stray'd from the drove,
If a bush chance to rustle, or breeze roughly play,
Start, fly, and are gone through the first friendly way.
But oft by stealth, their tortures to unfold,
Trembling they met, and sigh'd at sorrows told;
Till each to other felt a softer tie
Than friendship own'd; a fonder fear, lest e'er

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Their secret haunts should wake suspicion's eye,
The others safety most to each a care.
Once near Aleppo's gates young Allan stray'd,
An Arab fainting on the road was laid:
Allan stopp'd short; the Arab's head uprais'd,
With death's pale cheek and haggar'd eye he gaz'd;
Yet look'd request, and Allan instant flew
Within the city; there a sage he knew
Skill'd in the blest resuscitating art,
And instant aid he begg'd him to impart;
The sage attends him, eager as implor'd,
And soon the dying Arab is restor'd;
The sage's dwelling his till health resum'd
Its wonted vigour, and his eye illum'd:
Here for three days young Allan visit paid;
The third at parting, thus the Arab said:
“Sav'd by thy zeal, let this my thanks convey;
This ring; to-morrow bears me on my way;
An Arab, here on secret charge I roam,
To-morrow bears me to my desart home.
Be it thy lot the desart e'er to trace,
Safety is thine from Irad-Mulech's race;
Name Irad-Mulech, passport shall it be,
Guide and protection o'er the sands for thee.”

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The ring he proffer'd, many a gem it own'd,
The youth rejected; and the Arab frown'd;
The youth's reply secur'd the chief's regard,
“The act of duty covets not reward.”
And quickly left him, for the hour was near
To meet the partner of his hope and fear.
Two moons had wan'd, and the third appear'd,
Since Allan that virgin's voice had heard;
For Hassan, by passion impatient sway'd,
Had strictly guarded the grieving maid;
Resolv'd, since foil'd in his artful course,
To use the power of fraudful force.
But, sudden the Turk was call'd away,
And Bassorah must reach by a stated day;
A merchant had fail'd in his debt, too deep
For Hassan upon design to sleep;
And all for the caravan was prepar'd,
And Allan augmented his master's guard;
Nor must that maiden be left behind,—
For ever mistrustful a tyrant's mind.
And the caravan city and suburb clear'd,
And the desart, the Arab's reign, appear'd;

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And Allan he stood 'neath the sultry sky
Of the barren and beautiful Araby.
That maid a Mohaffah conceal'd from view;
And Allan for ever he march'd by its side,
And the camel that bore her his neck up-drew,
As if he the virgin's value knew,
And he seem'd to step with a statelier pride.
And Allan he march'd by the side of the maid,
His mind intent on romantic aim,
And oft the desart his eye survey'd,
And oft he mutter'd that Arab's name.
Four weary days, with hope and fear,
They travers'd the desart, so parch'd and drear,
And Allan was fated to inhale
The sultry Simoom's poisonous gale;
And its blistering power his face display'd,
But the guarded Mohaffah preserv'd the maid.
Four days they went, when an Arab band
Rush'd o'er the desart; the Schaik's command

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Prepar'd the battle, and ev'ry ear,
Save Allan's, attends to the voice of fear;
For Allan, whose thoughts took a brighter scope,
From his eye emitted the beam of hope.
They come! they come! and the fight's begun,
And many a deed of death is done;—
Young Allan he stood by that maid confin'd,
But Hassan had fled, for his dastard mind
Impell'd him, while others contested the field,
To the caravan's centre, for shelter and shield.
And now a fierce Arab had Allan approach'd,
His scymitar rear'd, and his blood he had broach'd.
“Irad-Mulech,” cried Allan; that name was a charm
Which soften'd the Arab, arresting his arm;
Said Allan, “Take me and this camel, I guard
To the tent of your chief and your zeal he'll reward.”
The Arab he motion'd, a party obey'd,
He to them gave the charge of the youth and the maid;
And over the desart light hearted they've gone;
To follow be ours; let the battle go on;
To our theme be both Hassan and caravan lost,
To follow the pair who the desart have cross'd.
As sacred as Mecca's green standard his name,
To the tent of the Arab in safety they came;

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And Irad the right hand of friendship bestow'd,
Acknowledg'd the proud obligation he ow'd;
And the feast it was spread, and the scene it was gay,
'Twas the feast of rude friendship, and joy's holiday.

A Mahoffah is a closed case or sedan, secured on one side the camel; counterbalanced by a corresponding weight on the other; in these females are preserved from the heat of the sun while crossing the desart.

The Simoom is a baneful wind that blows perpetually over the desarts of Arabia; to which Europeans generally fall a sacrifice.

VARIATION VII.

The Groans of Britain, and a Legend ad libitum.

Britain, I hail thee, paramount in bliss;
Though ever murmuring, to thy treasure blind;
Thy morbid nature bent on the amiss;
Too sure to fancy that thou canst not find;
If bliss rests, reigns, not in thy charter'd bound,
Say in what region is the radiance found?
Th' ecliptic trace, the Equinox, go, cross,
But all thy labour, seeking it, is loss,
If thine it is not—chronicle thy cares,
What are they? megrims, or mere bulls and bears.

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O, Albion, bless'd beyond all other climes!
Stocks, politics, cash payments, or the times,
Thy only plagues—except (hence, wary be)
That all confounding syren, luxury;
Demoralizing fiend, with angel face,
Thy molten idol, dæmon , and disgrace!
No dread Simooms thy healthful shore disease,
Thy hale Simoom the happy trade wind's breeze,
Which to thy busy wharfs, o'er billows curl'd,
Wafts the best blessings of an envying world.
No sov'reign here, despotic in his sway,
Can speak thy life or liberty away;
Thy rights all freehold, as thyself art free;
Attack'd, the parliament thy weapon be,
And Magna Charta thy proof Panoply.

Here no patrician, with o'erwhelming force,
Can drive plebeian comfort from its course;
And, should Plebeian rudeness rank assail,
Rank smiles secure within his charter'd pale:
These and the sovereign, equilateral, form
A force defying every power of storm;

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Union our King at Arms; and Bath's stars, read 'em,
Bear the true motto of our force and freedom.
Here, where mere whim is individual law,
Where in our freedom shall we find a flaw?
At least a flaw we want the means to mend,
As we point houses, or street lamps extend?
Then leave to those who, with a fancied call,
(All zealots boast it) loudly “Freedom!” bawl,
To mark its marrings for the wise to heal,
(None give to trumpeters to draw the steel)
And let us mildly in the path proceed
Where our true wants and social duties lead;
By prudence calm of prejudice the storm,
And better others by our own reform.
The pompous cataract that wildly roars,
And thundering waters with proud fury pours,
May with mute wonder the aw'd senses blind,
But leaves no soft impression on the mind;
Charming the temper of romantic taste,
Its 'whelming torrents are a wat'ry waste.
The silent stream which thro' the meadow glides,
(While patient anglers line its tufted sides,

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Snaring the fry who mid green sedges sport,
While golden bees the wanton wild flow'rs court,)
Its genial dew, insinuating, spreads,
And health and Beauty and luxuriance sheds.
O, plagued alone by consols and caprice,
Where thy volcanoes? save some breach of peace
Bursting from rabble rude in drunken hour,
Quell'd by returning sense, or civil pow'r.
Where thy tornadoes, ruin at their beck?
Thy direful earthquakes which whole regions wreck?
Thy wild tornadoe but a common-hall,
Thy direst earthquake an election brawl.
No beasts of prey thy hapless limits range,
Thine only beasts the bulls and bears on 'change.
No dread Lyboya , coiling in the shade,
Darts on the trav'ler from the opening glade;
Tho' now and then, unhappy land! alas!
We do find snakes, and lurking in the grass;
But we've a way to intercept and watch 'em,
And, once secur'd, we know the way to scotch 'em.
No lamas, bramins, bonzes, talapoins,
Faquirs, or mummeries that mammon coins,

194

Thy shores disquiet,—sects, whom whims inflame,
Live in thy love, and “Legion” is their name;
Slaves to opinion, zealously they fight,
Firm to fastidious, rigid in cold rite;
All light superior and election vaunt,
And, full with faith, mere charity they want;
But while election boasting, O! ye pure!
Lose not the love that makes election sure.
High church and low once spirited our spleen,
No church, at present, seems our boasted mean;
Chapel or church? our fierce contention's sum,
“Let be, see whether will Elias come.”
Yet deem not I the sect presume to scan,
I lash the mania while I love the man;
All right in some point, though in some astray—
One point believe, be humble, and obey,
And bless the “noiseless tenor of thy way.”
Tory and Whig our sires to quarrel led,
Now Hydra springs, a leader for each head;
Tom stakes his wisdom against Toby's wit,
And, win who may, the biter will be bit.
You ask, am I for measures or for men?
I answer, measures and reform—what then?
Shall I because my good old house is wearing
Raze it to earth and call the wreck repairing?

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But truce to politics, the theme is dry,
So I'll conclude this rhyming rhapsody
With what, for which, if from my theme I stray,
I'll plead poetica licentia;
Which means in my case (and some more, fame tells)
Th' unbounded privilege of cap and bells—

My strain in other guise I'll hold,
Rhyme on, or, haply, prose it—
Then listen to a legend old,
Or a legend old suppose it.

LEGEND OF THE PASSION FLOWER AND THE SPRITE.

A lovely maid, with an air of grace,
By moonlight stray'd to a desart place;
Little she reck'd; though the fact was rare
That mortal by night urg'd footstep there;
For many a phantom there would be,
And that was the haunt of witchery.

196

And, says the legend, the lovely maid
To that spot by the mild moon's beaming stray'd;
Her heart was pure, her mind serene,
And, e'er she stray'd to that awful scene,
With no charm'd fillet she bound her hair,
To guard her from power of the 'witching spell;
But she had breath'd an accepted prayer
To where the powers of goodness dwell.

And there as she stray'd she saw a sprite,
Of mortal form, blooming and bright:
And a spirit of air, have legends said,
Would woo the love of a mortal maid;
And that maid to the spirit who once gave ear
Was never known, after, to appear;
And the wind when shrieking was thought to bear
The shriek of that spell-bound maid's despair.

He saw the maid, and the maid he woo'd,
And still as she wander'd the sprite pursued;
Still where he stepp'd flow'rs seem'd to spring,
And whenever he spoke birds seem'd to sing;
Whenever-he sung it seem'd to be
The floating of heavenly harmony.

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A lyre in his hand he seem'd to hold,
The frame was crystal, the strings were gold;
And when he his hand to the lyre address'd
It seem'd a requiem of the blest.

THE SONG OF THE SPRITE.

Come rove with me, for 'tis blessed to rove
When the chaste moon hallows the vows of love,
And the purest sighs have birth;
Immortal, my reign in the air I hold,
And though thou art form'd of the earthly mould
From Eden, sure, came that earth:
And pair'd with pure virgin air's spirits may be;—
Sweet spirit of earth, come, rove with me.

Ah, cease thy song, the maiden cried,
And hie thee far from me;
For thou art bliss by Heaven denied,
And I may not rove with thee.

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I'll build thee a palace in air, love,
Environ'd with clouds of gold;
And rainbows encircle shall there, love,
The pillars the roof that hold;
And that roof with resplendent stars shall blaze,
The floors be celestial blue;
And there I'll collect the sun's bright rays,
And the beam of the moon which so mildly plays,
Day and night to give light for you.

Ah, cease thy song, the maiden cried,
And hie thee far from me!
For thou hast boasted, in thy pride,
What may not, cannot, be.

I'll build for thee a wond'rous bower;
Pillars of agate shall there be seen,
And every leaf and every flower
Shall glow with gems of the brighest sheen.

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Each leaf shall the clearest emerald be,
Rubies shall glow in every rose;
Violets of sapphire thou there shalt see,
And crocus, where mellow the topaz glows,

There amethysts shall in pinks unite,
In lilies the orange jacinth curl;
Crystals shall form the lily, white;
And the snow-drop pure be of orient pearl.

And every flower of every hue
With diamond drops shall o'ersprinkled be;
And they shall sparkle as drops of dew,
And the radiance that lights them reflect from thee.

Ah! cease thy song, the maiden cried,
And hie thee far from me,
I spurn the bait thy art has tried,
And will not rove with thee:
For I shall be a spirit of light
When thou to light art lost:
And I shall be an angel bright
When thou in pain art toss'd.

200

And they were near a tower,
On which, wide-spreading, grew
The holy passion flower,
That sparkled with the dew.

And off a flower then pluck'd the maid,
A type of heavenly love:
A short and secret prayer she said
For power from above.

And with that flower she touch'd the sprite,
The dew she o'er him shed;
The fiend then lost his borrow'd light,
And howling from her fled.

And safe with the holy passion flow'r
Return'd that maid to her peaceful bow'r:
The legend closed a moral gives thee—
Fable is all of witchery.

Of 'Change.

Socrates was supposed to have a directing demon.

“Tria juncta in uno,” Motto of the Order of the Bath.

The Lyboya or Boa Constrictor, a serpent from 60 to 70 feet long—said to be capable of swallowing, or gorging, a tiger or even a buffalo.

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SUBJECT VIII.

Allan.—The Fair Slave.—Sir Ernest.—Edith and Allan.—The Alarm.

Pipe all hands, for alive's the gale,
Weigh the anchor and set the sail;
Full fresh the breeze is blowing;
The anchor's up, and the sails are squar'd,
The helm in hand, and the harbour clear'd,
And over the seas we're going.

And many's the league from British land;
But, while slow dribbles the glass's sand,
The breeze so briskly blowing,
Many the knots in the hour we pass,
And free as the diamond cuts the glass
We cut the wave that's flowing.

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And, hark, while trimming our canvass wings,
Gay, in the shrouds the sailor sings,
The breeze so briskly blowing;
And the helmsman echoes him as he steers,
And every bosom his burthen cheers,
“To British land we're going.”

