University of Virginia Library

While the loud din of arms tumultuous rings
From clime to clime—and the red shafts of war
Unceasing fly—is there a peaceful theme
Can now delight? While every ear enclines
To hear of combats and the sack of towns,
Of armies routed, and embattled fields
Deform'd with dead; who with adventurous hand
Shall touch the string? Yet some there still are found
Who from such evils, love at times to fly
And seeking sylvan quiet and the seat
By mossy spring, delight to court the muse,
Woo'd happ'ly in the silent Summer shade.
Of such am I; and while the busy world
Anxiously follow some unreal bliss
With ceaseless toil—the River's-side I choose,
And all its mazes, from the secret spring
Along the grassy bank and shrubby bourne
By cliff and cragg to where the freighted barque
Rides fearless of the frown on Neptune's brow,
Or surly Eurus' rage and tune retired
A pipe of homely stop. And do thou come
Anthea, for thou lov'st the rural walk,
Inspire the muse who sings for thee alone,
And I'll invoke no other power, nor need
The inspiring air of Phocian Castaly,
Pierian fountains, or the sacred Hill
By Phœbus lov'd, and the Aonian maids.

From some cold rock in woody covert hid,
Clear springing forth with pure unsullied drops,
Or bubbling out, with soft and tuneless fall,
From the drear bosom of some barren wild,
Remote, and hopeless of the mower's toil,
Or waving Ceres; where the bending waste
From the bleak summits of two neighbouring hills
Forms a rude plain; the River comes, at first
Distinguish'd only by the tufted rush,
Or wat'ry cresses, that its course denote
Seen verdant mid the rigid desart brown:
And seldom seen but by the Fowler. He,
With vent'rous foot, the yielding surface treads
From tuft to tuft—he knows the place alone
And shuns the faithless green, that hides below
A treacherous abyss; while, as he toils,
With measured step and slow, his faithful dog
Sedulous amid the marshy covert tries,
And plunges often in—up springs the snipe,
And whirrs on rapid pennon 'gainst the breeze,
Sole habitant of these neglected swamps,
Except the Heron, who perhaps at times
Attracted here for prey, far down the glen,
Beside a clump of flags, silent and still,
Scarcely distinguished by his slender form,
Stands lonely; startled at the deadly sound,
With outstretch'd neck, he rises o'er the fen
With heavy beating wing, unwieldy, slow,
A doubtful burthen on the mountain air,
And then, his lengthened neck into a curve
Contracting, wheels into the middle sky,
And far away he floats, screaming aloft,
Complaining of the bold intruder, man.

Here too, in winter time, from their high course,
(Paying the annual visit Nature prompts)
Descend the Plover and the vagrant tribes,
That yearly migrate hither from the wilds
Of distant Cronium, or the northern coast
Of rough Suevicum, in milder climes
To seek the food their native fields deny.
As yet a slender urn the River pours;
A little nameless rill, that trickles down,
Obscure amid its rudely channel'd bed;
Divided oft in many a slender vein
By the heaped ruin of the mountain flood,
Through which it drips; 'till with collected stream,
It spouts from ridge to ridge, then sinks again
And chafes and murmurs, 'till a smoother bed
Spreads it abroad a silver current clear,
Dimpling along round many a pointed stone,
And shews a lengthened train of broken light;
Then sudden falls into a yawning rift,
And thence escaping, glances rapid down
Compact and smooth; and now on either side
Receives the offered tributes of the hills,
That trickling fall from many a pendent rock
Mid tangling briers that begin to cloathe
Its mossy sides, and oft discoloured seen
By mineral dross from the adjacent ore,
That in the secret chambers of the hill,
Lies far and deep.—Here where the frequent drop,
Has scooped a hollow in the neighbouring rock,
Of old repute the healing spring is found,
Abstergent, whose unfailing pow'r subdues
The slow consuming malady, and lifts,
When other med'cines fail, the wasting wretch
From death.—Hither perhaps in crowds
Throng the pale city nymphs and pining youth,
And from th'salubrious fountain daily quaff
The rosy draught of health.—Nor seldom here,
Love shoots his darts unerring, while the walk,
For exercise advised, is oft prolonged
In tender converse o'er these shrubby hills
Till soft affection rises o'er the soul,
Melts on the lip, and trembles on the tongue,
Known by th'expressive eloquence of eyes
The tender sigh returned and yielding hand,
The mutual spark expands into a flame,
That pity kindled first and gentle care.
Nor is the infant stream, less friendly here
To active industry, on many a mill
He pours his waters, or diverted far
To where the shelving hill invites a fall,
A borrow'd portion from his channel flows;
And fields before unbless'd by nature's hand,
With the refreshing rill or grateful spring,
Welcome the stranger to their arid breasts,
And in the lustre of his little stream
Rejoicing, strew his slender banks with flowers.

The opening glen soon shews, on either hand,
A scene less barren, 'mid the rocks arise,
Of various hues, and sown by Nature's hand,
The mountain shrub, and oaks of lessened growth;
Perhaps ascending from the ancient roots
Of mighty forests, that in times remote,
Embraced in solemn umbrage half our isle,
Beneath whose dark protection dwelt secure,
The savage Wolf, or lawless bandit fierce;
'Till industry, and salutary laws,
Unsheltered both; and made the peasant's cot,
Secure from nightly prowl of man or beast,
And what his hard hand earned in the field,
Gave him to eat in sweet security.

How grateful is the air that breathes around,
From many a scented thorn.—Here let us range
This dubious walk, that winds its erring way
Amid these hazels; whose projecting boughs,
Shall shield my fair from Phœbus' downward ray.
Or let us range the mountain's airy side,
While the fresh breeze, from purer regions blown,
Fans the wild flower, that not with less perfume
Than garden-nurtured plants delicious yield,
With mingled odours, scents the idle heath.
And strawberries of keener flavour pluck,
And brighter glow; whose root no gard'ner trim'd
Protection none bestow'd from the rude blast,
When winter blew his cold ungenial breath;
O'er hill and dale.—Or if far prospect please,
We'll climb the upmost point, and look around,
O'er the diminish'd landscape far and wide;
And sit delighted on some woody steep,
That high o'erlooks the sylvan scene below.

Swell'd to a stream, the river rolls along,
With distant murmurs; intermitting oft,
As dies the breeze; and through the opening glade
Seen restless darting down the hollow dell;
By many a jutting stone retorted, vext,
And wheel'd in circling eddies rapid on,
Now through a sunny visto purls away,
And now, beneath the deep, projected, shade,
Of broken cliffs, with oaks umbrageous crown'd,
Obscurely winds. Let's quit the hilly seat,
(The vale invites us to its verdant shades)
And the cool mazes of the river trace,
Down through its winding course; this crooked path
Descending dark, beneath the leafy cope,
Of trees co-mingling high, their adverse boughs,
Leads to the rural bridge—a storm struck elm,
That lays its ivied trunk from bank to bank,
Recumbent o'er the stream, a giddy pass;
Where with recoiling step, and shrinking form,
Timid retiring from the rugged brink,
The city nymph would fear to venture soft,
Her velvet foot;—though here with nimble pace,
Oft trip her sun-burnt sisters of the vale,
Whether with baskets stowed, or early pails
With balmy steam, they seek the distant town;
Or to the neighbouring fields, the frugal meal,
Bear welcome, to the swains that toiling sweat,
In the red furrow, or the fuming swarth
Of new-mown hay, or stubble widely spread,
With the heaped treasures of the ripened year.

Rude as the rock, and as the prospect wild,
Congenial to the scene, the peasant boy,
Ragged and staring through his bushy locks,
Sits on a mossy crag; with artless line,
From a long osier cast into the deep.
Others more vent'rous climb from steep to steep,
Where bilberries in ripe profusion spread;
By custom bold—

Dark and more solemn now
Grows the wild scene; depending rocks and trees,
And mossy grots, and dripping caverns dank,
Fit habitation as it well may seem,
For rural deities as poets feign;
Dryad or Hemadryad, or rude Faun,
Satyrs, or Naids crown'd with waving sedge;
That dwell in woods, and haunt the secret flood:
Divine retreat for him who loves the muse,
And from the deep confusion of the town,
Loves to retire; and on some mossy bank,
Enjoys the tranquil day, fill'd with the love
Of Nature, and her works; 'till the full tide
Of rapture hurrying through the kindling soul,
Lifts him to Heaven—or with a chosen book,
In pleasing study charms the passing hour;
That like the stream, with never wearying pace,
Slips ceaseless down into that silent vale,
Where ends the progress of all human things.

Here deep forgetful of the busy world,
And all the toiling sons of care and strife,
Let me repose, in woody night retired.
I love the hollow grot, and mossy dell
With wild flowers sweet, and matted foliage fresh;
Where hums th'industrious bee; or pitching rill
With distant roar, through rocky mazes deep,
Soft on the ear with lulling murmur falls.
Lead me ye genii to th'enchanted rock,
Where in speluncal darkness fairies dwell,
And trickling waters chime; where never bathe
The sultry hours, nor red Aurora laves
Her radiant brow; thence let me look abroad
O'er dell and dingle, wood and level lawn,
And furrow'd field, and wildly tangled copse,
And broad high-way, with slowly labouring team;
The distant city, cot, or ruin'd tower,
Or far remote the sea a level line,
Speck'd by the lessen'd barque—the headland bluff
Stretching a dusky length, or shining bay
Or narrow frith, or harbour thickly thronged
With the black ships of war; from whose long sides
The far exploded guns are scarcely heard;
Or inland mountain dim, with summit blue
A doubtful object, mingling with the clouds.
O'er all the wide extended prospect round
Let my eye wander in delighted gaze,
From the small rill that murmurs at my foot,
To where the soft horizon meets the sky:
And see the river wandering far away,
Through sun, and shade, with peopled bank or bare,
Verdant or brown, with hurried course or slow,
Abrupt or smooth, in all its various forms;
And there unenvious of the glare of courts,
All the bright noon I'd tune my rural pipe;
And sing the river as it flows along.

