 | The river-side |  |
57
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT.
The Volume of Nature—Address to the Creator—The River flows through a rich Vale interspersed with splendid Seats, cultivated Fields, and enclosed Parks—View of an old Abbey on the brink of the River—Ancient Tombs—Reflections on the vanity of Human Works—The uncertain state of Man—Palmira, Babylon, Persepolis—The works of the Poets the most durable—Virtue only unperishable, survives time itself—Reflections in the Cemetery—Inside view of the Abbey—Its present state contrasted with its former magnificence when a multitude of voices joined in the adoration of the Deity—The Monks—Evening—The Moon rising—Story of Anselmo—Morning—Hunters— A rural Repast—The Gifts of Nature equally distributed—Apostrophe to Liberty— The banks of the Rivers in different parts of the World contrasted with ours—River of the Amazons—Wasset—Arcadian Shepherds—The Rivers Dwina, Irtis, Oby,— Effects of a Thaw near the Pole—Jenisca and Lena—Lapland—Gulph of Bothnia— Travellers on the Ice—Seal Hunting—The Dangers attending on it.
59
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.
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,
60
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.
And, through a long retiring visto far,
Placid and smooth the copious river winds,
61
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.
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
62
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—
Fallow and stubble, with the busy toil
Of labouring plow, held by the patient hand
Of hoary peasant; and the various cares
63
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
64
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.
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,
65
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
66
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
67
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,
68
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.
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
69
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
70
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.
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
71
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.
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.
72
'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.
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.
73
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.
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
74
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,
75
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.
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
76
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
77
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
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,
78
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
79
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.—
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,
80
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,
81
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.
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
82
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
83
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
84
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,
85
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.
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
86
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.
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,
87
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
88
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.
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.
89
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
90
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,
91
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.
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,
92
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.
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
93
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;
94
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.
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,
95
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
96
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—
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,
97
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
98
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—
End of the Second Book.
| The river-side | |