The simple feast of the Arab o'er,
Allan and that fair slave implore
Of the grateful chief both guard and guide,
To the nearest port where, 'chance, might ride
Some bark, to the isle of freemen bound,
To bear them for ever from graceless ground.
The grateful chief, with a generous hand,
Supplies their wants and at their command
A guard he places—“God speed!” he cries,
While mist appear'd in the Arab's eyes;
Rude in nature, but rich in heart,
He must with his life's preserver part,
And part for ever, “God speed!” he said,
“And blessing be ever on either head;
Now speed ye well to the Christian shore,
And no better wish can my friendship say

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Than, may you return to no Moslem bay,
Though Irad the Arab shall see you no more;
God speed! God speed!”—and his hand he waves,
Then over the desart the ransom'd slaves
Fly with safety, and fly with speed:
And, blessing the Arab, with joy proceed;
Retrace their track: while the Turkish lord
Is on to Bassorah; for soon the sword
And the matchlock ceas'd to swell death's prey,
And the caravan, robb'd, resum'd its way;
And the Turk, who deem'd his haram's boast
A plundered prize to the Arab host,
Went murmuring on with the caravan,
And there we leave the worldly man.
The pair with rapture retrac'd their track,
And the shores of Aleppo receiv'd 'em back;
Rich merchants' habits disguise supply
To guard from suspicion's intrusive eye:
And an English bark in the bay is moor'd,
Their passage is paid, and they're safe aboard;
The anchor's up, and the sails are squar'd,
The helm's in hand, and the harbour's clear'd,
The breeze is strong, and their fears are o'er,
And, merry, they steer toward's England's shore;

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Full many an hour runs out the sand,
Many a day and night have past,
And, touching at many a foreign land,
On England's shore they stand at last.

SIR ERNEST'S TALE—concluded.

And now (returning to the court of Spain,
Where Charles had landed with victorious train;
Where Ernest stood the warlike chiefs among,
And from his casque the fadeless laurel hung;)
The youth, Sir Brandon on his tale intent
And graceful Edith, to its sequel went.

“Arriv'd in Spain, and panting for the land
My bliss and birthright, I resign'd command;
The bark and treasure from the pirates won
Shar'd by the king, a moiety's my own;
Rich in reward, a knight's degree obtain'd,
I sail'd for England, and a landing gain'd;
Nature then urg'd revisiting the scene
Of budding infancy and childhood green,
In early vigour which I left; and there
Enjoy th' embraces of a doting pair;

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Implore the blessing of parental love,
Crown anxious hope, and boding care remove:
'Twas as I rode, absorb'd by pleasing thought,
My honour'd ear Sir Brandon's welcome caught;
Whose generous notice, and whose princely hall
Mem'ry shall oft to gratitude recall.”

Sir Ernest ceas'd, and, with the graceful grave,
“The House of Brandon;” and “his thanks” he gave.
Sir Brandon's thanks his courteous pledge repay,
And ardent welcomes woo his longer stay;
His grace, his title, and his deeds of fame,
From high Sir Brandon fix'd attention claim;
And as he told his “deeds of valour done,”
Sir Brandon sigh'd, and sigh'd for such a son;
Sir Ernest sigh'd, fair Edith was the source;
And Edith's bosom labour'd with remorse;
Haply, in vain for love's return she sighs—
The slave had charms and slighted Allan eyes;
One fate supporting, by one 'venture freed,
Such mutual fortunes mutual feelings breed;
The mingling sympathies that ease the chain
Of galling slav'ry mingle not in vain,

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And fortune's hands, as oft life's annals prove,
The chains of slav'ry from the sexes move
To bind them closer in the chains of love.

With Brandon's wish, and oft assail'd
To stay, the youth complies:—
'Twas Brandon's warmth, of course, prevail'd?
Ah! no 'twas Edith's eyes.

And was no thought to home applied
And those who there might moan?—
Alas! fair Edith by his side,
He thought of her alone.

But how could duty reconcile
What all must disapprove?—
Poor youth! he saw sweet Edith smile,
And only thought of love.

But real love, heaven-born, is sure
On duty to refine.—
Friend, was thy love thus always pure?
Was frailty never thine?

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Yet think not I'd his folly mask,
Mankind will errors make;
He was a man, and all I ask
Is, pity his mistake.

Where Edith was love linger'd there,
And Ernest linger'd too;
And had you seen th' enchanting fair
She might have spell-bound you.

Ernest for Edith home forgot,
And duty's sacred right;
But ever repentance is the lot
Of all who duty slight.

The evening was lovely, Sir Ernest had stray'd
Thro' the grounds of Sir Brandon, his guide the sweet maid;
His speech was of love, to her thoughts all he said
Could only young Allan recall.
His footsteps she led through park, lawn, grove, or wood,
Referr'd to each charm in the beauteous, or rude,
'Till they came to the spot where the old ruin stood,
With the ivy that clung round the wall.

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And she stood by that ruin suppressing a sigh,
And she thought of the night when young Allan was by;
She yet saw the anguish that sadden'd his eye,—
Her thoughts Ernest strove to recall;
He urg'd her away, and ask'd questions: but grief
Her steps still detain'd, all her answers were brief,
And her eye ever wandered, imploring relief,
To the ivy that clung round the wall.

And the moon it arose; and reflected the hour
When from Allan she parted: who saw her brow low'r
With the scorning of pride, and presuming of pow'r;
With him her joys disappear'd all;
Ah! then it was Allan who rush'd on her heart;
While Ernest in vain play'd the suitor's fond part:
Her attention too fix'd for the wav'ring of art
On the ivy that clung round the wall.

What glides like a vision her fancy before,
Now hid by the ruin, now shown thro' the door?
She trembles, she totters, her energy's o'er,
Ernest sees, and his arms save her fall:
But he knew not the cause—now the moon beam'd more bright,

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And the full form of Allan it rush'd on her sight;
She scream'd, and her eyes clos'd in transient night,
By the ivy that clung round the wall.

'Twas Allan, returning from where he once laid
The bones of lov'd Simon; and, passing that shade,
With a gay cavalier he by chance saw the maid,
And to move vain his efforts were all:
Her scream made him fly; he escap'd Ernest's view,
Whose alarm and astonishment equally grew,
And, the maid in his arms swiftly catching, he flew
From the ivy that clung round the wall.

And Edith was laid on a sorrowful bed,
And the leech he was summon'd with hasty dread;
But he calm'd her fever'd brain;
Three days of fear he oppos'd death's pow'r,
On the fourth that youth and beauty's flow'r
Began to bloom again.

And merry it was in Sir Brandon's hall,
And merry it was with the cotters all
Who quaff'd Sir Brandon's ale;

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But she to their love had more grateful claim
Since Allan had taught her that pride was shame,
And the lessons of love ne'er fail.

There's a bright beam streaming from the sun,
And to catch it, with hope, the fool has run;
“Ha! ha! I have it,” the witless cries,
And titters, and opens his eager hands;
But nothing is there; and his wondering eyes
Look round for his loss, as aghast he stands.

And this is the picture of human hope
Depending on any bright beam but one,
Which darts from the highest and heavenly cope,
And never shall set its glorious sun.

Ernest on Edith fix'd his heart,
Edith to Allan her heart had given;
Allan's has been an arduous part,
And almost in twain his heart is riven.
The slave, though Edith had waken'd his sigh,
Yet Edith had scorn'd him, that slave had smil'd,
And of half his heart had the youth beguil'd;
But Allan had since met Edith's eye,
And first love's magic bring's victory.

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Fair slave hast thou for young Allan sigh'd,
Thy solace in sorrow, thy partner in joy?
Alas! two passions thy heart divide,
And thou, with Allan, art love's bright toy.

Thy wond'rous story shall the muse display,
But other sorrows first demand her lay.

HUBERT AND ELLEN.

Who sits so pensive in yon lonely cot,
O'er the low embers, while the moon's pale light
Gleams through the casement, picturing the lot
Of human joy, and mortals' shadow'd sight?
'Tis Ellen—Hubert from his home is gone,
And other inmate the sad cot has none.

Who o'er yon mountain bends his weary way
With eager step, and anxious care oppress'd;
His ear still turning to each rustling spray,
His eye to every opening view address'd?
'Tis honest Hubert, grieving as he goes,
Seeking a wand'rer from his cot, repose.

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Mark an old man through yonder valley wind,
Propp'd by his staff, and bending on his way;
His shoulders wearied with a load behind,
His heart which lighten'd in a happier day;
O, 'tis the sage; and whither does he go?
To seek the author of his weary woe.

And where is Arthur? Arthur 'tis they seek;
Arthur whom manhood bless'd with ev'ry grace;
Arthur has left them, and their sorrows speak
For hope's faint dove no hallow'd resting place.
And where is Arthur, pleasure of the plain,
Has that mysterious parent 'snar'd him hence?
Awhile the enigma must conceal'd remain,
And hope, resign'd, must linger with suspence.
For Hubert back to Ellen has return'd,
And, as the embers, Ellen's hopes expire,
No trace discover'd, and no tiding learn'd,
They wait the coming of that woe-worn sire;
But he his harp upon his back had thrown,
Proof his return had settled limit none.

And many a year has pass'd away,
No Arthur they behold;

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Nor long upon the yearly day,
Has mystery left the gold.
And many a year they've number'd o'er,
But ah! that sage return'd no more.

BRANDON HALL.

In Brandon-hall the festive board is spread,
Tho' pensive there reclines fair Edith's head;
Edith, by Ernest with youth's ardour woo'd,
And many a check the gallant youth withstood;
Her Allan liv'd, nay, in her path had gleam'd,
His eye—O 'twas not anger that it beam'd,
Nor beam'd it hope; nor yet inflicted pain;
Soon—'twas no sport of chance—they met again.
Their eyes too met—enough—their souls are known,
Allan is Edith's, Edith all his own;
'Twas but a look, which neither dar'd improve,
But what looks are decypher, ye who love.
Sir Ernest woo'd and he woo'd in vain,
His aim Sir Brandon saw;
And he hop'd that knight the heart might gain

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Of the child of his joy, of his pride, and pain,
For his days towards evening draw.

He wish'd to bestow the maiden's hand
On some such gallant knight;
For soon he might wend to the unknown land,
And to leave her unguarded by wedlock's band
Would many a pang excite.

But he left fair Edith free to choose,
Who never had knight approv'd;
And Sir Brandon griev'd his hope to lose,
For he saw her many a knight refuse,
But little dreamt he she lov'd.

And Allan the lovely Edith met
By that ruin, to him love's bower;
There ever his wandering way was set,
And the evening had not fallen yet
When Edith approach'd the tower.

Sudden they met, nor could withdraw,
Their hearts that instant shown:

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True love knows no other than Nature's law,
And its transcript in each others eyes they saw,
And to each others arms they've flown.

Uncertain love has a jealous eye,
And Ernest at distance stray'd;
Despair had been busy a clue to espy
To the chilling, tho' delicate, apathy
Of the sweet, mysterious maid.

He saw the ruin, and soon survey'd
Young Allan, who wander'd there;
Then trembled Ernest—he saw the maid
Pensive approaching the lonely shade,
And he saw—his heart's despair!

He saw them meet, and he saw them part;
Each slowly coming he saw,
But each homeward hied with a lightsome heart—
When the bosom is pierc'd how keen the smart
The arrow to withdraw!

But Ernest must now the arrow draw
Which its quiver had made his heart;

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Not his to betray the scene he saw,
Tho' to woo her he had her father's law,
Yet from ev'ry hope must part.

True valour ne'er play'd the traitor's game,
Nor may envy his bosom move;
Emulation may ever direct his aim,
But failing, perchance, in his noble claim
Regret he may only prove.

He buried that love scene in his heart,
For neither had seen him there;
And he press'd the hour he must needs depart,
But promis'd return with a blameless art,
For who would return to care?

And now Sir Ernest's farewell day is fix'd,
And Edith, smiling, with the revels mix'd;
Mix'd with the revels; for in days of yore
Wide stood old hospitality's large door;
And ever and anon the banquet brave,
With ponderous plenty, generous grandeur gave;
And, at or fashion's beck or friendship's call,
An host, made welcome, fill'd the Baron's hall.

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Hence should the banquet in my verse appear
Too full, too frequent, for refinement's ear,
Reflect, with Britons now as then the fact,
Whate'er the purpose, or whate'er the pact,
Feasting must seal and ratify the act.
A splendid feast Sir Brandon had prepar'd,
And many a guest the generous welcome shar'd;
Among them one of dark and scowling eye
Survey'd Sir Ernest; chancing to espy
The cross he wore, the ruby cross he won
When death's just work was on Sir Gorman done.
Brooding he sat: his eyes obliquely trace
Each varied feature of that manly face;
And, while the guests impell'd the circling glass,
As glides the serpent thro' the covert grass
It's prey descried, the victim to secure,
He stole, unheeded, thro' the friendly door.
The night wore on, for now the joy was high,
Repeated pledges the large flagons dry;
But soon replenish'd the drain'd flasks return,
All with new ardour glow, and brighter spirits burn.

Loud is the thunder that storms the door,
And the mandate comes at the king's command;

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The Marshal is there, with his silver oar,
While halberdiers in the court-yard stand:
And the body of Ernest delivered must be,
And he must be tried for piracy.

The Marshal of the Admiralty always carries a silver oar when on duty.

ERNEST'S LAMENT IN PRISON.

Scanty, thro' yon iron grating,
Gleams the light, and shows to me
(Cheering not but irritating)
All that adds to misery!

What to me were fame and glory?
Soon my sun shall setting be;
Who shall tell the mournful story
To the hearts that bleed for me?

Why, from truth and duty parting,
Did I leave to misery
(From my post a truant starting)
Hearts that vainly hope for me?

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Hark! that voice—I'm call'd to trial—
Guiltless, shame my end shall be;
Seeming guilt gives hope denial—
Hark! the headsman asks for me!

Without the cell, hark! clanking chains resound,
The lock recoils and ev'ry bar's unbound;
Before Sir Ernest the steel'd jailor stands,
Charg'd with the summons which the law commands;
Sir Ernest bows, and steadily pursues
The jailor's track, yet pensively reviews
His desp'rate fortune; stigmatiz'd his name,
No human aid to vindicate his fame;
On heaven alone depends the hapless youth,
Who knows and estimates his patriot truth:
But thus repays (his equity to prove)
Filial desertion of parental love.
No witness there his honor's claim to tell,
The Cross, his Person, Name, all doubt dispel;
These and his zeal, which desperate hope impos'd,
Attested, sink him; and the dream is clos'd;
The dream of youth, by wild ambition led
To leave the peaceful for the painful bread;

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Unknown to those who every claim could prove
To all his duty, gratitude, and love.
The dream is clos'd—he wakes—to what? despair!
Shame and remorse his rankling bosom tear;
For ever crush'd his fortunes and his fame,
And stamp'd with recreant infamy his name;
His only hope those hearts should never know
His fate whose absence wasted them with woe.

THE TRIAL.