Grown into force by many a gurgling brook,
That from the hanging woods precipitates
Into its channel, the determined stream
A bolder tone assumes, and white with foam,
As intervening rocks obstruct its course,
With oft refracted current hoarse and deep,
Involved, distracted, in a raging gulf,
It boils and swells, 'till with irruption quick,
And force resistless hurrying furious on,
Down through a rugged gap it wildly pours,
With deaf'ning uproar to the vale below,
The vale below, the grots and hollow caves,
Within their deep recesses seem to groan;
And down the dale the agitated stream,
Still frets fermenting o'er its gravell'd bed.

Now see beyond yon ivied arch where wide,
Over its sandy floor the river spreads,
Into a shoal, and ripples in its course.
There the mute angler o'er the pebly brim,
Close where the shallowing river forms a strand,
Stands patient, hopeful of the scaly prize,
Eying the gilded fraud with skilful glance:
While from his hand bends the long pliant rod,
Artfully tremulous; rewarding well
His toil, if Phœbus hide his burning head
In friendly clouds; but if with ardent beam
He furious shine, and brighten every rill,
Vain task indeed, to whip the spangling stream.
With fruitless line toss'd idly—but at eve
Let the keen angler stand beside the deep,
And throw the shining beetle silent in,
Or the grey hooded moth with mealy wings,
Not thrown in vain, which with a bulky prey
Sends him home joyous, if no sad mischance
Attend his labours; for the line o'erstrained
By the unusual burthen, often snaps,
And leaves the vacant rod; or worse mishap
The rod itself gives way, and half remains
A useless staff—awhile the angler stands
In silent wishful gaze upon the spot,
Where sunk his hopes; then homeward sadly turns
With slow, reluctant step, and to the friend
That meets him on the way, relates his loss
With great exaggeration.------

But of all
Who search the fruitful river, cruel they
Who in the peopled current murderous throw
The slacking lime; destructive to the race
That breathe the running brook, or standing lake.
Seized in his gravelly bed, beneath the shade
Of waving sedge, the trout with yellow gill,
Swell'd by the poisonous suffocating draught,
In many a circle wildly hurrying dies,
And turns his gold side glistening to the sun.
Ev'n in his friendly mud the writhed eel
The subtile venom feels, and lies at length
Bloated and stiff beneath his native pool.
The river whitens thro' its distant streams,
And all the finny multitude expires.

And O forbear! ye rural swains to lay
The banded flax, beneath the wholesome wave;
As deleterious to the scaly tribe,
And mortal where so e'er its influence spreads:
But wisely in the quaggy hole, or fen,
Much more appropriate, steep the valued swarth;
So shall the river to your board bestow,
In season due a plentiful supply.

Not distant hence amid the broad brown flags
Disposed in measured pace across the stream
(Trod' by the villagers with unwet hose)
Brawls the wide ford, a safe and certain pass
When summer suns have drank the mountain rills
But when black wintry clouds involve the peaks
Of yon high hills and their bleak sides invest
With rolling volumes, dangerous is the way
And dreadful roars the tawny torrent down
And frequent from the haggart or the field
Bears off the sheafy treasures of the year
And mows of hoarded hay, and trees uptorn
Though rooted deep and wide, an age's growth;
With implements of husbandry; and leaves
The stubbled plain and copse and verdant close
A sandy waste for many an acre round.
The bank feels most its fury, and resigns
Its grassy margins to the impetuous flood;
Cut from below it crumbles headlong in
Narrowing the velvet glebe, freckled with flow'rs
And willows green, that love to kiss the stream,
Narcissus like with ever bending head.

Yet not unfrequent in the summer time,
Swell'd by the upland show'r, the river mounts
With sudden rage, and on the bank perplex'd
The disappointed traveller leaves to mourn
Or measure back a long and tedious way.
But ah! the hapless tale, I heard it oft
From the sad shepherds who remember well
The tragic scene, and still relate with tears,
Of Randal and his lovely Anna's fate.

Where yonder solitary mansion lifts
Its cheerless walls, beside yon woody knoll,
There dwelt a man of wealth and generous fame,
His name was Alford. From his bounteous board
And ready hand the wretched never turned
Uncherished, honoured by the country round,
Rich in the favour of the great and good
And blessings of the poor, he led a life
Of primal innocence and rural ease,
'Till time had crown'd his reverend brows with snow.
One only son he had, his dearest hope,
The youthful image of his father's worth,
A form in manly grace excelled by none,
A mind enriched with every gentle art
And polished manners—Randal was his name.
From earliest youth he loved a gentle maid,
The humble offspring of a rural pair,
Who in the neighbouring fields laborious earn'd,
In frugal living for their darling child,
A competence in flocks and country geer.
To wed her, suited to their simple views,
To some industrious swain, and die content,
Their only hope and dearest wish on earth.
She, lovely maid, was by an aged dame,
Who hereby dwell'd, train'd up in virtue's school,
Where Randal often came, two lovelier sure
Ne'er met—in childish play their hours they spent,
Attachment ripen'd with their opening charms,
'Till infant friendship kindled into love.
She now was in the blush and prime of youth,
And bless'd her parents' cot, the sweetest flower
That in this valley grew, the village pride;
The subject she of every ditty rude
Tuned artless by the uncouth country swains,
And object of each brutal squire's address;
But she for Randal felt an equal flame
That with loves' brightest, truest lustre burn'd.
Their plighted faith was given, and the vow,
The sacred vow beyond all earthly ties
Of endless love and firm unshaken truth,
And each with mutual ardor wish'd the morn
Was but arrived, that would their union seal,
And sanctify their bliss.—But hope deceives—
Old Alford saw the fond attachment grow,
And, in his mind, the pride of ancestry
Arising pain'd his thoughts, lest he might see
His ancient line dishonour'd. To his son
One morn he gave the fatal interdiction,
And Randal must no more his Anna see—
A father's mandate—In his generous soul
Conflicting love and duty furious strove,
Unequal strife—he mourn'd in solitude,
And to yon wood he pour'd his sorrows forth,
For one whole day heard by the passing hind;
Thrown mournful on the mossy margent green
Of lonely rill, or 'neath embow'ring folds
Of over hanging boughs, deep sunk in woe,
And listless of the birds that warbled near.
At length to this resolve he came, once more
To see his love and in her gentle ear
Himself to pour the melancholy news
And with what argument he might devise,
Prepare her to endure the heavy tale;
While hope still whispered, Alford yet may look
More kindly on their love. Borne by the thought
Beyond the present ill, his bounding heart
Leap'd forward to the rosy prospect sweet
Of future days, with clear and cloudless skies,
Uninterrupted love and endless joy.
Soon as the morn, beneath the crimson folds
Of the proud curtain'd east, look'd forth and all
The verdant hills and every blossom'd spray
With trembling lustre bright of orient gems
Seem'd full of life and joy, and thro' the woods
From many a sylvan pipe the natural hymn
Of gratitude arose to him, whose hand
Gives change of day and night and wet and dry,
And when the ravage of the wintry winds
Has strip'd the bow'rs, and laid the forests bare,
Who with unceasing fond, parental care,
Returning still recloathes the naked year.

With the first beam, after a restless night,
Randal arose, as was his custom oft,
To rural sports, and to his love he hastes—
All day they wander'd o'er the usual walks
In converse fond thro' the dark covering grove,
Or winding thicket green, or bushy copse,
The witnesses of many a tender scene,
Nor thought of parting 'till the purple clouds
Of evening streaked the west, when Randal sad,
While from his swelling heart the frequent sigh
Resistless burst, the heavy tidings told.
How both then felt who shall in verse describe,
Vain task—lock'd silent in each others arms;
Long time they stood—and seemed as they had vowed
They never more would part—but part they must;
Pale eve arose, and with her came thick clouds,
Portending storm and rain, that now to fall
In thickening mist began, sealed with a kiss
The mutual pledge they gave of endless love,
And parted—she to her humble home in tears,
He to'rd his father's house went sad and slow.

Ah! little thought she with that parting kiss
She gave the last adieu—the morrow came
And on the bank, known by the village boys,
The faithful dog that followed Randal's heel,
Sat howling—soon amid the hamlet ran
The horrible surmise, confirmed quick
By the youth's absence; all along the banks
The mournful rusticks try with ceaseless toil,
And mingling words of woe ingenuous pour'd,
From out the sedgy pool at length redeem,
His stiffen'd corse—The lovely maid survived
The dreadful shock, but reason fled with hope.
Long o'er these banks with frantic gestures wild,
Or moping mid the rushy moors alone,
A poor crazed wretch she pined, till death's kind call
Released her from her woes.—How often thus
The sweetest wreaths that love and nature twine,
By some rude shock are rent, some mortal stroke.
How often too, when in the rosy hours
Of youth and innocence the tender shaft
Has pierced two gentle corresponding hearts,
Though ev'ry hope is smiling sweet, and joy
Shaking his purple wings their steps attend,
Parents averse their childrens' ruin seal.

Now turn and let the tender tear subside,
That pity wou'd bestow on hapless love
And look beyond to that rude scene of mirth,
Under the covert of a woody cragg,
From whose rough side the ready current springs
Upon the wheel below, that all day long
Turn'd ceaseless, now the day's whole task is done,
The silent mill no more obeys the stream,
And see from every side the villagers
Come glad to taste the evening pastime blithe
And dance upon the green; for ancient Hodge
Can scrape a jarring string to which the heel
Of many a nymyh has bounded in the days
Long past, or bidden from his distant home
Full many a dusty mile the minstrel comes.
He, hoary-headed man from early youth
Deprived the blessed light, assumed the pipe
Unfit for toil, his only refuge now,
And refuge not despised, amid the swains
From pinching want in his declining years.

With head erect and placid brow serene
Led by some friendly hand he takes his seat
Amid the jocund ring, most honour'd guest,
And in his hand by some distinguished fair
The mantling cup is placed—and soon refreshed
Forth with a careful hand he slowly draws
The shining tubes, whose wild sonorous voice,
When heard, suspends their loud loquacious glee,
Or interrupts the bashful lover's tale
Then first with awkward air and fault'ring speech,
Whisper'd into the blushing damsel's ear
Who with affected coy indifference
Or plaits her kerchief or adjusts her hair,
A vain disguise.—And now with ready spring,
Soon as the droney lilt is heard, all rise,
With sudden joy inspired, and jig along
Sounding the level glebe, with many a jirk
And uncouth gesture, while adown their cheeks
Flushed with the glow of health, the trickling dew
Runs frequent, while the laugh sincere and roar
Of unfeigned merriment re-echoes round.
Or wearied with the long laborious joy
The tuneful sage invokes a graver muse
And gives the ancient strain that roused the chiefs
Of other days—the battle rages now
And horrid tumult with the mingled groans
Of dying foes, kerns and gallowglasses
Mixed in the fiery front of cruel war
Septs pouring on the field in all the rage
Of family dissention kindled fell
Through wide extended consanguinity.

Or warm'd with the gen'rous draught resigns anon
The martial strain, and with an alter'd hand
Of love pours out the soft and melting lay
As best he can.—Love is his master strain,
Confess'd by mute attention leaning round
In fond enjoyment rapt. Not more regard
A British audience pays, nor more applause,
When in their theatres assembled full,
Or in Westminster's awful dome to hear
Sublimest Handel's seraph song divine,
Haydn's true air, or Pleyel's melodies
Oft on the willing ear returning sweet,
Through the quick maze of modulated sound,
Withheld to fall more grateful on the sense,
If Yanowitz impetuous sweep the string,
Or Ashe run out the long and learn'd strain.

Such are the pleasures rural swains enjoy
When labour yields to rest its portion due
Sweet is the hour of rest, the joys how sweet
Of rural dance, and all the village sports
By toil enhanced. Happy their humble lot
How happy, did they know the bliss to live
Unburthen'd with the cares the great attend,
Ah! would they ne'er disturb their tranquil lives
With speculations wild, by restless men,
Into their simple and ingenuous minds
Instilled; their state were enviable sure:
All are not born to rule; that arduous task
Few can assume, and while the peasant feels
His life and property, his dearest rights
Guarded 'gainst plunder or oppressive force,
Ev'n with the proud and rich—why ask he then
Who wields the sceptre and who wears the crown?

The river now a more majestic form
Assumes, the valley widens, and the hills
(Cloathed with verdant groves, whose bowering skirts
Oft to the banks extend, and o'er the wave
Stretch their umbrageous boughs) with many a cot
And whitened villa animated smile.
Swept into bays the river winds along,
Full to its margin, fringed with blossom'd herbs
Of luscious fume, and many a wat'ry flower
Sweet smelling mint and all the various bloom,
That crowns the bank and scents the summer breeze,
And stately reed in clusters rising thick
Like firm compacted cohorts in the fields
Of ancient battle ranged; Actium or Cannæ,
Or Philippi, which after ages saw
White with the bones of heroes; or that plain
Pharsalia, dreadful scene of civil strife,
Roman 'gainst Roman fired, O! may such sight
Be absent long, nor sound of trump or steel
Disturb my native soil, in fruitful hills
And verdant vales unrivall'd, and a race
With hands more prompt to lift the ready latch
To wandering wretch, or hungry traveller,
Than point the deadly gun or gleaming spear,
Yet when in arms to check a foreign foe,
Or guard their native coast from the approach
Of hostile navies, in the fight excell'd
By none of arctic or of southern clime.

Now scarce a breeze with light ætherial wing
Ruffles the limpid space, undimpled, smooth
Except by yonder jutting bank o'er hung
With waving verdure, where the Paphian bird,
Close to his snowy mate, with neck recurved,
Sails proudly, while around them play secure
The dusky cygnets, or 'mid her downy wings
Borne by the watchful parent bird, repose.
Or from the rushy covert sudden flushed
The moor-hen flutters wild, by city youth
Pursued inglorious, while within the shade
Her infant brood's concealed; forbear such sport.
And learn ye giddy swains more manly play,
And in such season, cease with cruel hand
To persecute the harmless feather'd race.

Now after many a sweep amid the vales
Through dark brown forests, fields, and grassy downs
By castled eminence, and shepherd's cot,
Wide and more wide the opening river spreads
Into a lake, border'd with hanging woods
And rocks sublime, crag above crag emboss'd
With native shrubs, the free spontaneous growth
Of this rude garden, intermingling hues
As various as their kinds, with fruit and flow'r
Diversely hung, a wildly varied scene,
With pipe of many a bird, and dash of rills
Heard far within, with lulling murmur soft
Gurgling through mossy grots, or trickling chill
Down the green brow of some projecting cliff,
Brought on the breeze—while far behind uplift
Rough mountains vast their cheerless summits gray
Above the vegetable world upraised,
Naked, and wan, into the keener air,
While round their vast foundations dark, and dread,
The forest deepens into solemn shade,
Beneath the concave still of spreading oaks
Thick'ning on ev'ry side for ages, wide
Wood beyond Wood descried, a brown expance,
Mid whose sequester'd dells, the rural swain
The wild path wanders oft, at fervid noon,
And winds its dark intricacies, amused
To pluck the hanging filbert from the spray,
Or lies along beneath the ancient elm,
Whose ivied trunk leans o'er the brook below,
With cool clear stream that 'neath the hanging cope
Of verdant osiers trickles through the shade,
Wooing soft echo on his sylvan pipe,
'Till evening veils the woods in deeper gloom,
And o'er the landscape sheds a sober grey,
Through which at distance rises straight and thin
The long blue smoak from the lone cotter's hearth,
Sunk in the bosom of a silent vale,
There he, in hoary age, his scanty fare
Digs from a patch, his aged hand has till'd,
And drinks the stream—his only company
A little homely cat, his trade to range
The hollow mazes of the neighbouring woods,
From whence the withered stick he daily brings
Collected mindful of the winter's fire.

O! there were days, when, in such scenes as these,
I've roved unmindful of the times to come,
And rob'd the sycamore, or willow green,
Of many a pipe, nor even thought, that age
Followed my steps, and in Elisium lost
Went on from dell to dell, from bow'r to bow'r,
And felt a rapture, yet knew not from whence
The rapture flowed—O! nature 'twas from thee,
Thou and thy works my early childhood pleased,
Soothed my youth (when many a frowning care
Sat by my pillow when I should have slept
And bade me wake;) and taught me first to sing.
Shall I forget thee nature in my song?
No—when in green thou walk'st the dewy lawn,
Or crown'd with roses sit'st in summer's shade,
When heavy harvests load the yellow fields,
Or winter houls the withered groves among.

Is there a man who never feels a calm
And peaceful joy, o'er his expanding soul,
Steal grateful, while, within the umbrage cool
Of woodland dingle by the wild brook side,
He strays remote—Ah! no, in scenes like these
The soul disburthened leaves the world behind,
Its cares, its tumults, and its various wiles,
And feels, with conscious dignity, awake
The finer passions—every grosser thought
Subsiding, as superior wishes rise;
With honor, friendship, charity, and love,
The heart dilating spreads its fibres forth
And unrestrained embraces all mankind.

What sounds are these deep echoed through the glens
With oft repeated stroke?—yon vista tells,
So lately canopied with living oaks,
It is the axe lays waste the sylvan scene,
And sweeps relentless through its green domains:
Tree after tree submits—the frequent fall
Loud rustling through the kindred branches tells
How wide the devastation—Hovering o'er
In many a circle, hark! the clam'rous rooks
Ask for their wonted seat and scarcely know
Their ancient home; now levell'd with the earth
On every side the prostrate ruins lie,
Never to wave again their leafy heads,
Or yield a covert to the feathered choir,
Who now, with broken song remote and shy,
Seek other bowers, their native branches gone.

Heard in the murmur of yon mountain stream,
Methinks, the sylvan beings seem to chide
And mourn their wonted shades—their wonted shades
The Naiads weep, while round their oozey locks
The wild flowers wither and their azure breasts
They shew reluctant to th'obtrusive day,
And many a silver-footed rill obscure,
That ran a cool course tinkling down the dells,
Vocal no more, resigns her chrystal urn,
And leaves her channel dry, forbear, forbear
And spare my bowers, the woodland genius cries
But cries in vain, the greedy thirst of ore,
To furnish follies in a foreign land,
Strips with rapacious hand these oak-crown'd hills,
Disrobes the vales and denudates the Plain.

From the rough forehead of yon frowning steep
Whitens the Cataract, scarce heard from hence,
But nearer seen, tremendous gushing down
From ragged precipice disgorged amain,
Shaking the solid hill There let the mind
Expand in contemplation, and contemn
Man's little efforts. Mid these awful scenes—
In these dread walks impassable to men,
In solitude sublime, remote, retired
The God of Nature moves, confess'd to those
Who seek him in his works, and bowing feel
His guiding hand perform the varied whole.

O! let me ne'er forget, as oft I stray
By hill or forest, flowery field or vale,
By headlong torrent wild, or lucid rill
That licks the rosy verge of some rich lawn,
Or hurries babbling down a shrubby dell,
Or by the woodland stream or mountain rill
Along their vagrant courses musing fond
Whose works they are, nor fail in homage due
To him who made, designed, and orders all.

Who can behold that book which Nature spreads
Open to all, and not desire to read?
Who through the fields the forests and the hills,
Or varying river-side with pleasures full
Can stray unheedful of the lessons wise
She writes on every bush, on every bell
That opes its dewy eyelids to the morn,
And every lowly offspring of the plains
The reptile moss, or blade of humble grass
That cloathes the earth with verdant mantle bright?
O! thou whose finger traced the wond'rous whole
Who bade it live, and saw that all was good,
In these, thy tender providence is seen,
As in thy mightiest and most perfect work.
Where e'er I turn thou art, moving or still,
Vocal or silent, nature displays thy power,
And shews thy hand in all her various forms:
Whether ascending in the cheerful east
She paints the morn with vivid colours clear,
Displays at noon her full expanded glow
Of blushing sweets, and every varied life
O'er Evening spreads her dewy mantle grey,
Or bids the night with stellar radiance shine.

Past this rough hill, the landscape softens down,
And, through a long retiring visto far,
Placid and smooth the copious river winds,
And shews remote his silver current clear,
In many a curve along the fruitful vale,
'Till lost amid the blended tints obscure,
Of airy distance thin, he disappears.