That awful court, where rigid justice stands
The sword and balance poising in her hands,
Sits all prepar'd; appalling silence reigns,
Broke by the clanking of approaching chains;
The culprit's presence the stern judge demands,
There at his mandate the firm culprit stands;
There, graceful bowing, (with a cheek suffus'd
Blushing from modesty, not truth abus'd,)
All he survey'd; but in th' inquiring face
None guilt, or fear, or shame, or ought could trace
But that young wonder valour will display
At unknown danger in a devious way;

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Its form inspecting with a dubious eye,
His chance to calculate, his mind supply
With all the history of its force and fire
Which glance can give, and fortitude admire.
His modest firmness all with zeal survey
With nervous pity, and bless'd issue pray.
His eye, collected, now the judge commands,
And, all prepar'd, for all prepar'd he stands;
And when on Ernest justice asks her claim,
Arthur the God-send answers to the name!
Arthur the God-send, who at issue stood;
Spurious his name, as spurious was his blood;
Whose only solace in the hour of shame
Was of his fate's oblivion in his name;
That name to those his parents deem'd unknown;
Their's but his loss, his shame was all his own.
His crime proclaim'd, his pleadings ask'd, he cries
“I scorn the guilt the treacherous charge implies;
Your proofs produce, then hear my plain defence,
That not sufficing, judg'd for innocence,
I yield submission to resistless laws
And leave to Heaven the issue and my cause.”
Now call'd that man who Ernest's name impugn'd,
(Hence we call Arthur by the name assum'd,)

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With zeal he answer'd, and, on gospel sworn,
By facts according were his words outborne.

“In the first ship Sir Gorman took he sail'd
“From Cadiz port; Sir Gorman's pow'r prevail'd;
“The ship his prize; its cargo, and its crew,
“All plunder'd were—the chain and cross they view
“Were his; and Ernest on the deck he saw
“Tear down the flag, and general plaudits draw;
“The ship a capture from the pirate band
“A chosen captain then assum'd command;
“Witness a pris'ner—Ernest, as he heard,
“Stabb'd his commander, and was chief preferr'd:
“Another bark the pirates then obtain;
“A storm now 'rose and, driven o'er the main,
“The ship in which a prisoner witness lay
“Ne'er join'd her consorts from that awful day;
“The British flag soon after they descry,
“Dreadful the fight, the vanquish'd pirates fly;
“The chase was long; they flew, like fury fast,
“But British force was paramount at last.
“The witness freed, thus, from the pirate's hand,
“His needful evidence had crush'd the band,

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“His and a friend's”—That friend close by him stood—
And in his turn confirm'd the tale of blood.
“The chain remember'd as th' accuser's claim,
“The culprit fought, and Ernest was his name!”

Here clos'd the charge; a moment's pause ensued;
Ernest his eyes to heaven addressing stood,
A sigh he heav'd; then summon'd all the man,
Bow'd and with deference defence began.
His artless pleading needless to go o'er,
The tale he told in Brandon's hall before.
His artless tale, his animated face,
His veteran valour, and his youthful grace,
His modest pleading, free from recreant fears,
Won every heart, fill'd every eye with tears;
And, when concluded the unvarnish'd tale,
Murmurs of “Innocent” around prevail.
But justice stern, by no incitement mov'd
By generous confidence or hope approv'd,
Unknown to sympathy, and firm to fact,
Slow to condemn, but sedulous to act,
Demands the aid of witness'd facts to prove
His bare assertion and his guilt remove.

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Now trembling hope o'er every bosom sway'd,
And busy eyes the awful court survey'd;
And eager ears to catch the sounds apply,
The blissful sounds that should the charge defy.
Yet all was silent as the solemn hour
When speechless grief views life's departing pow'r.
Awhile the judge, with sympathetic eye,
Forc'd by his office to suppress the sigh,
Sat deep revolving in his pitying breast
What justice ask'd; then, visibly opprest,
He rose—that instant ev'ry bosom heav'd,
And sighs and tears their generous pangs reliev'd.
Brief was the detail when the judge began,
And grief oppress'd the venerable man;
For, if the looks a transcript just impart,
Truth had with “innocent” impress'd his heart:
But justice asks for other aid to prove
His bare assertion, and his guilt remove.
The charge he read, the evidence detail'd,
And oft his voice with generous pity fail'd;
“No proof contrasted but the culprit's word,
“No proof to justice can of truth afford—”
He ceas'd, while heav'd his agitated breast,
And to a British Jury left the rest—

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A British jury! Britons, mark the phrase,
A British jury!—Britain's bulwark, base,
Pedestal, plinth, shaft, capital and all
Of ev'ry column in thy freedom's hall.

Now through the court low, busy, murmurs rise,
And expectation all her ears applies;
With eager ken the judge the cause inquires,
The jury pause, and panting hope respires;
“Make way!” at distance first arrests the ear;
“Make way! make way!” now louder and more near;
“Make way! make way! make way!” joy wildly cries,
And in the court a fainting witness lies—
Why trembles Ernest when bright hope has dress'd
Each face with radiance and inspir'd each breast?
Why trembles he? why when the rose full blown
Blooms other cheeks the lily on his own?
Why trembles Ernest? why thus rolls his eye?
Why his check'd tongue the struggling speech deny?
See, for support upon the guard reclin'd,
Shades wrap his soul and all his senses bind.
Thus when the seaman braves the tempest's rage,
While yawning deeps and ruthless rocks engage

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His fever'd mind, each vein prepar'd to start,
His frame's all nerve and ev'ry nerve an heart;
Should he by sudden providential hand
On shore be cast and in safe soundings stand,
Rapture's excess his ev'ry nerve subdues,
And grateful breathings all his thoughts confuse:
The blood which rush'd though ev'ry starting vein
Forc'd to his heart, no more his limbs sustain
His o'er exerted frame; to heaven his eyes
Are cast, and, speechless, on the shore he lies.
So Ernest; for an added wonder there
Arrests his soul while chasing his despair;
The witness, rais'd to intellect and voice,
'Tis she, 'tis Isabel! his heart's first choice;
'Tis she, whom all transported view as given
“A ministering angel” from the vault of heaven.
Close by her side, her trembling frame's support,
Stood the bold Captain from Iberia's court:
He to young Ernest's mind who knew the key,
His prudent art, and proud integrity.
The pallid maid, with many a grateful look,
With many a struggle which her weak frame shook,
While many a sigh and suffocating tear,
Her tale suspended, told—while every ear

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Devour'd her accents—that heart rending part
Ernest had told and mov'd stern Brandon's heart.
The hardy Captain with a seaman's port
Then forward stepp'd, and challeng'd the dread court;
And, in a seaman's phrase, detail'd “a round
Unvarnish'd tale,” which ready credence found;
Prov'd Ernest's honors by Iberia's chief
Bestow'd, and ended by a warm, but brief
Attesting eulogy to Ernest's praise,
Such as to worth admiring valour pays.
His detail o'er, at once the jury see
Ernest—“Not Guilty,” and the God-send's free.
The verdict past loud peals the court employ,
Nor would the judge repress the honest joy.
Borne from the court, with joy's resounding cry,
Contending shoulders Arthur's prop supply;
Sir Brandon proudly on a charger led
The busy way to where his bounty spread
The ample cheer, which Arthur's victory hail'd,
And liberal welcome the glad throng regal'd;
Sir Brandon, who thro' all his part had borne,
An anxious part; not his to idly mourn,
Far other mode his yearning mind supplied,
Hid in his bosom (from repelling pride,

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Which ne'er imparted what his mind propos'd)
Was the deep secret which his deeds disclos'd.
While in his cell, desponding, Ernest lay,
(Arthur as Ernest still must we pourtray)
To Spain Sir Brandon's courier “wing'd his way:”
There by the documents his master gave,
He found the Spaniard, generous as brave,
Who lost no instant, but with grateful speed
Reach'd England's shore and his preserver freed.

But whence came Isabel? or from the grave?
Or how mysteriously escap'd the wave?
Not this the season for the wond'rous theme,
But future stanzas shall the lapse redeem.
The steeds prepar'd, with acclamation's voice,
To Brandon hall they journey and rejoice;
Awhile dismiss them to requir'd repose,
Then know the sequel of their waning woes.

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VARIATION VIII.

Juries—Refinement à la mode—and a Fable from Æsop.

Juries by Alfred were invented;
That man knew “what was what!”
And Liberty she smil'd, contented,
Her cap to Albion then presented,
And chose our island as her fav'rite spot.
But “what is what!” how coarse the phrase!
In this trim golden age of taste;
When soft Refinement beams her rays,
And pretty poesy is grac'd
By such a train of trifles sweet!
Tripping with “many twinkling feet.”
The phrase was coarse I freely own,
In such an age, an age so prone
To that refinement whose soft ray—
In which the tiny trifles play
At blindman's buff I would have said,
But that had grossièreté betray'd—
Whose soft ray can by shining charm,
But never has the force to warm;

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Which flimsy fancy can control,
But never can excite the soul.
This the refinement now we boast,
Naïveté and nerve or stray'd, or lost;
O, dear refinement! lovely thing!
Gliding along with filmy wing,
Sweeping with grace a velvet green,
Where flowers to nature new are seen:
Lisping with language honied sweet,
With flowing liquids all replete,
Accenting for the softest ear,
While light sensations hover near
And catch the tone soft grace approves,
To whisper it to softer loves.
What art thou good for, flimsy fairy?
To cozen maids, nor wise nor wary;
The vigour of the mind efface,
The muscles melt, the nerves unbrace,
The fancy and the passions taint;
Thou velvet virtue! muslin saint!
Metheglin thou of unbrac'd health;
Thou plague! brought over here by stealth;
Thou illegitimate, between
Italia's glaze and Gallia's spleen;

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Thou beauty's line, not curv'd, but bandy,
Thou sense of dream and soul of dandy.
Refinement thou? thou tissue thing!
Not worth a feather of her wing.
Refinement thou?

Hogarth says the line of beauty is a curve.

A dandy is a new insect of the 19th century, it is a non-descript.

Art thou that grac'd, subliming, good
Who by Eve's flow'ry pillow stood,
When she, though sleeping, smiling lay
From dreams which innocence could bring,
Where angels' tongues beguil'd her way
Through paths where bloom'd eternal spring?
There stood refinement, stood and smil'd—
Refinement, Truth and Virtue's child.
Thou art the dream of wanton thought
Which all our woe and wailing wrought;
Rais'd by the serpent as Eve slept
Who to her ear, insidious, crept;
And, her chaste fancy having bound,
Charm'd from her ear all holy sound;
Gave her a zest for more than heaven
Had for her virtue's safeguard given.

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With innocence and peace the pair,
When truth's refinement join'd 'em there,
Delighted stray'd, nor ever knew
The blush of shame till taught by you;
The first adorning then was worn,
While the glad tempter laugh'd with scorn,
And mercy wept that ever shame was born.
Thou'rt an insidious fiend, a pest,
Cov'ring thy fair but faithless breast
(While blushing to attract the eye)
With such a cobweb drapery
As tells of all but modesty.
Thou art the pest that can'st beguile
Our virgins of th' ingenuous smile;
Thou art the lure that mak'st them lisp
Soft languishings, and curl and crisp
Their mincing words, and arm'st their smiles
With tricksy, tempting, wanton wiles.
Where is the gen'rous candid glow
Which spoke the soul of grace below?
Where is the true and heaven-born taste
That ne'er found charm but in the chaste?

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This jaundic'd by thy philtres see,
That drugg'd into an atrophy.
What is thy nature? what thy name?
That meretricious, this false shame.
O, Churchill, wert thou now alive,
Scarce would thy sharp correctives thrive
This mere green sickness of the mind
(For health too rarified) in curing;
Fancy to phantasy consign'd,
And all the poisonous passions join'd,
Beyond inditing or enduring!
But, to advert to our outsetting,
Alfred invented juries; not forgetting
That where the judgment rested in one breast
Some prejudice might start, and justice wrest
From her pure course; for artful mind
On reasoning oft has much refin'd;
For propositions found pretence
Built on sophisticated sense;
Making black white and white of sable;
As did judge Reynard in the fable.
I give the tale from Æsop's reading,
My own the precepts and the pleading;
Reader, be kind and give me quarter,
To Æsop's wine though I put water.

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A FABLE.

A plague once fill'd the beasts with dread,
Death on them fix'd and hourly fed;
With carcases the fields were strew'd,
The moor, the mountain, and the wood;
The lordly Lion, e'en appall'd,
A council of his subjects call'd.

“My friends” the humbled king begins,
“Heaven to repay our crying sins
This dreadful plague no doubt decreed;
Then to confession let's proceed:
And, when each has his crimes confess'd,
Let him who deepest has transgress'd,
Be sacrific'd for all the rest.
Heaven may the sacrifice receive,
Our crimes remit, and we may live.”

Wisdom ne'er fail'd a royal tongue;
The forest with rude plaudits rung.
The Fox, for wily wit far fam'd,
As judge was una voce nam'd;

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And now each, blushing for transgression,
In turn made, humbly, his confession:
Closing his pious penitential
With plea less pointed than essential.
The Lion first — “Ah, woe is me!
Where can a greater sinner be?
What herds have I by force o'erpower'd!
What numbers in my rage devour'd!
To me what injury had they done?
Alas! enormous sinner! none!
Nay once, 'tis true, with shame I speak,
See, tears of anguish scald my cheek”—
(And something like a tear-drop roll'd —
His majesty had, 'chance, caught cold)
“An herd I saw, a bullock slew,
Though glorious beef, that would not do —
Ah! wretch! I ate the herdsman too.”
His penitence here prov'd perfection,
He lick'd his chops from recollection!
His eyes too sparkled; that might be
The sparkling of grief's tear; then he —
“No palliation can I find
For crimes so dread; content, resign'd,

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I bow me to the stroke of death,
If justice asks my parting breath;
But, first, let all confession make;
Due cognizance then justice take,
And if with theirs my sins compar'd
Weigh down the scale, be pity spar'd,
Be fealty forfeited, and I,
The worst of sinners! justly die.”

Humbly he spoke, but look'd so fierce
His flashing eyes judge Reynard pierce,
Who trembling sat, but wisely knew
From Leo's contrite looks his cue.