On his green sides delicious prospects rise,
O'er which, the wandering sense delighted strays,
After yon wild tumultuous scene, and now
On either hand unfolds the milder view
Perhaps of lordly habitation rich
With grove and garden gay, and fruited wall,
And many a sculptured marble mocking life
From Greek or Roman models copied fair
Laacoon distressing sight, Discobollus,
Or dying Gladiator, Mars, or Jove
With lifted bolt: Phœbus or Dian fair,
Or that transcendant form, art's proudest boast,
So soften'd sweet to beauty's tenderest mould
The luscious swell of youth, and melting look
Of Feminine perfection, justly call'd
The queen of beauty, beauty's standard fair;
With many a hero sage and demigod
Reviving in the mind the precious lore
Of classic page—the old Athenian flame
And all the glory of the Roman state.

Or farther on, the farmer's humble thatch—
Fallow and stubble, with the busy toil
Of labouring plow, held by the patient hand
Of hoary peasant; and the various cares
And homely business of a country life;
With slopes of verdant pasture, clustered thick
With tinkling flocks, and herds of lowing kine,
A pastoral scene; or paddock square, enclosed
With sheltering hedges 'gainst the summer sun
Or wintry blast; and widely wall'd domain
Shut from the husbandman, a proud display
With deer emparked. Close on the velvet marge,
On a rich glebe, reflected from the deep,
Embraced with shadow'y elms and sycamore
With ivy bound, a venerable pile
Lifts its sharp pointed ruins, once the seat
Of Monkish ease, and dark religious pomp.
There many an antique monument is found,
Illegible and faithless to its charge,
That deep insculped once held in measured phrase
The mighty acts of those who sleep below,
And many an uncouth shapeless figure grim,
Rude effigies of heroes dead of yore,
Or sage and letter'd saints whose pious hands
Those ponderous masses raised—forgotten now
They and their monuments alike repose—

How vain is man—how feeble in his works,
How ineffectual all his proud attempts
To stop progressive ruin, or uphold
What hourly still decays, as with the tooth
Of canker eaten—fleeting as a shade—
Wasting ere well begun. Ah! what avails
The arch sublime, or graceful colonade,
The marble porch, or heav'n-aspiring dome,
That art its powers exhausted to adorn—
Ah! who untouch'd for man's uncertain state
Can contemplate the remnant of thy pride,
Fall'n Tadmor, once how great, thy pillard length
Lies like a skeleton, the naked frame
Of what once lived, now bleaching in the waste
And sandy desart, and by those who dwell
Amid thy fragments, all thy fame unknown.
Where now is Babylon, the mighty city,
The Pyramids who raised them, or can tell
Whether by Chemmis or Cephrenes heap'd,
Or Cheops who his Daughter's honor sold?
They once were kings. The merest bending slave
That bow'd beneath his weight, whose mandate call'd
A nation to the toil, now occupies
As large a portion of his mother earth
And sleeps as undisturbed.—Persepolis,
Where art thou?—tell ye patient men
Who penetrate (with honest hope to add
To human knowledge) these deserted climes.
How small a portion now remains of thee
To tell how great thou wast—the silent tomb,
Of many a buried name—sages and chiefs,
Men great and good, the patrons kind of art,
Friends to the muses, lovers of mankind,
With souls that felt for ev'ry creatures' woe,
Howards of ancient times, the raptur'd bard
High favour'd by the muse, and meek to bear
The frowns of fortune and unworthy men,
The sneer of envy and the scoff of fools
And all, that bare-faced ignorance presumes,
In pleasing contemplation of the wreath
Posterity might hang upon his tomb.
Though the bright flame of sacred poesy
Illumines modern days, and what the bards
Of oldest times have built in mighty verse
Endures the wreck of states, a monument
That time spares longest of the works of men;
And part outlived the fierce devouring rage
Of that fell crew which in the barbarous times
Of Gothick night, o'erthrew the learned world,
And made a desart of that Garden fair,
Where dwelt the muses, and profan'd their bow'rs
With impious bloodshed and the clank of steel;
Yet those the few who touch the sacred lyre
Gifted by Heav'n to feel above mankind,
With that angelick energy of soul
And wide extended mind, embracing quick,
As with a view, all nature and her works,
Ev'n those at last reluctant time consigns
To chill oblivion—All the pride of rule,
The pomp of triumph and the laurel wreath,
Pluck'd in the sanguin'd field, ev'n in the roar
Of half a world's applause, at last must fail
Though every hero had a muse to sing,
And to his valour raise the epic strain.

Where are your trophies all, ye mighty men,
Banners and 'scutcheons, cenotaphs, and arms
Wrested from foes in battle? Do they lie
Oft in a corner of some ruin'd pile,
A prey to damps and coated o'er with moss,
That hide your titles, fragile to the touch
Of curious finger, that perhaps may try
Once in an age, those antique characters,
And rudely chissel'd cyphers to explore;
Perhaps in vain! yes poor Ephemera
This is the end of all your hoped applause
To lie forgotten—but be not appal'd
The world can give no more, its gifts are sands
That fly as veers the blast—be bold as Mars
Strong as Alcides, and as Pallas wise,
Graceful as Pæan, or as Hebe fair,
With all allurements mind or body give,
The memory of your fame has its decline
And dies at last.—dare to be virtuous then,
And look above this perishable mass,
This ever changing round that hourly feeds
Upon itself, discharging from its womb
Its future food—despise what earth can give
And fix upon that crown a steady eye,
That patient suffering and unshaken faith
Receive above the clouds, nor heed when death
Shall number thine amid the names that sleep
To be forgotten by the busy world,
Or in a Season, or a thousand years.

This solemn gloom and aweful stillness prompt
To serious thought, and these poor dumb remains
Bleached by the wint'ry blast and vernal show'r,
In many a heap, or cast promiscuous round,
Teach serious lessons of mortality:
For who so lost in levity but feels
To see the shell, where glow'd the luscious lip
And speaking eye—where dwelt the dulcid tongue,
The brow that might deserve the muse's wreath,
From whence the soft redundant tresses fell
Around the iv'ry neck, perhaps beneath
The awkward pressure of the peasant's heel.

Who can suppress the sigh for those that were,
While from the mossy stone he looks around
Upon the relicks of those distant days.
Here lie the bones that once the revel string
Stir'd into graceful action, or the trump
Sent tow'ring to the field in rattling steel,
The mighty arm no more determined fierce
Aims the decisive blow—they now are hush'd
And sleep unconscious in their narrow beds.

'Tis evening still, and oe'r the liquid plain
Scarce stirs a breeze—a general repose
Throughout all nature reigns and not a leaf
Rustles above. Gilt by the setting sun
These reverend tow'rs and antique columns grey
A short lived glory share. Behold within,
While through yon ivied window's solemn arch
With sculpture rich and ancient tracery
He shoots his latest beam, and sudden lights
The hollow nave,—how dreary is the scene,
How silent, save the cry of that dull bird,
Who loves in sad sepulchral gloom to dwell,
Now perch'd on yonder marble chief reclined,
Frowning in arms and coat of pond'rous mail,
That marks the spot where some old Baron lies,
The terror once of many a district round.
These tottering walls with hoary moss o'ergrown
Are now unvocal and their echoes sleep,
(Where once the solemn service closed the day
And many a voice sonorous fill'd the choir)
Save when some crumbling arch by time o'erthrown
Down rushes thundering and awakes them all.

Methinks I see the pious brotherhood
Pass slowly by, in all the pageant form
Of ancient worship—hark, now how they swell
The ves'pral hymn—from many a pillar'd aisle
And long withdrawing vault repeated soft,
So unlike human that it almost seems
The voices of departed souls, as down
From the dim height of these tall sculptured groins
It falls co-mingling with the ev'ning breeze
That sighs abroad. And now th'expected bell
Toll'd from the lofty tow'r proclaims the time
For meet refreshment, soon they joyous fill
The long refectory, while at the board
Some learned stranger shares the plenteous feast,
Whose travell'd eye, through many a foreign clime,
Had seen whatever ancient art could boast
Or modern; and had made from long research
His mind a volume fill'd with varied store
Of useful knowledge gleaned from books and men.
And as they quaff, of classick lore they talk
Of wisest Horace, Maro's strain divine
Laborious Juvenal, or Persius dark,
Or Ovid's amorous verse, while youthful days
And joys remember'd kindle every soul,
And social mirth illumes the festive board.

Now all is past, and desolation drear
Usurps the scene, and o'er the sacred fane
Sits dumb oblivion with her raven wings
Wrapping in envious shades the records dim
Of other days. But still the grateful muse
Remembers fond, that those were men, whose care
Foster'd in days when ignorance prevailed
The sacred lessons of the bards of yore,
And gave the precious models to our view
Of ancient song. Now let us look abroad
Under Eve's shadowy veil how doubly sweet
The varied scene, melting to softer hues
The hills and dales their colours blend serene
In one grey mass. Sweet is the red-breast's song
From yonder thorn—sad through the elm-grove shade
The wood-quest moans,—the rail with tuneless voice
Creaks in the meadows and deludes the youth
That follows idly through the dewy grass.
Sweet is the walk that winds along the stream,
Now white with hoary mists, and dimpl'd oft
By many a trout, and shews within its wave
Bright Hesper's star. But see the thick'ning gloom
Falls fast on all around, and wood and lawn,
The smoking cot and distant village spire,
And tower and lowly hut are lost in shade,
'Till the pale-visaged moon ascending broad
Shoots through yon arches deep her sallow beam,
And gives the ivied wall and nodding porch
A broader shadow. Then as the gossips tell
The shrouded ghost forsakes its earthy bed,
And, in the moonlight, glide such lurid forms
As haunt the pillow of the brain-sick wretch,
Whose tortur'd mind conceals some horrid deed
Such as Anselmo's, who, as legends tell,
Once in these cloisters lived an austere life
Recluse, and on his pale emaciate frame
Inflicted nightly stripes to expiate
A friend deceived and his dishonored bride.

In ancient times, when hot religious zeal
Drew many a knight to Palestine's domains,
To honor God by shedding pagan blood.
(More honour'd far who is the prince of peace
By deeds of mercy and restraint of war,
Philanthropy for all the sons of earth
And brotherly affection.) When the flame
Romantic caught from breast to breast, through all
United Christendom, her prowest knights
Assembled to redeem the holy land
And shield the pilgrim from the barb'rous hands
Of Paynim, and the sacred sepulchre
To make accessible to pious feet
There journeying bare, and at the madning call
Of furious zeal a thousand banners rose.
Forward in arms amid the rooded knights
Was Arnold, who prepared with hasty sail
To join the fleet, and but one tie he had
That held him back—love, that conflicting long
Gave way to martial glory, and with tears
To his dear friend Anselmo he consign'd
The fair Emilia fresh in beauty's prime:
When I am gone, the youthful warrior said,
Visit her frequent, and with words of sense
(For such you have) support my weeping love,
And bid her not despond, for soon returned,
Perhaps with honor crowned, she shall behold
Her Arnold; but if not, in heav'n's great cause
In Syria's land I lie, and she shall hear
That no dishonor mark'd my early fall

He sailed away, Anselmo frequent came,
And, as he promised, in the damsel's ear
Pour'd counsel sage, and from her lovely cheek
Wip'd many a tear—but as his eager eye
So often dwelt upon her blooming charms,
Desire enfuriate in his breast arose,
Which unsuspecting confidence, and all
The solitary hours so often gain'd
In her sweet converse, cherish'd, till at length
The time inviting to the treacherous deed,
The struggling nymph he seized with brutal force,
Assistance far, and he who should defend
The weeping fair, himself the ravisher,
He ruin'd what he kept and fled for shame.
Not long she lived to weep her honour's stain,
Nor was he heard of till the news arrived
Of Arnold's death, then in yon holy house
He took a vow of never ceasing prayer
And penance for his guilt, and now 'tis said
(But few believe) that still at that sad time
Whereon he broke his faith and wrong'd his friend,
Thrice round these dreary aisles his tortur'd spright
With scorpion whips, lashed by its own fell hand
Flies screaming.—

Here mid these copses and the breezy brow
Of yon high hill, whose chequer'd sides display
A cheering scene, for many a mile outspread,
Of stubble-land and lawn and fallow brown;
Soon as the morn, with chilly fingers dank,
Puts back the sallow curtains of the east,
And lets the fulgent brow of Phœbus forth,
Crown'd orient with the golden wreaths of light
And radient beams; roused by the distant call
Of hunters mustering on the dewy hills,
The stag now flies, and all the mingled roar
Of sylvan sport is up, and to the cry
The wild wood answers through her hollow glades
And deep recesses. Lured from the early plow
The rusticks join the shout from many a rock,
Eager to catch a glance, and the wild joy
Ardent participate, while wide around
The village curs bark idly. Far below
In the soft bosom of a velvet lawn
Beneath a clump of elms, the social set
Their rural seat have fixt: The hamper swells,
With choicest meat and flasks of mellow wine,
The ready fire of russet leaves and boughs
At distance kindles, while with busy hands
The net is opened long and on the lake,
Drawn circular up to the sandy bay,
A numerous draught contains; the salmon strikes
And the oft-sinking cork declares the prize,
The luscious tench and carp and spangled trout
And eel convolved in many a slimy wreath
Are all an easy prey: While from the sun
Through the cool groves with many a song amused
The gentle fair the while delighted stray,
Along the devious bank by prattling rill,
Or winding fond the dark intricate maze
Of woodman's path through sylvan alleys brown
They pluck the simple bell, transcending oft
The garden's proudest boast by Britons sought
In wet Batavia. One retiring far,
(Perhaps of museful cast, or sick in love)
Into the lonely shade, seeks out the seat
Close by the weeping rock, from whose green side
Drops liquid crystal down, and on the moss
Sunk into thought of one at distance then,
Perhaps for Britain, on some foreign shore
Far fighting; in her soul the image dear
She cherishes, nor other converse needs
And hears, the solitary minstrel nigh,
The red-breast, sweetest of the feather'd tribe,
Warble his trickling cadence—sadly pleased
With that congenial musick, till the hour
Approaching for repast the straggling guests
Calls to the appointed shade; where spread at large
The feast invites the ready appetite
By exercise and the fresh air made sharp;
And there they sit beside the lucid lake,
While the long day is spent in social mirth
And harmony, till the gray slipper'd eve
Comes with her humid hand o'er bourne and brake,
Sprinkling abroad her dews, and the sunk sun
Sets crimson in the west; then to the town,
(Full of the pleasures of a rural life,)
Returned they mingle in the crowd again.

But not to every stream nor ev'ry clime
Is given to share those calm secure delights;
Nor is each verdant bank, or cooling rill,
The scene of social mirth, or rural joy.
Nature great parent in dispensing round,
To men who use them ill, her precious gifts,
Gives not to all alike; nor heaps on one
Leaving another bare. With gold or pearl
She blesses some, and gives another grain,
Iv'ry, or gems; a burning atmosphere
To rich Golconda and a race of slaves,
To Britain temperate skies and liberty!
O lovely goddess! let us see thee still
Not with thy flying locks and wild deport,
As those would have thee who mistake thy form,
But filleted with roses, and thy hand
Without a dagger, and unstained with blood.

If from these scenes, where first my song was heard
Murmur'd obscure along the silver Lee
When for Anthea I essayed to blow
An humble reed and blush'd and play'd by turns,
Ah! conscious of the arduous task I took
With youthful hand to touch the dorick pipe—
If from these scenes, these scenes for ever dear,
The muse should fly beyond th'Atlantic waste
To where within the burning tropicks pant
The scorching natives, by the torrid streams
Of Amasuma or Catua wild,
That to the Amazonian torrent pour
Their tributary urns—there oft appal'd
The traveller starts at every rustling bough,
Whose shade conceals some savage beast of prey,
Or savage man more dreadful in his rage
Than bear, or brinded ounce, tyger, or pard.
Or where Indostan spreads her woody vales
By Wasset's shady banks, who fearless strays,
Or, tempts her twilight groves with dangers full
From the wild tenants of her trackless dells
Or scaly serpents hid beneath the shade
Of many a flowery tuft, or shrubby bower
In bloated volumes roll'd with deadly eye
Fixt steadfast glaring on the destined prey,
Or stretch'd at length beneath the burning noon
Prepar'd to strike with dread envenom'd fang.

Still is his hapless fall by Britons mourned,
The generous youth, who vent'rous wand'ring near,
The fatal jungle by the dreadful fangs
Of a brute monster died; in vain his friend
To save him levell'd the destroying tube,
And with true aim the deadly bullet sent,
In vain the howling savage dropt his prey
Delivered only from the bleeding foe
To thank his brave companion and expire.
How many a stream whose wild sequester'd banks,
Untrodden by the feet of man or beast,
Through wood and horrid brake impenetrable,
Or faithless quagg extend for many a league,
Where in primeval shade, unheard, unseen,
Roars the wild torrent, mid the tangling wreck
Of woods long sever'd from its hoary sides:
How many too deserted, once the seat
Of every sweet the shepherd's life bestows
And not unvocal to the muse's song,
Where are ye fled ye blest Arcadian days,
When, in the verdant lap of past'ral bliss,
You nursed a harmless race, far from the sound
Of war and strife, amid the shelt'ring bow'rs
Of spreading palms, to tend their flocks, or blow
Unstudied melody from jointed reeds
To soothe the hours or please the listening fair.
Where are your maids, in nature's softest mould,
Cast exquisite in ev'ry polish'd limb,
With ev'ry feminine and winning grace
Illumin'd cheek and luscious melting lip,
And all the sweet intelligence of eye
And locks luxuriant waving on the breeze
In dark redundant tresses floating soft
Tho' unimproved by art, adorned the more
By nature's hand, with charms unspeakable,
To hold the heart in love's delicious bonds
Entangled, fluttering, yet averse to fly
From such captivity. Ah! gone indeed,
And what a blank remains. A deadly sleep
Lies heavy o'er the land, where first the muse
Awoke the silent reed to heavenly strains,
And ope'd the sacred spring of poesy;
Those streams no more to languid numbers creep
Of am'rous shepherd hid in shady bower;
No more the song of love awakes the fields,
Nor on those banks the past'ral muses stray.

Short are the joys the wretched native feels,
On Dwina's snowy banks, or dreary Irtis,
Whose wintry torrent visits sad Tobolsk,
A prison not a capital, and thence
Through cold Siberian forests sends her stream
To arctic Oby, where short summer warms
The rigid earth, and then with hasty wing,
To frost's bleak reign resigns the cheerless clime.
I might recount a thousand northern streams,
Whose banks no charms contain of grassy seats
Meadow or tufted dell, engem'd with flow'rs
Primrose or vi'let, scatter'd by the hand
Of May, soft mother of the rosy hours;
Where in the summer morn, or silent noon
Ne'er bathe the naked graces, nor the muse
To shades retiring meditates her song.

More cheerless often by the genial breath
Of spring that o'er more favour'd lands bestows
Forest and field with verdant leaf and flow'r
But here spreads desolation far and wide,
Are these rude climes—for at her mild return,
When the relenting atmosphere unbinds
Her liquid stores, and lets the zephyrs forth
With loosened pinions, o'er the frozen world,
Swell'd by the encreasing thaw wide spreads the flood
Of cold Jenisca, drowning all her isles,
Or Lena, monarch of the northern streams,
Unhinging vast a district wild of snow;
And down the wide destroying mountain comes
With ice-piled promontories, sweeping off
Whole forests to the sea—The peasant starts—
The distant murmur gives the dread alarm,
Like the first rumbling of th'approaching storm,
When the horizon thunders, or the roar
Of the returning tide against the beak
Of some bold head-land on the southern coast
Of sea-beat Erin, when fell Notus rides
The bellying brine, heard from the peaceful side
Of a rude mountain that looks out to sea;
Snatch'd up in haste his babes away he bears,
His screaming partner following, and with speed
Winged with the fears of death forsakes his home,
Forsaken never to be seen again.
And as he flies, behind him still he hears
The crackling pines that tell the ruin near,
Then sinks his heart when from some hill he sees
His dear loved hut—his little rural wealth
And all his hopes in one dread instant gone.

Dreary the land whose commerce needs the chain
Of winter to bind up her idle lakes,
And wide extended fens impassable
But on the sounding scate, when ev'ry stream
That Lapland pours receives her hardy sons,
While for his hide they chace the savage bear
Through paths else inaccessible to man.
In that dread season, when all winter sits
Prone on the Arctic world, and buries deep
Her towns in snow, and stills her roaring floods,
Oft to the bosom of the Bothnick Gulph
The Merchant gives his richly freighted sledge,
Horses and servants, a long caravan,
Over the stony deep, heaved up immense
In many a hill, between whose dreary dells
The traveller perplexed oft wanders far
Amid the icy desart wild and wan,
And hears aghast the distant roar below
Of waves unfrozen, deep beneath the power
Of winter's keenest rage, and though secure
Trembles within, until at length revived
He sees the recent track of other men,
And with rekindled strength pursues his way
To Aland wedded to her neighbouring shores.