The beasts again applauding roar:
Judge Fox with gravity conn'd oer
The royal sins, and thus exclaim'd —
“Such Acts would be as murder nam'd
If by your subjects done; but in
You, Sire, high sanction bars the sin.
You deign'd upon the herd to feed,
But they the act had guaranteed;
For where's the subject, day by day
And hour by hour, who fails to say

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O Sire accept our homage due,
Our lives devoted all to you?
Thus equity the act shall save,
You only took what they first gave.
Besides the rule has flourish'd long
That Royalty can do no wrong.
You ate the herdsman — here's a case
Which wears at sight a graver face;
But, when by justice made apparent,
You'll find no onus lies, I warrant.
Tho' o'er each beast high sway you bear,
Mankind superior nature wear;
Man, the great monarch of the earth,
So call'd, affects sublimer birth;
And claims all rule; suppose this reason,
The deed was positive high treason;
But man's our foe, and we disclaim
His right and rule; this bars the blame;
Denied his claim to sovereignty
The deed from censure must be free;
If “Coke on Littleton” starts grudge,
Consult the statutes, Fox on Fudge.
You ate the herdsman too; what then?
Necessity impell'd; and men

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Themselves allow, in ancient Saw,
That paramount to ev'ry law;
Hence, Sire, your pious fears may cease;
Go, rest in innocence and peace!”

Then down he sat; 'mid brute applause,
And look'd the importance of the laws;
Like some who judge 'mong human kind,
Who prove Dame Justice only blind
To crime in power, but powerless sinks
Beneath her piercing eye of Lynx.

And down he sat — the lion cast
A glance which approbation pass'd;
And look'd “I'll eat that fellow last.”

The Tiger next — “by hunger press'd
I've slain my share must be confess'd.”
“Enough” the Judge, “No fault there falls,
Hunger we know ‘eats through stone walls;’
And if by instinct we're directed
Are we not by its laws protected?”
The Leopard, “blood against me rises,
Goats, sheep, and lambs, have been my prizes;

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I see the crime, but knew not then
Its baseness; were 't to do again
I'd ne'er offend.” — The Fox replied,
“As ignorance was then your guide,
And as intention forms the guilt,
No law condemns the blood you spilt.”

The Bear succeeded — “In my time
I've slain enough, and own the crime;
The hapless victims cross'd my way
When hunger rag'd, and fell my prey.”
The judge — “If in your way they came,
You stand acquitted; their's the blame;
Against stone walls who run, insane,
Shall they of broken heads complain?”

The gaunt Wolf growl'd “My very name
Has grown a sound of guilt and shame;
With lawless range I prowl by night;
The shepherd tracks at morning light
My ruffian course, by blood marks common;
And once I supp'd on — an old woman.”

Reynard — “Allow'd you've kill'd your share,
But did the shepherd take due care

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To fold his flock, could you destroy?
His carelessness is your decoy;
Then let him bear the burthen, pray,
Who threw temptation in your way.
Your last crime must have been a dream;
Eat an old woman? this may seem
Contempt of court; proof all can bring
Mankind declare there's no such thing.
‘Non est inventus’ is your plea;
The bill's thrown out, and you are free.
But now, e'er further I proceed,
Myself will own each doubtful deed
I've done; e'en I, who sit as judge,
From this ordeal must not budge;
And where I've err'd, for nought I'll mask,
I pardon of dread justice ask!

“I've chickens eaten now and then,
‘Many's the time and oft’ an hen;
But mine's a frame of fragile make;
Study and public business shake
So much my nerves, that, without question,
I've hurt the organs of digestion.
And hence a doctor sage decreed
I ever must on white meat feed;

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I've grey and green geese ate, but, mark
'Twas when I caught them in the dark;
And there's a proverb sets me right,
‘All colour'd cats are grey at night.’
Hence you'll allow I had no mean mete
To prove them white, or grey, or green meat.

“Ducks as strong meat the sage forbid,
And did I eat 'em? yes, I did —
I one day eat fine ducks a dozen,
Which for the spit next day were chosen;
So dead in law was every creature,
And dead in law is dead in nature:
Disclaim'd by nature and by law,
Nonentity proves no faux pas.

“As sick folks must have white meat pickings,
This clears me of the hen and chickens;
An old game cock I chanc'd to stuff
Who, faith, for white meat was too tough;
But then his conduct cost him life,
With all he liv'd in endless strife;
Was of the place the very pest,
From day-break let no creature rest;

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And since the hour I stopp'd his tongue
Sleep has on ev'ry eye-lid hung;
Studious and sick their thanks afford,
Refresh'd are those, and these restor'd.
Such good produc'd, let casuist's skill
Prove if it can the action ill;
I can't I own, who right ne'er wrench;
But, Lord Chief Justice of the Bench,
I wish to prove my hands are clean
Before more cases intervene;
For when the fount of judgment's pure
Justice may all concern'd ensure;”
Thus his own case the judge submitted,
And was, as you'd foresee, acquitted.

“Proceed,” he cried — a trembling Ass
Stepp'd forth, and cried — “It came to pass
One day to market as I bore
Some cabbages, — it goads me sore!
But hunger tempted and I ate;
I hope” — “You hope?” infuriate
With zeal and justice, Fox replied,
“You hope? The worst of all I've tried:

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Your master's cabbages to eat!
Monstrous! your death shall soon defeat
The plague, which doubtless here was sent
For such a crime small punishment.”
The quivering Ass — “My dearest Sir,
Indeed too harshly you infer;
I only ate the leaves.” — “O, shame!
Caitiff, is not the act the same?
But eat the leaves? shall that avail?
That spoil'd the cabbages for sale.” —
“Alas!” the Ass — “near famish'd I,
No other way could want supply:
And e'en your lordship has declar'd,
And who to controvert has dar'd
Your dread decree? that 'tis no flaw,
(Necessity allow'd no law
When it impels) our wasting wants
To gratify with what chance grants.”

“Insolent” — th' upright Judge rejoin'd,
“Your sin is of the blackest kind;
These gentlemen had errors, true,
But have excuse; there's none for you.

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Ingratitude your crime encreas'd;
Your master found your daily feast,
And you repay the hand that fed
By eating up his daily bread!
Of all the crimes by nature nurs'd
Ingratitude's proclaim'd the worst!
That vice can never be defended;
You die!” — his death the judgment ended.

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SUBJECT IX.

Proem. — Isabel's Tale. — Sir Brandon's History.

See the sun, the west adorning,
Dart to other climes his ray,
Which gladly hail their coming morning
Gain'd from our departing day.

Low twitterings tell the songster parting,
Flocks are penn'd, and herds reclin'd;
Thro' each window tapers darting
Tell the hour to ease resign'd.

Now the head of care is pillow'd,
Health an opiate sweet bestows;
Now the brow of grief is willow'd,
To her no pillow brings repose!

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Now the nightingale is singing,
Sorrow bids her warbling flow;
Now the bat thro' air is swinging;
Now the night bird screams of woe.

Now the ruffian, gliding, stooping,
Prowls to rob, and “murder sleep.”
Now the houseless wand'rer, drooping,
'Neath the hedge-row wakes to weep!

Now the poet o'er the embers,
Dun-free, hails “extatic light!”
“Tales of wonder” fear remembers—
'Tis the murky “noon of night.”

Is the wild wind fiercely howling?
Now it howls with double force;
Tremendous now the thunder's growling;
Terrific is the lightning's course!

While sweet sleep is gaily dreaming,
Should light'ning catch the cottage frame—
Horrific is the hopeless screaming
Of sleeping comfort, wak'd by flame!

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Here, the lusty hind, confounded,
Rapid thro' the casement flies;
There, bed-ridden and surrounded
By the flame, age, helpless, dies!

See, the mother, rous'd from slumber,
Catching up her children, run;
One is missing of the number!
Thro' the flames she seeks that one.

Now, too, is the good man dying,
Night more awful makes the hour;
Is the wicked spirit flying?
Night's scene defies the poet's pow'r.

But see, O, see, the day is breaking,
Hope draws the “curtains of her eyes;”
Superstition, stout heart taking,
Sees no longer goblins rise.

“See the rosy morn appearing,”
Health's blue eyes have smiles begun;
Even sleepless sickness, cheering,
Hails a balsam in the sun.

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Ruddy day, alert and jolly,
Laughing, makes his toil a toy;
Fear sees nothing but her folly;
All is hope, and all is joy.

Such life's portrait will display;
Grief is night, and joy is day.

Grief's night had pass'd at Sir Brandon's board,
And kind smiles brighten'd the face of its lord;
And seldom his features, once form'd to beguile,
Unbent to the play of the careless smile.
There are modes and mischances that warp the mind,
There are cares, there are crosses, that alter the kind:
Yon crabbed old oak, shorn, and crusted with bark,
Yon frowning old ruin, for night birds the mark;
That oak was a sapling, that ruin was gay,
But time, and rude storms, have brought both to decay;
The sap of that oak and the pride of that tow'r
Have pass'd, and, unsightly they moulder and low'r:
The oak and the ruin are, Brandon, like thee;
For thou hast been chang'd like the tow'r and the tree.

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And Ernest and Edith met, serene,
For he the true love of his heart had seen;
The maid for whose sake he was doom'd to sigh,
But he griev'd her lost; and the youthful eye
Rests seldom, but roves where the graces lie;
And, hence, lovely Edith his fancy had won;
But Isabel came, and the charm was done—
Sweet dreams disperse with the rising sun.

ISABEL'S TALE.

But how came Isabel there?—the night
She fell in the wave, as a star so bright
Shoots from the sky as the lightnings go,
And is lost for ever, but how none know.—
In the harbour there moor'd a foreign bark,
Which traded in traffic which Christians mark
As the bane that shall barter the trembling soul
When the heavenly scribe shall unfold the scroll
Where ev'ry mortal his name shall read,
And a blush shall rise for his purest deed;
For his purest deed shall as scarlet show—
But there is that shall make it as driven snow;

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But who in man's birthright tamper and trade
Shall they hope grace from that heavenly aid?
Shall the sellers of man hope for heavenly good
Thro' him who bought man with his sacred blood?
But the reign of that heart-rending traffic is o'er,
Or looks to its fall like the leaf in the sear,
And blessings, O Britain! shall gladden thy shore,
For an off'ring to Heaven so hallow'd, and dear.

In the offing a bark there riding lay,
And a boat from that bark was in the bay;
In it a ruthles sailor, who
Serv'd with that slave-purloining crew;

And his soul and body one hue they bore,
Like the pitchy belching of Etna's throat;
His mind that dark night's livery wore,
And his soul on the darkling deed could doat.
He heard Isabel plunge, and he heard their cries
That so lovely a maiden lost should be;
And his fancy suggested that maid a prize,
If darkness shrouded his villainy.
And deeply he div'd in the darken'd wave,
The maid he sav'd from a watery grave;

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Then, silent and swift, with his beauteous prey—
As the fiend would inveigle a soul away—
Silent and swift, the bark he made,
And Isabel was to Aleppo convey'd.
Her chains were fitted, her chains were freed;
And with Allan she sought the favor'd isle
Where sorrow never unsooth'd may plead,
Where every sympathy loves to smile.
O, Britain, and thou art a land of souls,
And thou art a land of hearts of gold:
Through thee the river of mercy rolls,
And the joys on its banks their high days hold.

A villa there stood by Brandon Hall,
Enclos'd by a moat and a towering wall;
There dwelt a Matron of pious fame,
Who from Iberia's proud shores came;
And many a sorrow in youth she knew,
And the scene of her birth was a mournful view;
Blest with wealth and from kindred free,
Save one, who was distant and rov'd the sea,
(A child he had, but she knew not where,)
And Spain presenting no choice but care,

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To Britain she came, and, unknown to all,
Secluded herself near Brandon Hall;
Yet not to all unknown; for there,
Her's was the poor man's daily prayer;
Church and charity shar'd her day,
And her's was the kind heart's milky way.

The bark which Allan and Isabel bore
Was steer'd by a man from Iberia's shore;
And he heard the tale of the youthful pair,
A scion from his own soil the fair;
His sympathy weigh'd their doubtful fate,
And, landing, he sought that matron's gate;
Whom to Britain he brought, and her race he knew,
And Isabel's tale gave his mind a clue
To a pleasing hope, and the hope prov'd true.

He came to that villa with prospect fair,
And friendship ever receiv'd him there;
His tale was told, and the matron's heart
Beat as when gratitude bears a part;
For Isabel prov'd that seaman's child
Alone who bore to her kindred name;
And Isabel came where friendship smil'd,
For the matron rejoic'd in the kindred claim.

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And there young Allan was press'd to stay
Till fortune should dawn with a brighter day;
And hence oft Allan would stray to lave
With tears of gratitude Simon's grave.

And hence oft Allan would rove to stand
On the lot of the alien, his father's land.
And Edith he met; fair Isabel, then
The heart thou had'st toil'd return'd again.

And was thy bosom in peril or pain
That Allan still wander'd from thy side?
Or did thy bosom reserve maintain,
Like the virgin's delicate, wounded pride?

Ah, no—first love your hearts still wore,
And O, first love had your bosoms won;
And fancy and friendship your minds cast o'er
The bright wreath woven in sympathy's sun.

And thou by chance on a day had'st seen
Ernest, who walk'd with a pensive mien;
And the wreath that fancy and friendship wove
Prov'd by its fading no gift of love.

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(With Edith) young Ernest he met thine eye,
But little he knew that thou wert by;
Had thy form, regretted, been his to see
The heart of thy true love had flown to thee.

And, “who is that knight,” wouldst thou, trifling, cry,
“Who paces the green with a port so high?
“And where does that knight so stately bide,
“Whose youth seems drest in the pomp of pride?”

And Allan has tidings brought to thee
“Sir Ernest reposes in Brandon Hall;
“But he must be tried for piracy”—
And thine was the proving that sav'd his fall.

And all was joy at Brandon Hall
For Ernest's fame restor'd;
And Ernest's feelings were like the fall
Of heavenly manna on the poor man's board.

For, O, his fame no stain confounds,
And she, his fate who turn'd,
Whom ev'ry winning grace surrounds,
Is lovely Isabel; the maid he mourn'd.

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And soon their eyes their hearts display,
And soon their tongues declare
No fate can rend the love away
That grateful hearts for graceful virtue bear.

One evening, when the hall was bright,
Young Ernest's pray'rs prevail,
And Isabel of that dread night
The negro seiz'd her told the piteous tale.

At ev'ry sound of Allan's name
Edith was pale or red;
Did jealousy her heart inflame,
'Gainst beauteous Isabel and bow her head?

Ah, no — she saw the hearts entwin'd
Of Ernest and the maid;
She knew her own and Allan's join'd,
But her stern father's pride might love invade.