Oft when the frost has spent its utmost force
And the disjointed sea in many an isle,
Yielding to gentler skies and milder gales,
Splits from the frozen coasts with horrid crash,
Far on the floating desarts vent'rous go
The Finnish peasants, where reposing lye
The sluggish Phoce, and with heavy freight
Return oft joyous from the perilous chase.
But hapless they, who with th'advancing sun
Pursue this trade, and to the faithless shore
Of a bleak isle of ice, intent on prey,
Moor their slight barque, if by a sudden squall
Detached, perhaps upon some adverse coast
She rushes; or between the closing steeps
Of glassy mountains crush'd, she disappears,
What then awaits?—despair alone awaits,
And threatning death before them dreadful yawns:
Upon the wide and agitated deep
Borne frightful—'round them frowns the bitter sky,
Beneath them roars the heaving element
Wasting that faithless field that floats abroad
Far from the coast. In silent woe they look
Upon the dreary wilderness of waves,
Which with encreasing rage tumultuous swells,
But in that helpless moment of dismay,
When hope is far removed, the helping hand
Of all bestowing Providence is reached
Is reach'd to save: Upon the utmost line
Of the blue world, a dim ethereal speck
At first seen doubtful, fills the stretching eye,
Intent, with anxious vision fixt and scarce
Can the strain'd ball collect th'unsteady form—
It larger grows—a sullen evening gleam
Shoots on the swelling canvas; now descried
Some ship that northward with adventurous keel
Plows the cold Arctic waves, where basks the whale
His ponderous length, for which Batavia's sons
Or Britons, lords of ocean, venture far
Under the icy Pole—

Rivers; while to your inexhausted urns
I pour this verse of mine, as wand'ring oft
As are your courses, and by frequent stops
Choked up and clogg'd, through which its sluggish way
It slowly winds; how often have your streams
Call'd to my mind the running stream of Life,
That ceaseless flows? Though some with smoother flood
Through fertile valleys glide and flow'ry fields,
Rich in the umbrage of their verdant woods
And wide extended lawns of emerald hue:
Yet to the deep their shining currents lead
With pace as certain and as true, as those
That pour'd by nature on a steril soil

Through rocks and desarts work their troubled way,
Fractured and torn in many a rugged fall.
Some Pilgrim-like with lonely footing slow
Pace silent on—the social world and all
The intercourse of man and busy life
Forsaken—so the Cagar, saddest stream
That waters eastern lands: Like merchants some,
As Thames, or Avon famed thro' farthest climes,
Where grew the reed immortal Shakspeare blew:
Or as my native Lee, whose fruitful stream
Bears on her azure breast the freighted fleets
Of farthest lands—capacious to receive
All Albion's floating castles, from the flaw
Of sternest Boreas when he blusters most,
Or Auster's blasts, with mountain billows heaved
Dreadful before his sway, such as once drove
The shattered navy of insulting Spain
Upon Hibernia's shores, in that proud age,
When great Eliza bore the scepter'd helm
Of Britain, and the great Armada wide
Her haughty flags unfurl'd, in dread array,
O'er the Atlantic wave. The martial Rhine
Thro' fields of iron and the frequent roar
Of hostile ordnance rolls, inured to blood.
And many more that near or far remote
Refresh the earth and temper Phœbus' ray,
Beneath the fervor of the burning line,
Or through the vales of Erin's verdant isle.
Now should we pass, o'er Africk's sultr'y climes,
To where the Niger rolls his mighty stream
With doubtful current, whether bent his course
Or to the rising or the setting sun,
Till one advent'rous man, thro' perils great
And toil immense, hunger, and thirst, and pain,
The question solved, and saw him eastward flow
Majestic thro' his woods, and saw, besides,
Upon his banks, the savage Moor usurp
A haughty rule and bow the vassal necks
Of Monarchs to the ground and on them tread.
In this warm region where unclouded Sol,
Walking his bright ecliptic, downward pours
His rays intense upon the woolly crowns
Of her black sons, who down the Gambia's stream
Or Senegal, float yearly to augment
The cries of slavery in foreign lands,
And bleed, that Europe's pamper'd sons may glut
On delicacies which their climes refuse.
O! violated nature, every tie,
Each fond endearment, every anxious wish,
And every tender ligament that binds
Man to his home, his country and his friends;
Torn, cruel torn, while nature pours in vain
The burning tear and heaves the heavy sigh.
But Britain hears the hapless negro's groans,
And bids him hope; throughout the western isles
The tidings fly, and at the joyful sound
The slave already drags a lighter chain.
Yes, from thy senate, Britain, comes a voice
That bids aloud the dreadful traffick cease,
Bids human blood no more your commerce stain,
Nor human flesh deform. Happy thine Isle,
And happy he, who with unwearied zeal
And truth in bright robed eloquence arrayed
Pleaded the Captive's cause, and dauntless stood
Th'unconquer'd champion of Humanity.
Here, in the rudest state of social life,
Within his simple hut, the native shuns
Th'oppressive day, inactive till the call
Of War arouse him, or the needful chace;
Unknown to him the arts of polish'd states,
Unknown their pleasures, but unknown their crimes.

Or should we eastward bend our varying course
To where the Nile his fruitful current rolls,
Proud in the ponderous ruins that enrich
His venerable course, whose Naiads late
Hid their affrighted heads, with terror fill'd
At Bronti thund'ring in Britannia's cause.
But stay my reed this proud exulting strain,
Another mood befits our alter'd state,
Low on his funeral bed the victor lies,
Bath'd and embalmed in a nation's tears.
O! victory too dear, O! conquest won
With too much price, that cost a Nelson's life,
Sad Trafalgar beheld him from her cliffs,
Beheld him conquer, and beheld him fall,
While every white wave all bedrop'd with gore,
That roll'd with boding murmurs to her strand,
Brought some ill omen of the dreadful fight
That sunk the naval hopes of France and Spain.

What could they do, 'twas Nelson gave the word,
And at the sound pale horror, from the poop
Of every hostile ship that stood the brunt
Of British fire, and Britain's hearts of oak,
With trembling hand let fall the staff of war
To grace the laurel'd ship that bore him home.
And see the Victory, with sails that bear
The tatter'd records of that fatal day,
Nears with her charge Britannia's sadden'd shore,
And views her ports with mourning faces throng'd,
While on his sun-burnt cheek the gallant tar
Wipes th'involuntary, silent tear.

What sound is that, by every crooked coast
And hollow rock and every sandy bay
Repeated shrill, from off the heaving main?
It is the genius of the green sea flood,
That mourns with Albion for her darling son,
Making her moan to every hanging crag,
And bleak protruding cape that round her isles
Whitens contending with the ocean spray:
And every wave that curls his azure head,
From Calpe's rock or Gades, votive isle,
To Kilda's solitary shore, and thence
To Labrador, or from the stormy cape
Of Terra del Fuego to the coast
Of Coromandel and her towns conveys
These mingled tidings, wide from coast to coast,
Great Britain conquers, gallant Nelson dies,
And both the victors and the vanquished mourn.

Who walks secure amid those dreary heaps
That the wide Thebais spread in ruin great,
That scarcely seem the work of mortal hands,
To see the pillar'd temples of her gods
Worship'd in ignorance, and curious tince
Her Hieroglyphicks dark, and perhaps less wise
Than men suppose? Who through her desarts free
From fear (lest ignorance with jealous eye
Should mark his steps and thwart his fond design,
To give his wondering countrymen the fruits
Of all his toil) ventures in painful search
Of precious relicks of Egyptian art,
Huge heaps of sculptured granite rear'd aloft
In frightful magnitude, the figures grim
Of their proud kings—Sphynxes and Aqueducts,
Or chisseled Sarcophagi to enrich
The storied volume? Who that parching faint
With lengthen'd travel 'neath the downward ray
Of burning Phœbus, by Tentira's walls
Or far Philoe's isle but fondly turns
His anxious thoughts to climes of kinder soil,
And thinks of shrubby vales, and cooling rills,
Left far at home, perhaps in Britain's isle
Or green Hibernia? What to him avails,
That Egypt, once the cradle of the arts,
Gave to the world the early lessons bright
Of science, and imparted first to Greece,
By Cadmus thither sailing, the rude marks
Of thoughts made visible, thence letters call'd?
Around him spreads inhospitable wild
A dreary desart, comfortless and void,
No friendly cup invites his burning lip,
No roof his weary limbs; reflecting sad
He calls her cities from the grave of time,
Her crowded ports and marts of foreign ware,
Thebes with her hundred gates, Abydos, Coptos
The great Arabian empory, Syene,
And Sait the refuge of the son of God
Sojourning there, when Herod in his rage
Made childless many a mother, and the voice
In Bethlehem was heard of loud lament.
Within his mind, revolving sad the change,
Of earthly glories and of mortal things,
Views in their pride the Persian and the Mede,
The old Assyrian Monarchy, the thrones
Of mightiest kings from Nimrod in his race
To Sardanapalus feeble in his sway
Yet resolute to die amid his wealth,
When false Arbaces laid unnatural siege
To Nenevah,—the proud Chaldean too
The Turcomanian Soldans, and their state,
Who trod on gems, their towns of gorgeous wealth,
The golden Altuncala seat of kings
And Tefflis by the coward Georgian host
Forsaken, when the troops of Amurath
Marched 'gainst the Persian, by Mustapha led.
The Colchian towns and Susianian south
Of monarchs the proud seats, Sybaris first,
And Dioscurias, in whose spacious mart
Were heard three hundred tongues, where Rome maintain'd
As many learn'd interpreters to expound
The languages her various merchants used
From many a distant land collected here
To vend their wares. Nor Ulai forgets,
Ulai, whose walls with golden cement join'd,
(Where proud Ahasuerus wasted vain,
Six months in feasting his intemperate peers,)
Were by the Macedonian Robber erst destroyed.
And many more in long perspective lost
Of dark antiquity, the royal domes
Of puissant princes filling with alarm,
Wide empires, spreading far and near their sway,
Pouring their fierce battalions on the heads
Of weaker sovereigns, then sick of thought
And of the feeble state of human things
He sits desponding on old Nilus' shore.