Sir Brandon, charm'd with Allan's fame,
Invites him to the hall;
And learns his birth, his ancient name,
And sympathizes in his father's fall.

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SIR BRANDON'S HISTORY.

When fell the white rose from its wither'd stem,
And Beaufort's boy secured the regal gem
Whose proud possession in such peril stood
Griev'd history penn'd its chronicles in blood —
When fell the white rose, or, was pluck'd, and twin'd
With the triumphant red; the feuds to bind
(As bound the roses were) of British land;
And Richard felt the avenger's “red right hand” —
Richard, the “cacodæmon” of our clime,
Our bard's “plain devil,” who shall live with time;
Richard, while Garrick liv'd thought dead in vain;
Fear, shuddering, cried “Richard's himself again!”
Richard, with Kemble, who this hint could drop,
“Our aerie buildeth in the cedar's top:”
Richard, with Cooke, who, “as you guess,” would be
True “descant on his own deformity;”
Richard, with Young, who, scorning trick and fit,
“By circumstance would still himself acquit;”

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Richard, with Kean, whose every impulse breathes
“Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths!”
Richard, with many, who thus speaks his guile,
“I do mistake my person all this while,
“And smile, and smile, and murder whilst I smile.”

When Richard “set his life upon a cast,”
And stood the hazard of a die so vast,
Against young Richmond; like his 'scutcheon's charge,
The fell tusk'd boar, attack'd, (nor yet at large,
Nor yet in toil) as drives the unfuriate brute
Death while a pulse can vibrate to dispute,
So rush'd the ruthless tyrant on his fate,
Confounding and confounded, blood for blood;
Desp'rate his effort as extreme his hate
To Richmond, on his fortune's neck who stood.
So rush'd fell'd Richard where, appalling sight!
(With'ring the white rose) stood, in awful might,
His rival Harry — borne before the chief,
The red-rose banner, mocking Richard's grief,
Danc'd in the breeze; its flittings seem'd to be
The sportive toying of security.
Cursing he saw, and grinning at the view,
Fierce at the earl the royal monster flew;

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Gigantic Cheney stopp'd him; with a bound
The monarch seiz'd and hurl'd him to the ground;
Brandon who bore the banner, then oppos'd,
Whose threatening eyes in endless night were clos'd!
From him Sir Brandon sprung, and equal blood
Could boast with Brandon, Suffolk's duke, who stood
High in eighth Harry's favour; and had wed
The monarch's sister, from the widow'd bed
Of hoary Lewis; Heav'n, sure, when he died,
Took the worn king in pity to his bride.
Cousin to Suffolk, high Sir Brandon look'd;
The duke had cross'd him, and no scorn he brook'd;
Estrang'd from Suffolk, sour'd by adverse fate,
With wounded pride he liv'd in sullen state:
As stood sour'd Ajax in Elysian shade
When, hateful sight! Ulysses he survey'd,
Stern and reluctant; and the shade of strength
As he approach'd stalk'd off in vapoury length.
Age in his face, his frame, his locks of grey,
Claim'd more of time than warrantry might pay;
Not past threescore, but care oft acts for time,
And grief with grey will often cross man's prime.

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When Richard fell went his brave soul at large
Who left young Brandon to bold Suffolk's charge;
What time the orphan's was the dimpled smile
Which rage can soften, and disdain beguile;
The lisping accent, look from whence inferr'd
Infantine triumph at a master'd word;
The restless ardor which pourtrays the mind
Waking to thought, while to its meaning blind;
The mock impatience, and the busy mien,
Endless experiment, and notice keen;
The eye's prompt energy events to scan,
And all the tiny mimick'ry of man.

Such is the age when painters cherubs trace —
E'en now I witness such a form and face;
Yonder the infant stands, his little arm
Round a ferocious dog, that yesterday
Tore down to earth a rough gigantic form;
Its tail now wags, pleas'd at the infant's play,
Who twists within its shaggy coat those hands
Dimpled with fulness; and the creature stands
Tame as the placid sheep at evening's grey:
Now on the ground together as they roll
The dog delighted at the child's control

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Gapes wide, his teeth terrific to the eye!
The mother starts, in agony to fly
To stay the waxen arm that now explores
Those yawning jaws, which seem destruction's doors;
That arm is buried in the crimson grave;
But there's a charm in innocence to save;
Pluck'd from the gulph, unhurt the arm appears
And thrilling joy dispels the mother's fears.
Such is the age when every breath's a pray'r,
Asking, unconsciously, Heaven's guardian care;
When every smile to Heaven sweet homage pays,
For guiltles joy is gratitude and praise.

Such is the age that, like the pure white leaf,
Awaits its future value from the hand
Which traces there, or bounteously or brief,
The superscription which for life shall stand.
O, from the dove's wing, ye who write, provide
The pen which traces what shall ne'er subside;
Bless'd be the hand whose record's fair and sage,
And curs'd the demon who shall blot the page!

Such was Sir Brandon's age when Richard's hand
Dismiss'd his father from a suffering land;

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And then he promis'd all that hope can draw
Of worth 'ere will, inform'd, to mind gives law;
Seed good and ill had in that soil been cast;
The good had suffered from the blight and blast.

Oft by some chance will stealing nightshade spread
Its baneful branches through the flow'ry bed;
The noxious worm the bud when op'ning blight,
And the rank dock-leaf shade the snow-drop's white.

When Brandon fell Suffolk (then but a knight)
Was left sole guardian of the orphan's right;
And bred him carefully, and proudly too;
Grafting ambition as the scion grew;
Taught him that grandeur was true honour's aim,
That grace was glory, happiness was fame.
Proud were his prospects, absolute the pow'r
Decreed the guardian in an hapless hour;
That pow'r o'erstrained, effective in its force,
Let flow hope's sluices but to check their course:
Young Brandon's union common claim withstood,
For wealth exacting wealth, and blood for blood;
His guardian's will, imperative, his law,
No hope for love ingenuous Brandon saw;

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Ingenuous then — as flows the summer stream
His spirit flow'd when from coercion free;
But as the stream from frost's rigidity
Presents a rugged aspect, so the knight
Warp'd from his will grew harsh in nature's spight,
And life dragg'd on a discontented dream.
To wed at Suffolk's will the youth was doom'd,
Or half his wealth as forfeit he resum'd;
With Edith's mother hands, not hearts, he join'd,
While hate to Suffolk ever rul'd his mind.

He gave his hand, his heart gave never,
That was another's, and for ever —
He lov'd, he vow'd — but love was cross'd;
His faith he broke, and the fair was lost.

Where wanders now that hapless fair?
Sir Brandon, far from thee;
And woes that now thy bosom wear,
The coy-eyed sleep, and the keen tooth'd care,
Are fruits of thy perjury.

And just the fiat, and just the fate,
That visits with scorpion stings

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The heart that can purity's hope make vain,
And cause to close with a sorrowful strain
The song that the virgin sings.

The virgin's song is the hymn of joy,
By innocene tun'd and taught;
And who dare such dulcet notes destroy
Shall harmony ever his bosom buoy,
Or love ever cheer his thought?

Ah no! — and who crops the fairest flow'r
And wantonly leaves to fade;
For him no blessing shall build a bow'r,
For his brow by no balm dispensing pow'r
Shall a garland of peace be made.

And where does that fair one wander now,
Sir Brandon, O, where is she?
The ringlets of youth they have left her brow;
But ever she mourn'd thy perjur'd vow,
Nor listened to other than thee.

Ah! wanders she whither? and will she return?
That thine heart, repentant long,

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Transported may hope in the haze discern,
And thou from her lips thy pardon learn,
And gratitude be thy song.

“The ringlets of youth have left her brow
And wanders she, ah, whither?
Tho' grey with grief may her locks be now,
Her cheek be haggard, her body may bow,
O, haste, and call her hither!”

Where wanders that fair the strain shall tell
When fitting to disclose;
So sweet is hope that we love to dwell
On musing and mystery passing well—
When budding most sweet the rose.

That budding the florist remarks with joy,
Which, blown the rose, is o'er;
No sweet solicitudes then employ
His mind, and no promise his hope can buoy,
But he grieves 'twill be soon no more.

Sir Brandon he wed, and Sir Brandon he wail'd,
And curs'd his destiny;

265

That over that maiden he e'er prevail'd;
And Suffolk he curs'd, who his faith assail'd,
Impelling to perjury.

And Sir Brandon he put on his armour bright,
And to tented fields went he;
To bury his grief in the direful fight,
Reckless of life, or his lady's sight,
And reckless of victory.

Reckless of glory, he woo'd despair,
And desperate flew his steel;
And when a foe fell he had little care
Whether he in his place had lain bleeding there,
Such pangs was he doom'd to feel.

Sir Brandon he fought, and he wish'd in vain
To fall on the crimson'd field;—
War's sword was sheath'd, but his burning brain
Restless, and rack'd by repentant pain,
To opiate ne'er would yield.

Sir Brandon return'd to his native land,
And liv'd with a cumbrous state;

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And his lady died, and dissolv'd the band
Sir Brandon tied with an heartless hand,
And Suffolk had all his hate.

And Edith his sweet and only child
Was all to him of joy;
Her pratt'ling tongue his pain beguil'd,
Like spring she bloom'd, like summer she smil'd;
To form her his sole employ.

Her mother's nature bequeath'd her grace,
Her father's gave her pride;
School'd in the glories of her race,
Scorn often clouded her angel face,
Which pity survey'd, and sigh'd.

But love, whose lessons are all divine—
True love is the child of heaven—
That scorn-clouded face soon taught to shine
With humility's grace, and illum'd each line
By matchless beauty given.

Once her father to Edith a guardian gave,
While he travell'd a foreign shore;

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But there his grieving it found no grave,
No Lethe's oblivion he found to lave
A heart with a canker'd core.

And, again to his ancient hall return'd,
He liv'd in a frowning state:
Her loss who had ever his heart he mourn'd,
To the child of his marriage his care he turn'd,
Little heeding man's love or hate.

Cooke pronounced the words “as you guess,” in a manner peculiar to himself, and which always excited a burst of applause.

Sir John Cheney.

Sir William Brandon was banner-bearer to the Earl of Richmond.

VARIATION IX.

Nocturnal Vagaries of Fancy.

“My mind to me a kingdom is”—
Says the old ballad—true is this—
My mind's my kingdom “Sir,” (you call)
“Your kingdom must be very small
“If we may estimate it by
“Your rhyme—forgive me—poetry”—
I havn't yet so nam'd it, Quiz;
“What is it then?” Why—what it is.

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The night advanc'd, and the fire was bright,
And before it I sat in a musing state;
And I trac'd with a soft and sleepy sight
Forms of things in the glowing grate.
And hast thou never beguil'd thy care
When the mind was at pause, like a kite in air,
Ready to rise or ready to fall
As the hand directed that held the ball?
And hast thou never beguil'd thy care
By tracing the forms of fancy where,
Tho' learning and logic may hold it scorn,
Is many an hint for reflection born?

Hast thou never? then is thy mind
To the playful of innocent fancy blind;
And thou hast ne'er mus'd in a pleasing dream
Which folly to fools alone can seem.
For fancy pursuing an innocent flight
To reason tir'd is the taper's light,
Which far through obscurity darts its ray,
Her wandering cheers, and directs her way.

I sat by the fire, and, to toy with care,
I trac'd the forms which I fancied there;

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And I saw a traveller on a mount,
He seem'd as if climbing much care had cost:
But little could he on his labour count,
For the mountain fell, and the man was lost.

And the mount me-thought was the hope we court,
Failing when promising most support;
And the mount me-thought was ambition's height,
And the man was the moral of half his kind;
But let him who in altitude takes delight
Reflect that a mount may be undermin'd;
We climb with glee, and we climb with gall,
We triumph, grow giddy, then totter, and fall!

And a lion there seem'd with a mane of flame,
A cinder falling, an infant came;
And my mind, absorb'd in a charmed view,
Like the rueful errant Cervantes drew,
The fire seem'd nearer the child to bring
And I fancied the lion prepar'd a spring;
Instinctively starting, I mov'd the fire,
And lion and child in one fate expire.

It prov'd how fancy with mind can play,
And it prov'd how nature the heart can sway;

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It prov'd how folly gives way to fear,
Starting at shadows for danger near.

The night advanc'd and the fire grew low,
And seem'd like a gossip prepar'd to go;
And the measur'd beat of the cuckoo clock
My musing silence appear'd to mock;
And the clock it struck, and the cuckoo's note
Came cheeringly, as from the mock bird's throat;
And when the bird's barrier wide open flew
And the little automaton darted thro',
It seem'd like a gossip, with friendly call,
And a good-natur'd “how dy'e do?” to all.
And when it had done and had clos'd the door,
Its number announc'd, it seem'd like wit;
Which speaks to the matter, and speaks no more,
But leaves an impression like holy writ.

And I gaz'd on the clock, as the friend of man,
The index of reason, and warning voice;
Inviting to “number our days'” short span;
And those who regard alone rejoice.

The pendulum's ticking arrests the ear
To win the eye to the number'd hour;

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And the hands, ever moving within the sphere,
Point to the present, the all in our power.
And, lest we should slight the tale they tell,
Hark! the hammer awakes the bell;
Rousing our minds to redeem the past,
For the hour now living may be the last.

The night advanc'd and the light grew poor,
Slow in its wasting course, but sure;
(Eternal lesson is reason's aim)
The taper seem'd life, and death the flame;
And death with life is so entwin'd
That life feeds death, and death wastes life;
Yet death as the taper's flame is kind,
For it lights to repose from care and strife.
The taper it towers from the socket below,
But down to the socket the taper must go.

And I mus'd on death—and 'twere musing sweet
Could man and his conscience kindly meet—
And I mus'd on death, whose dart destroy'd
The hope of an heart left wearied and void.

An heart there was, belov'd and loving;
Two hearts, the twining of true love

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(Blended and blest, a sweet dream!) proving—
What heaven has join'd can mortal move?
Ah, no—so twin'd those hearts were ever,
Death only could the knot dissever:
And one it wing'd its way to where
No heart can enter with tainted core;
And the other remain'd to beat with care,
But the day shall come when there's care no more.

A shepherd thus sung,
While a garland he hung
Of the cypress, wove
With the flow'r of love,
O'er a rustic tomb;
Where left was room
For one who might soon an inmate prove.
The wreath he hung,
And thus he sung:—

And I said it was sorrow time never could cure,
And I said it was grief I could never endure,
And I lay me down to weep;
When fancy, fatigued, all her phantasy stay'd,
The pillow grew soft where my head it was laid,
And sorrow resolv'd in sleep.

273

And I dreamt 'twas my true love who stood by my side;
They awoke me; and, O, she a second time died:
Ah! why so officious? why chase my delight?
My eyes op'd to day, but that day was like night.

And I said, as all-smiling she sat by my side,
And art thou return'd, my earth's heaven, my bride?
And she answer'd me with a kiss;
O, I trembled with extacy; round her I threw
Those arms which to her had been constant and true;
And I seem'd entwin'd with bliss.
And she to my fondness with kisses replied—
But they woke me and, O, she a second time died:
Ah, why so officious? now sleep I implore,
But, sleeping, I dream not and—she is no more!

Thus sung the shepherd, and around the grave
Young rose trees planted; and to each he gave
A name—Ah! why? at ev'ry tree appears
An infant mourner 'dewing it with tears;
Portraits of her to whom in sorrow he
Plac'd a memorial in each votive tree.

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SUBJECT X.

Vanity of Hope.—Perplexity of Love.—A Stranger.— Banquet of Friendship.—The Minstrel's Warning.

There's a flower that wakes when the day's begun ,
Expanding its leaves to the rising sun;
Its beauties they live in the genial light,
But its calyx is clos'd at the grey of night.

There's a gay fly born at the sun's first gleam,
And it wantons with life in the golden beam;

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Its tiny date is one sportive day,
And its death the decline of the solar ray.

There's a flower in form like the orb of light, ,
And ever it turns to that radiant sight;
But when the sun to the west has sped
Eastward it turns with a drooping head.

There's a trembling brilliancy dances the wall, ,
Which the fancy of infancy tries to stay:
But it whisks away like the bandied ball,
If withdrawn whatever reflects the ray.

Emblems of life and joy are these,
And human hope is the solar beam;
And when that heavenly ray shall cease
'Tis death to joy, and all life's a dream.

Hope in Sir Brandon's heart arose,
And joy to lighten his heart began;
The union he wish'd hope urg'd would close
The sorrows which rack'd the repentant man;

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For Ernest had won Sir Brandon's heart,
And he deem'd him match for his daughter sweet;
To win his purpose employ'd each art
For a knight, and a friend, and a father meet.

But Ernest and Isabel felt one love;
While Edith and Allan their love was one;
And Sir Brandon's joy may those emblems prove,
His hope but a brief diurnal sun.

O, there is a bower of woodbines sweet
Near a grove where the nightingales sing;
That bow'r was Edith's lov'd retreat,
And there on her lute, at the noon-tide heat,
To love would she tune the string.

For seldom Sir Brandon that grove he sought,
Or that blooming bower pass'd by;
But it chanc'd on a day that his wandering brought
The knight to the spot, and his charm'd ear caught
The soothing of melody.

The lute he heard and the tasteful art
That wak'd the strain he knew;

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And her heavenly voice, which could ever impart
A charm to his ear that entranc'd his heart,
His rapt attention drew.

But there was a deep and a harsher tone,
Which, after, join'd her lay;
A voice he never before had known,—
She singing of love and not alone,
Ah, what do his dark looks say?

He listen'd 'til love's fond lay was o'er,
When Edith pronounc'd a name—
He heard the name, and he heard no more,
But sprung with fury the bower before,
And his eye wore frenzy's flame.

For Allan he saw, “draw! draw!” he cried;
And Edith was at his knee;
But he dash'd the trembling maid aside,
And on Allan he rush'd, with a mad-man's stride,
But Allan prepar'd was he.

And Allan he parried the thrust with care,
And the raging knight disarm'd;

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His sword return'd with submissive air,
And pardon for Edith implor'd with a pray'r
Which check'd, but, alas! ne'er charm'd.

And Allan is banish'd from Brandon Hall,
While Edith is lost in grief;
The eye of Sir Brandon, suffus'd with gall,
Look'd round with the frowning of pride on all,
Save Ernest, his sole relief.

Convolvulus.

Ephemeris.

Helianthus, or Sun-flower.

What is vulgarly called a Jack-a-lantern.

A TRAVELLER.

The mirky mantle of night is on,
And a traveller o'er the heath is gone;
That heath is drear at the noon of day,
And the traveller tracks a devious way;
List'ning and stepping with cautious fear;
The blast howls loud in the traveller's ear,
The light'ning darts, and the thunders roll;
First murmuring, as lingering at the pole,
Then rumbling follows th' electric flash;
Then clattering comes with appalling peal,
As if all the Heavens, time's date to seal,

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Were falling to earth with according crash.
Cold dews the traveller's limbs o'erspread,
Who tremblingly steps with doubt and dread—
That flash, like the gleaming of reason's ray
Which gives to the maniac a moment's day,
A moment's day but to ken the cost
Of the light for ever in darkness lost;
Which gives him a terrible gleam to see,
How horrid that darkness, how hapless he!—
That flash shews the traveller, now, by its glare,
Enfolded in wrappings which shroud the form;
But whether a man or a woman is there
No eye can distinguish—now through the storm
Heaven guard thee, traveller, on thy way,
And guide thee o'er the heath,
To where some “taper's cheering ray”
And friendly door may invite thy stay,
From danger; haply, death.
Adieu!—and, traveller, thou art gone—
Perchance we'll meet again, anon.
Sir Brandon wandering o'er his wide domain,
Resolve engendering in his anxious brain;
Ernest and Edith all his mind's employ,
A specious hope the sun-beam of his joy;

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Beneath a hedge-row found a wearied man,
A woe-worn peasant, who a pray'r began
For pity; want his haggard looks betray,
Beneath the hedge exhausted as he lay;
'Twas early morning, and the plenteous dew
Dropp'd from the white thorn on the fainting hind,
As if the thorn his want and wasting knew,
And o'er him wept; for Nature, ever kind,
Alone seems mov'd by one maternal plan,
To charm and cherish her own offspring, man;
Seems, by her blooming and her treasures given,
To prove her graceful gratitude to heaven
For his blest state, for whom she blooms and bears,
And for whose profit all her produce spares;
Prompted, when fading, by parental care,
(Fearful for him and anxious to prepare
His mind for future) she a glass presents,
The end depicting of all time's events;
Stronger reflection can no glass create,
But man reflects not, or reflects too late.

The knight, tho' stern, was ever prompt to spare;
The hind he pitied and receiv'd his pray'r;

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The fainting man, to Brandon Hall remov'd,
A liberal bounty and protection prov'd;
Restor'd to vigour, and in dress new dight,
The grateful peasant sought the generous knight;
Sir Ernest met him as the hall he cross'd,
And stood transfix'd, in trembling wonder lost;
Hubert (the peasant he) too, trembling stood,
Rapt in amazement; then a bursting flood
Of tears pour'd forth; and, to his Sire restor'd,
A father's blessing the young knight implor'd.

“Father,” he cried, “a truant son forgive,
“His crime attoning who will henceforth live.”
“Arthur!” the hind, his struggling heart beat high;
“O, truant Arthur! why from Hubert fly?
“Thy mother's life declining is the cost”—
Here words in nature's extacy were lost;
Nor Ernest's splendour nor his tow'ring crest
Aw'd him who caught and clasp'd him to his breast.

“Father” and “son” reciprocally giv'n,
Their souls seem'd wrapt in a sweet trance of heaven;
Sir Brandon enter'd, wondering at the view,
Quick to the knight the happy Ernest flew,

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Proclaim'd his father, and Sir Brandon blest
The step that led him to the man distrest;
All on all parts explain'd; their faces share
One look of joy; in Brandon's cross'd by care;
The high Sir Brandon, who, his transport done,
Survey'd Sir Ernest as a peasant's son;
No more the long wish'd match his hope beguil'd,
“A peasant's offspring wed Sir Brandon's child!”—
Allan, for thee now darts a gleam of grace;
But hapless Allan was expell'd the place.
Ernest, the sole prevention to remove
To Edith's liberty and Allan's love,
Purpos'd to Brandon to avow his heart,
And prove his claim, from prudence, to depart;
The danger urge the parting hour delay'd,
Urge his pledg'd honour to the Iberian maid;
With grateful thanks Sir Brandon's bounty pay,
Then seek the scene of happy boyhood's day.
Thus firmly purpos'd to the knight he flies,
Within whose breast new agitations rise.
“Ernest a peasant's son!” exclaim'd the knight
In deep soliloquy “of menial race,
Yet beams his mind the absolute of grace,
By fame recorded, and unmatch'd in fight;

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A full career of glory has he run,
And rais'd to rank; but yet—a peasant's son!
A peasant's son? and shall the Brandon blood,
Flowing for ages in a noble flood,
Blend with plebeian stream? and I the base
To raise the fountain of our line's disgrace?
Around my mansion, by the painter's art,
Hang chiefs of yore, who in the canvass live;
Each eye-ball flashing from an hero's heart,
While quarter'd blaz'nings each proud lineage give;
These can I face and fancy not convey
Reproach from all that, reckless of their fame,
I threw a gem of dignity away,
Sprung from their blood, and blended with their name?
Wake, Brandon, wake, nor let a fitful love
Urge to a deed ne'er honor can approve;
A fitful love for one who, dear to fame,
Twines round thine heart, all dignity but name;
And yet thou once had'st wed (had Suffolk smil'd)
One without name yet, hold—tho' love beguil'd
Thine heart, and thou hadst wed; the male bestows
Honour, ennobling tho' he lowly chose:
Not so the female, countless is the cost,
Her blood, her honour, and her name are lost.”

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Thus reason'd he when Ernest he beheld,
That sight the conflict of his bosom quell'd;
Ernest he saw, and saw his looks confess'd
Some cause of moment lab'ring in his breast;
The smile inviting confidence inclin'd,
And lur'd young Ernest to disclose his mind:
With graceful modesty, and grateful phrase,
The youth his reasoning and resolve conveys;
His sire to join and seek the lonely gate
Where pining grief and love maternal wait:
Repentant sighs assisted him to tell
(While o'er his cheek ingenuous blushes stole)
The manly narrative: and all his soul
Glow'd with the acmé, Love and Isabel!

Contending spirits in Sir Brandon strove,
Pride urg'd his will, tho' all his wish was love:
Fast round his heart the gallant youth had twin'd,
And pride as firmly interlac'd his mind.

Ernest and Edith's nuptials urg'd his art,
His hope sublim'd; the solace of his heart;
Fix'd in resolve, the deed in fancy done,
Is barr'd for ever by—the peasant's son—

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Pride triumph'd here; and when the tale he heard
Which to his Edith Isabel preferr'd,
A moment's sunshine o'er his fancy gleam'd,
And his stern eye with transient radiance beam'd;
For now his promise of fair Edith's hand
Honour must cancel, and its breach command;
But learning Ernest's purpose to depart,
Then triumph'd love in Brandon's yearning heart:
With Ernest part? ah! could the youth be spar'd?
The only being who his friendship shar'd;
Edith he lov'd, but as a daughter lov'd,
Who all his fondness, not his friendship, prov'd;
Too young for confidence; and woman's breast
He deem'd no shrine where secrecy might rest.
Ernest depart? a conflict here began,
Again he seems an isolated man;
All saw the gloom upon his dark brow borne,
All saw his sternness, stigmatiz'd as scorn;
All saw a soul that seem'd in self to end,
And none affected, as none felt, the friend.

And Allan is banish'd, and wanders forlorn;
Fair Edith the frown of her father has borne;

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To that frown unaccustom'd, how rankling the smart
Which surcharg'd her bright eye and subdued her fond heart!
And, remote where no echo could mock her sweet tongue,
She tun'd her soft lute, and of sorrow she sung.

LOST PEACE.

O, came ye o'er the barren moor,
Or down the mossy mountain;
O, came ye by yon rosy bow'r,
Or yonder sparkling fountain?
Or, came you by the greenwood shade,
And rove you whence or whither;
And did you see a wand'ring maid?
O, haste and call her hither.

O, by her lovely eyes of blue,
Whose beams so artless shew her;
O, by her cheeks of amaranth hue
And heavenly smile you'll know her:
What sweeter than her name can be?
'Tis Peace—she's gone ah! whither?

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And if you pity feel for me,
O, haste and call her hither!

And Allan, forbidden, he wander'd the waste,
The path to the grave of old Simon he trac'd;
Reclin'd on the turf, and abandon'd to grief,
He in plaintive soliloquy sought for relief.

PLAINT.

The turf is o'er thy head,
Ah! thou who sleep'st below,
I press thy grassy bed,
The orphan child of woe.
Subdued by grief, my steps I bend
Where rests my boyhood's only friend.

The turf is o'er thy head,
Unheard must I complain;
And peaceful is thy bed
But pillow'd mine by pain;
All, all my pleasure found an end
With thee, my boyhood's only friend.

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While Allan wailing lay,
A linnet on a spray
Was sweetly singing;
But deaf was Allan's ear
To what could charm or cheer;
And dead the flowers appear
Around him springing.

Could not these flowers move
Emotions to reprove
And mock his sorrow?
Like gratitude each gay,
“We grieve not” seem'd to say,
“Though blooming but to-day,
To fade to-morrow.”

That warbling linnet's strain
Seem'd saying, “why complain
When I am praising?
Though but the present mine,
The future, mortal, thine;
And can'st thou so repine
Beyond hope's raising?”

289

Upon a grave-stone by
A verse, which fix'd the eye,
Seem'd grief's denial;
“There is a sorrow, sane,
There is a wailing, vain;
Shall man of care complain,
Since life's a trial?”

There sat behind that stone,
On weighty griefs, his own,
An old man musing;
Arous'd by Allan's grief,
Pity prompts relief,
His accent bland but brief,—
“Why hope refusing?”

His soothings soon prevail,
And Allan told his tale,
Advice entreating;
And from the scene of woe,
Conversing, on they go,
With friendship's kindly glow,
And grace's greeting.

290

Ingenuous youth, go, read the sacred page
Of care-indited, profitable, age;
There shalt thou trace the sterling lore of truth:
And, age, O, covet converse with the young;
Grace shalt thou gather from the glow of youth,
And more melodious prove to youth thy tongue.

Sweet is the picture when the head of grey
And brow of care are brighten'd by a smile;
The rust and wrinkle vanishing away
Leave a bright, sacred, beaming to beguile;
And youth approaches with enquiring eye,
Inclining ear, and modesty of mien,
Which proof of reverence and love supply;
Grateful the golden oracles to glean.