There in the reedy shoals, a dreadful length,
The crocodile reposes, hideous beast;
Less dangerous to be encounter'd far
And dreaded less, than the deputed slaves
Of lawless Chiefs, rapacious and austere,
To those who journey on his slimy banks:
Where still the bloody and uplifted rod,
Of tyranny, that strikes at whom it may
Without controul, held by the haughty Turk,
Rules with oppressive sway the subject land.
Unhappy men, whom the capricious brow
Of some hot lord, with arbitrary nod,
To suffer dooms, or condescends to save!
Unhappier fair to worst of slavery doom'd,
Unhappier, whom superior charms adorn,
Forced oft by cruel custom to submit
To the cloyed passion of some feeble wretch,
Immured and wasting all their lovely prime,
Shut from the world where nature gave them charms
To be its sweetest blessing, and receive
From man their homage due, respect and love,
And be his solace in life's rugged road!
Britannia hail! thrice blest in tripple pow'r
Poised into equal rule; whose sons are free,
And daughters heavenly fair, may'st thou long stand
Impregnable to every foreign force,
Within in peace secure, with plenty crown'd,
Steady amidst the dread surrounding din,
That all embattled Europe shakes throughout,
And reign the mistress of the watr'y world.

Still more unhappy are the ardent climes
Where never in the thirsty traveller's ear
Murmurs the rill soft trickling, nor the hum
Of vernal bee delights; where leaf or flow'r
Is never seen, nor blade of verdant grass
Blesses the earth, white in eternal sand
Wide glistening far a weary trackless waste,
Such as from Guanziga stretches on
To eastern Zaoula by the barbarous feet
Of dreary Atlas: Or that Libyan wild
Where Ammon's temple stood in times of old,
The high Oasis, by the wandering tribes
Of tented Arabs in pursuit of prey,
Trod frequent down from Barca to the Nile,
Whom oftentimes encamp'd old Memphis holds
Amid her ruins: Or that desart space
Of Chamo by the swarthy Tartar known:
The stony Araby, or such as bounds
The rosy Indus and her fruitful vales
And far o'er Persia desolate extends
Of sand or salt, reflecting burning suns,
Pass'd only by the lazy caravans,
Who, journeying up from Indian Agra north
By Ispahan and toward the Caspian shore,
Oft perish by insufferable drought.
Ah! what avails their deeply loaded store
Of pond'rous wealth and hoarded provender
Of date or luscious fig, if water fail
And the last cruise a stinted portion yields
To quench the burning fever in the the blood?

But in less dreary and inclement lands,
Where many a city lifts her tower'd head,
Amid her porticos some princely mart
The absent river mourns, or cooling spring,
And from the distant stream, o'er rock and vale
And sun-burnt plain, the ponderous aqueduct,
The work of ages, pours the scanty rill
To the great multitude within, who draw
From marble founts the cooling treasure forth.
But if all-pow'rful Phœbus dry the source
And the long duct becomes a dusty road,
What can supply the loss? Deep through the sand
Or the hard granit they industrious bore
Where lies the expected spring, retired far
'Neath numerous strata, which if haply found,
Is insufficient to the mighty draught.

Or if some general invest her walls
With desperate siege; and having idly plied
His battering engines 'gainst her bulwark'd tow'rs
With ineffectual parallels thrown up,
Cuts off her waters—vain her mural strength
And long artillery in deadly rows
On bastion, or tenaille, or counterguard,
Ravelin, lunet, or crown impregnable,
And lined with faithful troops inured to bear
Long warfare, and the hardships that attend
The soldier's painful trade. Along the walls
Crawl the pale citizens, and fell disease,
That o'er the city spreads her baleful wings,
More than the sword cuts off their marshall'd force,
Until at length by hard condition urged
The weary chiefs capitulate, and lo!
What the long cannon or the fell petard
Could not effect, ope the reluctant gates,
And let the conqueror in. Dire was the fate
Of Crissa proud, whose impious sons assail'd
Apollo's temple, and the sacred grove
Of Delphi and her altars stain'd with blood.
Nine years before her walls the marshall'd pow'rs
Of seven confederate cities hopeless lay
With fruitless siege prolonged and wasted strength
By pestilence swept off and help delay'd
Of needful provender, and warlike stores,
'Till that wise Coan who, as story tells,
Warn'd by the sacred oracle to aid
Eurilochus and heal his fainting troops,
Marking where under ground into the town,
By conduit deep convey'd, the water ran,
The secret spring defiled with pois'nous juice
Pouring with hand abhorr'd into the stream
Mortal infusion of pernicious herbs:
Thence swell'd their graves with dead and thinn'd their ranks.
Accursed deed! how many lay exposed
In open air, a prey to birds, while some
Crept into holes and sewers, their swelling frames
Previous interr'd, the parent from the child
Infected ran, the son his aged sire
Forsook, ev'n medicine its pow'rs denied,
Physicians fell administ'ring to the sick,
Vain sacrifice they offer, vain implore
Their gods to turn aside the dread decree
The pious minister before the shrine
Dies ere the sacred office he performs,
And all is death and terrible dismay
And ruin wide, 'till vengeance glutted deep
Reposes on the havoc it had made,
And sheathes the sated steel.

How fell of old
The mistress of the world, great Babylon?
By labouring foes her proud Euphrates turn'd
To water other plains, her ancient course
Forsaking dry, hence Cyrus thro' her walls,
Else inaccessible to martial force,
Pour'd in a multitude, and razed her tow'rs
By Ninus or Semiramis adorned,
To the fallacious worship dedicate
Of heathen Ops or Belus; from whose heights,
Chaldean Priests the mystic rolling mark'd,
And fain would hear the harmony divine
Of that bright multitude of spheres disposed
In tuneful order, by the unerring hand
Of wisdom infinite, and, not content
To gaze and wonder, saw or seem'd to see,
In all their motions, rising or decline,
Aspects malign or favourable, thought
To influence men below.

Water, chief good,
Prime nourisher of every vital thing
That round creation moves, not Phœbus self
More necessary is to life, whose kindling beam
Gives life to all; for not by thee asswaged
In kindly falling dews and vernal drops
(Parents of roses and the painted tribes
That hedge and hill array and every dell)
This chequer'd round of verdant wood and lawn
Were a hard desart, void, and without shade.
Lo! insufficient in thy praise am I
And weak to sound thy wond'rous virtues forth,
Yet with such feeble essay as I may
Full of thy worth with vent'rous stop I try,
This humble lay to thee, father of streams
And this rude quill, with wildly warbled notes,
In grove or grot, in sun or summer shade,
I tune, or meditate some future strain,
As musing oft I rove, my evening walk
Extending far along some silent vale,
And court the muse in twilight's sacred hour.

Again condensed and deepen'd in its course
With slow majestic wave the river glides,
Till interrupted by th'opposing weir
With never ceasing roar it dashes down
Over the ragged pavement, save what time
Cold Winter lays his hand upon the streams
And stills their murmurs, and each vocal rill,
(That chimed the live-long summer to the woods
And rocky coverts dark, sweet to the ear
Of musing shepherd, stretch'd at noontide hour,)
Makes tuneless and the Naids leaves to mourn
Their silent urns. Then too the River shrinks,
And deep incumber'd in his frozen bed
Murmurs below. Here, when the season calls,
The fisher comes, and with deep searching hook,
A cruel trade, from the insidious hatch
Forth into mortal light, well-pleased, uplifts
The struggling salmon stain'd with sudden gore,
Gaff'd in his silver side upon the barb
He writhes in agony, a helpless prey,
His quivering sin and body slow convulsed
Denoting life, and pain, to linger there
Still undulating with the dying pang.

Here too at times accumulated rains
Prevent the fisherman's expected prize,
And one dark moment frustrates all his hopes;
For when bleak Auster, from his streaming wings,
Shakes down a torrent on the subject plains,
High o'er his banks the river lifts his head,
Foaming and fierce, and rolls with fury on
Precipitate, and flashes o'er the weir,
Nor can the pond'rous masonry resist
Th'impetuous torrent, but at once gives way
Press'd, yielding, sinking, 'neath the tyrant flood.
Then to its rage a dreadful chasm is ope'd,
And down the waters rush, black, smooth, and deep,
Sweeping away the crumbling ruin forth,
Cast far and buried in the whelming sand.
Up dart the salmon tribe and swift away
Into the upland streams direct their course,
By nature taught and powerful instinct warn'd
In season due to seek the sandy brook,
There to deposit in its fruitful bed
The pregnant spawn, which with the vernal show'r
Comes down a shining multitude and fills
The river far and wide. Then thronging come
Of youth and age a joyous group prepared
To catch the greedy prey, and every bank
With longing eyes they fill—innumerous lines
Fly to and fro, from many a hand unskill'd,
And oft entangled, dire contention breed.
But what avails, if sudden rains bestow
Through the broad weir an easy passage forth,
For numerous foes await them with the rod,
And not a rill but with new danger teems
Of treacherous mesh, or snare, or barbed steel,
More cruel far than all, for oftentimes
At dead of night, the peasant youth approach,
With flaming reeds, the river's silent bank,
Where far below the expected salmon lies,
And with the deadly spear unerring pois'd
Deep in the stream transpierce th'unshelter'd prey;
With stupid terror seized to see the stream
With sudden flash illumed, and all around
A frightful gleam pervade his low recess,
Close to the bottom he awaits his fate
That soon the well-directed barb conveys,
Which having pierced his burnish'd body through
Grates in the sand below, then draws him forth
A mangled burthen, bleeding to the bank.