Sir Brandon's mind new perturbation mov'd;
The maid he lean'd on and the man he lov'd
Once to unite his prospect and his pride;
That wish (which pride of ancestry denied)
Resum'd its empire with redoubled force
When render'd hopeless by the young knight's course;
Pride felt abash'd; the struggle was severe:
Ernest depart? affection triumph'd here;

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Ernest depart, when, leaving Brandon gates,
Departing friendship on his footstep waits?
Just his departure from a mansion where
His presence but accumulated care:
Just his departure, sorrow to remove
From home abandon'd and maternal love;
Just his departure, every reasoning tried
Of nature, love, necessity, or pride.

The day is fix'd, Sir Brandon at the thought,
Resum'd the sternness ancient sorrows brought;
Polite to Ernest, portly to the rest,
Save her who, slighted, warm'd alone his breast;
Save her deem'd injur'd, now ordain'd to prove
Redoubled fondness from returning love.

The day is fix'd, the banquet they prepare;
Ernest must Brandon's parting bounty share;
All are invited of respect and name,
All who might notice from Sir Brandon claim.

The day arrives; Sir Brandon's brow of care
Essays the smile of gallantry to wear;

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A specious sunshine, ill assum'd the part,
Joy in his eye, but anguish in his heart.

The day arrives, and all, invited, there;
The guests enraptur'd and the banquet rare;
In all the blaze of dignified attire,
To grace her seat, and gratify her sire,
Eclipsing all the splendour she display'd
By looks angelic, sat the blooming maid;
The graceful Edith, all her father's pride,
Beaming she sat in radiance by his side.
So by some darkling cloud you may behold
The sun more bright from the contrasted gloom;
While its reflected rays with blended gold
Give the dense cloud false splendour to assume.
The smiling guests, in honour to the day,
A blaze of grandeur gorgeously display:
Close by the knight the musing Ernest plac'd
Was mark'd by modesty and manly taste;
With simple fancy decorated o'er,
His knighthood's badge and ruby cross he wore;
And by Sir Ernest, at his host's desire,
Attir'd as seeming, sat the peasant sire;

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Hubert, his father, as Sir Ernest thought,
As all he told, and all the accent caught;
While Hubert brooding, and abash'd, receiv'd
Warm 'gratulations for the tale believ'd:
For such a son, an honour known to few,
A son whose sire not even Hubert knew.

Where strays the gazings of the blushing youth?
To where sits beauty, loveliness and truth;
To Edith?—no; to one whose fame might tell
Her Edith's rival, blooming Isabel:
For high Sir Brandon, chivalrous of soul,
Deem'd no regrets at parting should controul
The “gallant bearing” of a knight; this mov'd
The maid to welcome whom young Ernest lov'd;
Tho' pride might sicken at the galling sight
Of her who triumph'd in his hope's despite:
Hence beauteous Isabel, with splendour chaste,
Plac'd by fair Edith, the glad circle grac'd;
And there the Matron whose maternal heart
Foster'd fair Isabel possess'd a part;
And there too Allan; Allan? where was he?
I' th' welcome garb of wandering minstrelsy;

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Allan, and that old man; 'twas he the heath
Who cross'd 'mid storm, while fear presag'd his death;
But heaven a safegard to his footsteps gave,
And led to Allan at old Simon's grave;
A minstrel he; retain'd at Brandon Hall
To aid the pleasures of the festival.
By his wise counsel, Allan (who the string
Could wake with cunning, and with science sing)
With manner feign'd, false beard, and alter'd look,
The harper's habit and his calling took;
And when he sung—alas! she knew not why,
The tear stood trembling in lov'd Edith's eye;
He sung of love condemn'd with woe to cope,
His ballad's burthen “constancy and hope;”
Oft as he sung, his brow Sir Brandon bent,
Pain'd by past scenes, then soften'd to content;
Abstracting thought the scene before him shrouds—
He sat as sits a man when watching clouds;
A cumb'rous giant of dark shade who sees,
Stretch'd all his length at an enormous ease;
While groupes of shadowy rocks come rolling on,
And crush the monster 'neath the unreal stone;
That giant Brandon, cares those thickening rocks,
Which, ever threat'ning, still prepar'd new shocks.

295

With all a “master's hand” and “prophet's fire,”
The aged minstrel hastens to inspire
Their glowing hearts with strains that care confound,
Soul in the sense, and magic in the sound;
His eyes were fire of glory when he sung,
The vaulted roof with bursting plaudits rung;
He sung of love; then languish'd every eye,
The tear half started, and half heav'd the sigh;
The minstrel sigh'd—then, with an awful look,
The chords he thunder'd, while his weak frame shook,
And thus he sung—

THE MINSTREL'S WARNING.

Where is the faith of honour fled?
Where has love made a lowly bed?
Where triumph spread for peace the toil,
And fed and fatten'd on the spoil.

Where grew the lily of the vale?
Where now the nightshade taints the gale;
Where was the rose of beauty born?
Where now all's blasted but the thorn.

296

Where is the vow deceit has sworn?
To heaven on sweeping whirlwinds borne;
To heaven 'tis borne, recorded there,
Dread to the traitor, and despair!

The sun of innocence shone bright!
'Tis where? for ever set in night,
And yet the blasting cloud rides high
Which veil'd that sun in honour's sky.

“Where is the lamb the poor man rear'd,
Which in his bosom lay?
Alas, the rich man, stern and sear'd,
Has torn that lamb away!”

And thou, proud knight, who, bent on me,
My purpose seem'st to scan,
Thine shall the prophet's answer be—
“Thou art, thou art the man!”

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VARIATION X.

Breathing Time.—The Impertinence of Interruption.— A new Insect.—Black Letter Beetles.— Love and Latin.—Love's Gift.—The Ruby and the Pearl.

Ma'am, or Sir, were you ever while reading a story,
Of wit, or of woe, or of love, or of glory,
So full, that the smallest delay would diminish
Your pleasure, and you, when impatient to finish,
Should, by unlucky chance, be disturb'd at a part
Transfixing your mind and affecting your heart,
With the door op'ning quick, and admitting at will
One of those kind of creatures who call time to kill:
One you know will remain, spite of reason or rhyme,
Who will only talk nonsense, and talk all the time?
And have you not shut up your book in despair,
And wish'd em—excuse me—I musn't say where?
Now if, puff'd up by vanity, I could suppose
This hist'ry could charm you, so near to its close,
And at such a moment as that I've selected
To end the last chapter, no purpose effected,

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I should fancy you'd feel much the same indignation
As th' intruder excited for this Variation:
But tho' I can't hope it has made such impression,
If thus far you've read, 'tis at least some confession
I've not been a bore; and you'll haply go on,
And be happy to know in next chapter you've done!
And this, with th' intruder, not view'd con amore,
You can pass to next chapter and finish the story.
Yet, if you should wish to take breath a short time,
Or for drying your eyes, if by chance there's a tear.
Or to have your laugh out at the expence of my rhyme,
(And I fancy the fact I anticipate here,)
That time from this trite variation will spring,
Which read or rejected may prove the same thing
For profit or pleasure—but if you incline
To read, to amuse you my pow'rs I'll combine,
And woo, likely, nonsense instead of the nine.
The nine? the term's common, and quoted by all,
And meaning the Muses means nothing at all:
'Tis a phrase, or a figure, an idiom, a gleaning
Of Pagan remains, and with them had its meaning:
With us Christian bards, uninspir'd by the sun,
What meaning it's claim, in our verse tho' it run?
Like most of our poetry, certainly none.

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In the mark'd pronoun plural myself I include,
Or, reader, you'd think me conceited, or rude;
For I've small doubt you'll say, if opinion you show it,
“Sir, I hope you're a much better Christian than poet.”

There are a sort of people found,
Mere outlines, like a circle's round,
Which terminates where you begin it,
Circumference with nothing in it;
Who, when they cross you, seem to say,
“Pray can you tell me what's to day?”
Who sail and saunter, light of mien,
Like globes which oft in air you've seen,
Lighter than down from beaver hats,
Balloons which lightest breathing bandies—
Once children call'd'em “Pussy Cats,”
But now, I'm told, they call 'em Dandies—
“But what have dandies, Sir, to do
“With Arthur's narrative?” say you;
I only meant this intersection
Is of a dandyish complexion;

300

And if it should, like down of thistle,
Fly here and there; or should I whistle,
Instead of sing, as poets should,
Remember 'tis an interlude,
Where whim's allow'd, if wit is scarce—
None seek consistency in farce.
“Granted you cry,” and on that ground
“Perchance your poem readers found.”
I make my bow low as may be,
And answer “thank'ye, Sir, for me.”

“Dandy! what is a dandy?” why,
A new found genus, ranking high
In fashion's Entomology;
Said to be solely male, but nat—
Uralists profess their doubts of that;
Yet no account of female tender,
But class the insect neuter gender.

O Britain, when our sires of old
Forc'd Magna Charta from King John,
Did they wear stays? “the barons bold;”
Or perfum'd gloves and paint put on?
Their stays were iron, and their gloves were steel,
Their paint the glow the generous fires reveal;

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From them our freedom and our fame arose,
Themselves ne'er lacing who still lac'd our foes.

“Lacing and lac'd! what wretched punning's that?”
Exclaims Sir Classical “I hate a pun—
“Who makes a pun would pick a pocket.” —what?
At any rate 'twould pleasantly be done.
Puns are like peppermint, wit's drams in short,
So grant those peppermint who can't get port.
A race there is, right ponderous and prim,
Too pure for wisdom and too proud for whim;
Yclep'd “the classical;” who ne'er unbend;
Whose wit and wisdom in black letter end—
“Abuse the classical?”—no, reader, no—
I doat on classical—“indeed? so—so”—
But be it classical: of wisdom's college,
Learning digested, dignified by knowledge;
Tutor'd by taste, by candour taught to smile;
Not the o'erwhelming Niger, but the Nile;
O'erflowing from humanity, not hate,
Nor e'er to ravage, but regenerate.

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The race I sing are beetle brow'd and stern;
Who ransack learning, but who never learn;
Who to the letter of all context stick,
But for the spirit are too splenetic.
Black letter beetles, floundering in their flight,
Droning their dirges to the dusky night,
Bumping against you, with a wheel commanding,
In the thick twilight of their understanding.
They talk of classical because cram-full
Of etymologies, devoutly dull;
Fix'd to the root, for ever grovel there,
Nor climb the branch to catch the wholesome air;
No, by the root, or round the trunk, they cling,
Pelting at him who sits above to sing;
The nerve-lin'd leaf which plays upon the bough
They ne'er contemplate; hence they wonder how
Mind can so weak be as, like bird, to play
Where the wing'd zephyr wantons round the spray;
And gravely comment, and decree each shoot
Should be as cramp and rigid as the root.
Ye burrowing moles, why was the root ordain'd
But for the branch and all by that sustain'd?
These critics are of words and leaden rules,
And by their folly judge all others fools;

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Too cold for sanguine, brooding for benign,
For ever center'd in the saturnine.
They know not genius, yet attempt to scan
Products of which they never knew the plan;
Shall the blind mole his doubtful optics ply
To scan the lightning of the lynx's eye?
Shall the dark lantern catechise the sun,
Or the sloth teach the rapid elk to run?

Go to, ye paragons of phlegm, go to!
Bred with old dulness and her cobweb crew;
In dusky halls through whose cramp'd casements peep
Such twilight gleams as only lull to sleep;
And while your dozing eyes are fix'd upon
The Gothic grandeur of the unweildy stone,
Which in sharp arch or ponderous pillar's hewn,
Huge dreams come o'er you, where crack'd organs tune
Oppressive fugues; the columns all advance,
And stalk tremendous in a Stone-henge dance;
While ye gloat on, beat-time with taste litigious,
And growl in rusty rapture, “oh, prodigious!”

Deem not, ye truly learn'd, that you I mean,
Who bear your honors with a brow serene;

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Who squinting prejudice with scorn defy;
The fostering beam, not light'ning, in your eye;
Lynx-eye'd to merit; winking, but not blind;
Prouder small beauties than large faults to find,
And learning love through love of human kind.
Who dip your pens in ink unmix'd with gall,
And write for reason, or not write at all;
Whose faithful index equitable care
Impels; exulting when it points to “fair.”
From you whatever sentence this procures,
Mine be submission, and my thanks be yours.

But love is more our theme than Latin:
Would I could dress the boy in satin;
Or, plainly, would my verse could flow
As smoothly as the satin's face is,
With all its substance and its show,
With all its garnish and its graces;
But Waller and your humble slave
Are not akin you've found no doubt;
I hammer at an awkward stave,
He drew the soul of sweetness out:
But let me, as I can, prevail;
And listen to a sylphic tale.

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LOVE'S GIFT.

The Ruby and the Pearl.

Ruby, a gem of the Sylphic race,
Glowing with ardour, and beaming with grace;
From whose eyes shot a radiance, chaste, brilliant, and warm,
The mellow of splendor, the softness of charm;
Enamour'd became of a graceful girl,
Of earthly mould, and he nam'd her Pearl.

And, O, that maiden was lily fair,
Perfect her from as true circles are:
And, O, how modest that maid serene;
And, O, how polish'd that maiden's mien;
Pure as polish'd that graceful girl;
And Ruby he glow'd for the lovely Pearl.

Still as he hover'd the maiden nigh,
And caught the mild ray of her chasten'd eye;

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His ardour while gazing on one so meek
Reflected a blush on her maiden cheek;
Ah! 'twas not the blush of a graceless girl
That tinted the cheek of the lovely Pearl.

He seem'd a sun, as the sun seems oft,
Ruby red, with mild beams of gold;
And she like the moon beam'd rays as soft
As brighten the revels that fairies hold;
And Ruby he sigh'd for that graceful girl,
While artlessly listen'd the lovely Pearl.

He sung “O I am a spirit of air,
A mortal thou, as refin'd as fair;
And sylphs may celestial converse hold
With the pure and the lovely of mortal mould:
And worthy art thou, O graceful girl,
The love of the Ruby, O beauteous Pearl!

“I'll build for thy beauty a jessamine bower,
Type of thyself that virgin flow'r;
And the leaves of that flow'r shall be emblems seen
Of constancy, grac'd by the emerald's green;

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O bless that bower, thou graceful girl,
Where Ruby shall listen to lovely Pearl.

“I'll weave thee a wreath of the golden ray,
And thy tresses shall diamond stars display;
The nymphs of the ocean thy birth shall tell,
And, O, thou shalt ride in their cars of shell;
In the grots of coral, O graceful girl,
Shall Ruby beam light for the lovely Pearl.”