Be not forgotten in recounting all
The various sports (if sports they may be called)
That the long river in his course bestows,
How, at the slimy foot of some deep quay,
Or at the weirs wide base in summer eve,
Oft have I seen with patient eye intent
(Ignoble pastime) the sly poter stand
Knee deep in mud, and treacherously invade
The stony dwelling of the Eel, with bait
Insidious thrust inviting to his lip,
And drag the slippery prey in anguish forth.
Others remain unsung deserving less
In verse to flow, of more ignoble kind,
Ungrateful to the muse, who more delights
Of nature and her wonderous works to sing.
Now cultivation o'er the river sides
Throws her green mantle, and diffuses sweet
The odorous breath of roses, and the hills
Crowns with the weaving grove's luxuriant wreath
Here gardens glow, and frequent villas rise,
Fill'd yearly by the wealthy citizens,
Who from the busy counter hither haste,
To trim the border, or the bower entwine,
Or scarce exoticks or good cabbage rear,
As taste or humour prompts or prudence bids,
Such and so different the pursuits of men.
To each his joys, some from the city haste,
Sick of its bustle and the tedious round
Of dull insipid routs and midnight feasts;
Eager to taste the sweets of rural ease,
They seek the humble hind's obscure retreat,
And see a charm in every object round,
The daisied slope, the hedge, the summer seat
Beneath the thorn, and even the rural toil
Is full of pleasure, soon the hovel wears
A look which indicates, that not within
Sits pining want and pale neglected age,
A half fed progeny that num'rous croud
The scanty meal, and care, and hopeless toil:
A smoaking table every day invites
And gen'rous wine, nought that the town can give
Is wanting to supply the rural board,
On richest fare by careful hands prepared
They feed, and sleep on beds of softest down,
And think they share the pleasures of a cot.
Here, 'neath the shelter of these willows, bathe
The timid fair, committing to the stream
Full many a lovely form of fairest hue,
Such as upon my native banks conceal'd
Bare many an ivory foot and court the wave
On summer morn, for modesty and truth
And every charm unrivall'd through the land.
Not fairer sure can Britain's empire boast
Nor through these favour'd isles more justly fam'd,
For virtue woo'd, for constancy when won,
Than those delicious maids, whom envied Lee
Daily embraces in his azure arms.
Avoid O youth, avoid the dangerous spot,
Nor trust your vagrant steps where the warm nymph
Displays unconscious of observing eyes
The well proportion'd limb of glossy white
And neck resplendent, far away retire
Nor with unlawful gaze profane the shade
That virgin modesty conceals, nor fire
Nor steel exceeds sweet woman's softer power,
She strong in beauty, so the Teian sings,
More formidable far, than warrior arm'd
With spear and shield, shall well revenge the wrong,
And in your breast infix a deadly wound
Giving perhaps your days and sleepless nights
To ceaseless sighs of slow consuming love.

How happy is the group, that play below
Upon that level green in various sport,
As youthful frolic prompts, or fancy leads,
Full of the momentary rapture all,
Ardent and giving every thought to play
Careless of days to come. “Ah tell them not
That they are men,” for soon, too soon alas!
They know it well, and often fully share
Sorrow, man's only sure inheritance.
Now is the time when, parents should observe
The rising bias of the infant mind,
And give the timely check, which not to give
May darken ev'ry future year, and doom
To tears and vain remorse a life of shame.
But if with gen'rous fire it early burn,
Soft lure it forth with kind encouragement;
For in his early toys is often seen
The future man: Perhaps the kindling sparks
Of excellence to come, in great design,
That yet may flame transcendent through the page
Of epic song, lurk in the tender breast,
That palpitates if Milton strike the lyre,
Or Homer sweep his sounding verse along,
While on a slender quill he faintly tries
To woo some gentle muse. The glowing mind
That yet may bid the swelling canvas live;
May deep inspect the fields of pathless air
And measure just the glaring comet's course;
Or dauntless in the search of other Isles,
Far sprinkled o'er the wide expanse of sea,
May trace the frozen bounds of Neptune's reign,
Already dawns. Ev'n in his infant years,
The future hero heads the mimic fight,
Who foremost in the glittering ranks of war,
May lead battalions 'gainst invading foes,
Or in the burning van of naval fight,
Directing wise the terrible array,
May turn to tears the boasted threats of Gaul
And save his country. This, if well observed,
Might oft facilitate the course of youth,
Through science, and his early progress speed.
Vain to encumber the too tender mind
Against its bent, which cherish'd in its dawn
May brighten into glory, wealth, and fame.

Thus have I vent'rous with unskilful hand
Traced the long river through its crooked course,
And pleased perhaps no other ear but her's
For whom alone I tuned this western reed;
Pluck'd idly as may deem some graver head
That deems all idle time not spent in gain
Of worldly dross, and boasts to scorn the muse,
Contented in the mental night that bounds
His gross desires; but not for such I'll tune
Nor for his praise, this silly pipe of mine
Who, did I seek the meed my song might claim,
And reach to pluck a laurel for my brow,
Would cast a galling nettle on my head.

Little remains to sing until we stop
The Past'ral flute for the shrill tube of Mars,
And sing of conflict dire and bloody deeds
Atchieved in ancient days, unpleasant song.
On yon bold prominence, around whose base
Winds the broad river with unruffled course,
A mighty castle rears its ancient walls
Brown in the rust of time, sublime and sad
With over-hanging battlements and towers
And works of old defence, a massy pile.
Within these naked Halls what silence now,
Where once the roar of festive joy was heard
And antique revelry, with swell of harps
And minstrel songs of chiefs once great in fight,
Now seldom visited, but by the few
Who in such deep retirement love to sit,
(Far from the walk of mirth at times remote)
And muse upon the ever changing round
Of earthly things, and in these ruins see
The fall of empires and the fate of kings.
Here once, as legendary story tells,
Lived Desmond, rich in many a wide domain,
And bleating flock, and herd of fruitful kine,
Nightly secured, for in those ages rude
By force not law men held uncertain wealth,
And neighbouring chiefs, for plunder or for pride
Their vassals mustering, on each other's pow'rs
Waged petty war; hence all those tall remains
Of former strength, that mid' our verdant fields
Stand venerable, by th'enquiring eyes
Of curious men oft seen, whom ancient lore
And relicks of the times long gone delight.
Desmond a daughter had, sweet as the morn,
Whom many a petty potentate had sought
With honourable suit, but Brune obtained
The love of Aunagal, a youthful chief
Of princely lineage and wide domain.
A neighbouring Prince, O'Connor, hot with rage
At offered love disdained, determines quick
By force to seize the maid, and levies round
A numerous force; and in those early times
Not rude in warlike arts, for spear and bow
They well could exercise in distant fight,
Or in close conflict point the bloody skein;
Full use they had of every active limb,
Not cramped, nor stiffen'd by luxurious ease,
But firm to bear the hardships of the field,
And resolute in every danger they,
Whether to harass a retiring foe,
Or in retiring patient to endure;
A hardy race, and able to perform
Great deeds of manly strength, in manly strife.
Marshal'd with horse and foot O'Connor sends
A desperate threat to Desmond, who prepares
His extreme force the chieftain to resist,
Who now is on his frontier, and proceeds
To waste with fire and sword. Soon on the field
Desmond appears in arms, but cautious leaves
A chosen band to guard his castle, where
Entower'd close the lovely maiden wept
Her father and her love with ceaseless tears.
All day in conflict fierce and doubtful fight
They dyed the field with mutual slaughter red
'Til Desmond fell, feeble in hoary age,
And Brune retreats beneath the castle walls
Determined there to try (or perish brave)
The worst that fortune in her frowns may do,
And long the fight maintain'd with desperate rage,
Till night soft closing, Connor seem'd to fly
With loss of men and horse cut numerous off,
But to the woods retired; and ere the dawn
Determines furious by one bold assault,
To win the castle, and in silence now
The troops approach, no clank of steel is heard,
Whisper'd from rank to rank the orders fly,
They trail their spears, and ranged in mute array
Come in long file, close by the river's side.
Meanwhile within the castle walls close throng'd
Needful refreshment Desmond's troops receive,
And due repose after the toil of fight,
While Brune with words of comfort soothes his bride
Who wails her aged sire, when loud alarm
Of horn and shout is heard, the scouts return
Precipitate, and, through the hall, the news
Of Connor at the gate re-echoes round.
Behold them in their haste, how throng'd; how loud
The buz of hasty preparation; quick
With spear or bow snatch'd up they sally forth,
The gates can scarce discharge them in their speed,
Their armours clash and bow strings intertwine,
Forth like a swarm they rush, whose hive some swain
Disturbs at evening tide, or that wise race
The frugal ants, their small republic crush'd
By labouring peasant's steel. The groans of death
Numerous around denote the conflict dire,
'Til Brune with Connor meets whose arm he sought,
And now a fight, such as no modern times
Ee'r saw, between the furious chiefs ensued:
They met with spears, but in the plated folds
Of Brune's tough shield the spear of Connor rang,
Who now defenceless, death expected quick;
But Brune, disdaining victory so gained,
His, cast indignant down, and bade approach
His rival, who now, by the moon's broad orb,
Which on the face of Brune shone full, descried
His foe's majestic front and manly form,
And thus addressed the chief—“Full well young prince
“Dost thou deserve the beauty which thou seek'st;
“Were it from any but O'Connor's arm
“Thou'dst win the prize—but honor pride and shame
“Forbid me to resign my right—advance—”
Approaching both, few steps, they drew their blades,
Flashing like meteors from their harness'd thighs,
Each was a span in breadth, which now upraised
Gleam'd horrible athwart the moon-light beam
Like the long streaks which, in the northern sky
Darting their fires, are by the untaught hinds
The portents dire of bloody fields believed.
Now on the chiefs all turned their eyes, and stay'd
The busy conflict, and in silence stood
Waiting the issue of so dread a fight,
'Til Connor fell, deep gored with gaping wounds,
And, ere the morn look'd pallid from the east,
His mourning host retired.

Here oft the aged shepherd tells the tale,
And circumspect points out each famous spot,
Where battle raged, and where the chief was slain,
Full of the wond'rous deeds of former men,
Whose mighty stature oft the delver shows
In mould'ring bones thrown from the furrow'd field.
The river now denotes the city near,
Its banks no more the calm retirement yield,
And to my ear the buz of commerce comes
And din of numerous wheels, and tolling bells
That tell the hour, or warn us of the grave
But warn in vain. Now to yon smoaky den,
Where the blue spires scarce overlook the cloud,
Let us retire, dull night comes on apace,
And weary lids demand the pillow's balm,
Till morning call us to the fields again,
With new trim'd reed, to blow some rural strain.