The virgin she listen'd to Love's soft lay,
To love as pure as the moon beam's ray;
But, O, she had sisters; alike the whole
In face and in form, and in softness and soul;
And, meeting alone each graceful girl,
Ruby fancied that each was his lovely Pearl.

And every virgin the sylph had seen,
And every virgin the sylph had won;
Every sister his song had been,
And ear to his praises refus'd him none:
But, meeting together each graceful girl,
Ruby glow'd for all round as his lovely Pearl.

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The power of witchery saw the scene,
The spirit of spite was fill'd with spleen;
By magic art in a golden spell
She bound 'em, for ever and aye to dwell.
With the ruby she fix'd ev'ry graceful girl,
And surrounded he stood by each lovely pearl.

And Love he wept; and the sylphs complain'd;
But the 'witching spirit her spell maintain'd;
Love call'd it a ring, and resolv'd it should prove
A type of the pure and the ardent love;
And love's gift, in a ring, to a graceful girl,
Is ruby, encircled by lovely pearl.

Phœbus—Apollo.

Every one of my readers must have observed the balls of vegetable down floating in the air, like balloons, in summer, produced from, the Leontodon, or Dandelion, which children called pussy eats, clocks, &c.

Although this observation has been frequently animadverted upon, as it serves my purpose, I hope to be allowed “the loan of it,” without being accused of mere common place.

See Dominie Sampson in the Novel of Guy Mannering.

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SUBJECT XI.

A Discovery—Conclusion—and Farewell.

To paint the passions on each face display'd,
When ceas'd the minstrel, awful in his ire,
Pert were and prolix; when the charge was made,
He sunk exhausted,—with an eye of fire,
Up started Brandon, and up started all;
Awe and mute wonder reign'd throughout the hall;
Ernest first mov'd, and, rushing from his seat,
All view him kneeling at old Beauclerc's feet,—
Beauclerc it was—by cordial balm restor'd,
Upheld by Ernest, he approach'd the board:
Had spoke, but Brandon wav'd imperious hand,
And seated wonder waited his command;
Silence he broke—“The retributive hour
Is come; I bow obedient to it's pow'r;

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Nor fear, bold man, the vengeance I could wreak,
Humbled, I pardon; penitent, I speak;
Speak, with a bursting heart, the awful truth,
That guilt and grief, companions of my youth,
Clung to my manhood; harrow me in age,
And threaten havoc to my life's last stage;
But hear, ye honour'd partners of my board,
Hear my plain tale, and equity afford:”
His tale of woe the penitent began,
Ere while recited of the will-warp'd man:
The maid he lov'd, the maid thro' Suffolk lost,
The maid he marr'd for ever, to his cost,
Was love-lorn Alice—here, his voice subdued,
He paus'd, look'd prayer to heaven, and then pursued—
“'Twas that man's daughter—and an hapless son
Clos'd our sad loves—O, heaven, thy will be done!
It's mother died; I liv'd, but liv'd alone
In this dread hour the evil to atone;
Just! just the penalty my crime has prov'd!
Yet heaven can justify how much I lov'd;
How much I languish'd, and how true I meant,
'Till crush'd my hopes, and withered my intent;

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By force united of a guardian's mood,
A fortune forfeit, and the claims of blood,
A father's last command—these chose a bride—
A heartless hand I gave, and Alice—died.”
Beauclerc and Brandon, here, each droop'd his head,
And tear for tear, with grief responsive, shed;
While generous sympathy possess'd each mind,
Now the knight's words a ready utterance find;—
“That child I nurtur'd with a secret care,
My name was noble, and my fame was fair;
To glory bred, my honour's stain I fear'd,
My heart not callous, nor my conscience sear'd;
High born and haughty were the guides supplied
To lead my footsteps in the path of pride;
The pride of birth, of dignity, renown,
And all false shame, as splendid, loves to crown.
“A knight, by wedlock to a noble race
Allied, I trembled at my name's disgrace;
My name's disgrace the knowledge had insur'd,
And, dreading shame, I shame's reward endur'd,
Unceasing anguish—from good Beauclerc's pow'r
A wretch disguis'd, in an ill-omen'd hour,

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Convey'd the infant, on a night so drear
Pursuit was fruitless; I the spot was near,
And, with my agent, journied to a place
Whose distant scite might shelter my disgrace;
There, well provided, and with gold a store,
We left the infant at a peasant's door;
Saw it receiv'd, a speed trac'd billet told
The child's name Arthur, and that annual gold,
Convey'd in secret, should the guerdon prove
Of fostering kindness and parental love;
That the strange secret should with time transpire,
And Arthur share the honours of his sire.
O, where, O, where is now that hapless son?”—
Here Hubert started, but the knight went on—
“Years past, those years on foreign soil I spent,
In all the restlessness of discontent;
Returning here, new stabs my anguish mov'd,
The man I trusted had a traitor prov'd;
Guilt clings to guilt in mystery's devious ways,
Fiend flatters fiend, first bosoms then betrays;
The fiend I trusted in my absence turn'd
His trust to profit; I, distracted, learn'd
The hind, no more with promis'd gold supplied,
Had wandered, whither every search defied.

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My mind subdued, all heavenly hopes depart,
And wasting horrors desolate my heart!—
O where that hind?”—“Here!” Hubert quick begun,
“Behold there Arthur stands, Sir Brandon's son.”
“My son? where? where?”—the peasant, no reply,
But points to Ernest with a glistening eye.
“My son? O heavens!” then sinking on his seat,
Pallid his face, his pulse forgot to beat;
All crowd around him—with hysteric scream,
Edith awakes from a confounding dream
Of fix'd attention; and her cries recal
The swooning knight, and hope relumes the hall.
Meantime old Beauclerc, with the strong surprise,
Had in suspension clos'd his aged eyes;
Recall'd to being by swift cordials given,
He gaz'd on Ernest as a gift from heaven.
Enraptur'd, Ernest, trembling, see they clasp,
Grandsire and sire in wild, alternate, grasp;
With heaven-born sympathy all hearts rebound,
Ejaculations through the hall resound,
For peace, long pray'd for, is for ever found.
But now the scene too exquisitely high
To bear the gazing of th'intrusive eye,
The guests, (with blessings beaming from each look)
With silent step their prompt departure took;

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Edith, exhausted by the strange alarms,
Swooning, reclin'd within a minstrel's arms:
That minstrel Allan, who himself made known
When she respir'd; his zealous arms her zone
Trembling she stood, for should her father's eyes
The youth encounter, hope for ever flies;
And from the scene presented she had form'd
Dreams of a hope that all her fancy warm'd.
Ernest, her brother; in parental flow,
Brandon his hate to Allan might forego:
His presence bear, and time at length improve
Notice to favour, favour warm to love.
Reason resumes her empire—Brandon now,
Delighted, raises his dilated brow,
No more contracted by the cramp of care,
And all his features joy's subliming wear.
Again, too, Beauclerc smiles; his boy to find
Thaws the protracted winter of his mind.
Elate with pleasure, and abash'd by praise,
Ernest the whole with wondering doubt surveys;
Joy pours upon him, at an humble cost,
A peasant father, yet a lov'd one, lost;
A father found, ennobled in his name,
Fav'rite of fortune, and enroll'd by fame

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A reverend grandsire, who in tender youth
His heart secur'd by training it to truth:
A blooming sister, who in brightness mov'd,
And equall'd only by the maid he lov'd;
The maid he lov'd with mutual love possess'd,
Hope told their union, and that union bless'd;
Full on him burst the splendor of delight,
His sense confounded, and confused his sight.
And now Sir Brandon Edith to his arms
Leads as a sister; sanctified, her charms
No more to Isabel and Ernest prove
A frowning barrier, and the foe of love;
Enclos'd, enclosing, each the other view'd
With graceful love, and wondering gratitude.
The good old matron, with her charge to stay
By Edith press'd when pass'd the crowd away.
Her charge supported, by the scene opprest,
Whose tears bedew'd her sympathising breast.
Hubert, to whom the heart's best traits were given,
Knelt unobserved, and pour'd his thanks to heaven;
His Ellen's darling, and his own best pride,
To fame, to fortune, and to rank allied;

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O, what a tale of rapture to impart,
To bless the virtuous partner of his heart.
Aloof, abash'd (the minstrel's garb he wore
His hop'd protection) Allan pac'd the floor;
His stay protracting, though his fears declare
Of all mankind himself least welcome there:
But love detains him, and his Edith's mien
Gives a magnetic charming to the scene;
His step arresting, and, though fain to fly,
He stops, still turning from Sir Brandon's eye;
For Edith's looks some hidden hope convey
He cannot penetrate, but must obey.
Meanwhile, some minutes in delighted mood,
Sweet deeds resolving, generous Brandon stood;
To grace the closing of a scene so dear,
His grateful views in instant act appear;
“Ernest, my son”—with rapturous look he cried,
“Be thy wise choice, bright Isabel, thy bride;
Your hands I join”—and to his arms convey'd
The graceful, grateful, unassuming maid.
“Beauclerc, my friend! life's twilight sheds a ray
Shall grace and gladden our declining day;

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Ours to enjoy the little that remains,
With all that life from wealth and honour gains;
Together here, in friendship and in joy,
We'll watch the rising of our matchless boy;
Together here, the path of wisdom trace,
With reason's glory, and religion's grace;
Together here, grateful for all that's given,
We'll live to happiness, and live to heaven.
“Hubert, the fost'rer, father of my child,
Releas'd from labour, and by love beguil'd,
Love for that boy whose tender youth you rear'd,
And nobly cherish'd when no kin appear'd;
Attach'd to him the future shalt thou end,
No badg'd retainer, but an humble friend.
“Edith, my child! a father's tenderest love
With sweet solicitude its warmth shall prove;
That father's hope, ere rests his uprais'd head,
To see thee wisely to some good man wed:
Thine the election, mine the guiding voice;
Mine be the sanction, but be thine the choice.”
She blush'd, she beckon'd, Allan's eye to meet;
Edith and Allan are at Brandon's feet—

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He started—paused—and in a moment, see,
Prest to the earth old Beauclerc's reverend knee;
Arthur and Isabel the action view,
Arthur and Isabel are suppliants too:
One prayer of pity all their looks convey,
And Brandon's feelings starting tears display;
“This day,” he cried, “which gives me joy divine,
Shall one heart sorrow and the wound be mine?
Allan, all ranklings from my breast depart,
My hope against thee was, but not my heart;
Edith my child,” and tears here stay'd his voice—
“Mine be the sanction, but be thine the choice.”
Their hands he join'd—here let the curtain fall,
Perfect the climax which brings joy to all.

CONCLUSION.

Young Arthur is happy—the moral is plain,
That vice is a gangrene, and virtue is gain;
'Tis a tale often told, yet though trite not less true;
But the old we neglect for the charms of the new;
And the new wants the reverend mellow of time
For the sageness of wisdom, the sound, or sublime:

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Like the vintage fresh press'd, 'tis too heating for health
Like the ore, fresh from earth, wants refining for wealth
'Tis a tale often told, but 'tis duty's decree
That 'tis ever the theme of the song and the thought;
'Tis a tale often told, but repeated must be
While the tongue lives to tell, and the ear to be taught.
For it tells of the essence of wisdom and wit;
'Tis the moral of reason, and holy writ;
'Tis the bulwark and beacon to guard and to guide;
The lesson of love, and a trust well tried;
'Tis a lesson that, founded on faith and fear,
And zeal attemper'd with love sincere,
Preach'd with practice, and practis'd pure,
At the “Day of the Lamb” shall peace secure.
And, since pardon and peace have smiling met,
And kiss'd each other with holy love,
That day shall come, and the hour is set,
By the power of peace who rules above.

The day shall come, and the just shall see,
When the cold, dark, house shall illumin'd be;
When the grey hood of grief shall be cast away,
And the garland of pleasure her brow display;
When manacled bondage shall grind no more,
But meet the morning with smile for smile;

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When welcome to want shall set wide the door,
And gratitude's hymn the sad heart beguile;
As if leaves from the blasted oak should spring,
Or blossoms the uprooted stem should bring;
Or the burnt-up blade should resume it's green,
And the trodden down stubble full grain'd be seen.
O, the day shall come, tho' in mystery's veil
'Tis hidden, tho' ever of hope the tale;
The day shall come when the morning's eye
Shall ever be beaming with chaste delight,
Nature's ear be enraptur'd by minstrelsy
From the joys in the “wedding garment” dight;
When the “beautiful feet” of the bless'd shall move
Through the graceful courts of celestial love;
And to golden harps hallow'd raptures sing,
All wreath'd with the flow'rs of eternal spring;
And the ear shall hear which receives man's pray'r,
And the eye beam love which regards him there;
Nor can the full praise of that love be sung,
Tho' a seraph's rapt zeal tune an angel's tongue.

That day is the moral of all that springs,
Of all that sorrows, and all that sings;
Of all that flowers, and all that fades,
Of all that's shining, and all that shades.

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And this is the moral of thought and time,
Of all that's sombre, and all sublime;
Of all that's feeling, and all that's fear;
Of all that's deadly, and all that's dear.
And this is the moral of birth and breath,
Of all that's duty, and all that's death;
This is the moral—A day shall be
When all shall be heaven and harmony.

And this is the singing of every sound,
And this is the barrier of every bound;
This is the hint of each pulse's beat,
And this is the savour of ev'ry sweet:
And this is the pleading of ev'ry power,
Of every passion is this the praise:
This is of every hope the tower,
The tower which the hands of the virtues raise;
This, this is the all—that a day shall be,
Which the fool shall forfeit, the wise shall see,
When all shall be heaven and harmony.

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FAREWELL.

Reader, rest; thy labours cease—
Rest in the plenitude of peace!
May heart's-ease ever bedeck thy bower,
Planted by peace in the golden hour
When all the benignities smiling meet,
And shed their influence, heavenly sweet!
On the head of hope, and the heart of joy,
The cares compose, and the doubts destroy;
And wreathe the thoughts with the am'ranth flower,
The fadeless flow'r that in Eden blows,
Of heaven all redolent, Sharon's rose.
That wreath which, around the temples 'twin'd,
“Gives a sweet summer to the mind,”
Thine be that wreath—thy labours cease;
Now fare thee well; for, well-a-day!
Thine has been patience, and thine be peace—
Farewell; and a merry heart bless thy way!

THE END.