Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Herbert! thy muse from every shore
Assiduous cull'd her tuneful store;
Soft spells from every clime she stole,
From bright Ausonia to the pole;
There, from the palsied hand of time,
She snatch'd the shell of Runic rhyme;
Pour'd the wild melody again,
Awoke the long-forgotten strain,
Swell'd the sweet notes through Odin's hall,
Whilst heroes started at the call!

Herbert! my simple wreath I twine
To honor, not to deck, thy shrine.
A simple wreath! no blushing rose
'Mid April's drooping flowerets glows,
No fragrance steals the ravish'd sense,
No charm is their's, but innocence.
Soon will they fade: The early flower
Falls the sad victim of an hour;
Yet the warm sun's benignant beam
Pours lengthen'd life in every gleam.
Ah, deign thy cheering smiles to give,
And bid the timid blossoms live!

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Bertram House, Feb. 20, 1810.

SYBILLE.

A Northumbrian Tale.

ARGUMENT.

The following poem was written at the request of a near relation, who wished me to compose a Tale adapted to the picturesque and enchanting scenery of the ancient domains of our family, now in the possession of Bertram Mitford, Esq.

The Lord de Bertram, (one of the followers of William the Conqueror) married Sybille, the heiress of Sir Johannes de Mitford, and died, I believe, in the Holy Land. This is the only historical foundation for the story; but tradition is fertile in incident, and has assigned to the beautiful ruin of Mary's Chapel, a tale nearly similar to that, which I have attempted to relate. It has too, within a very few years, been the scene of a most extraordinary occurrence. An

unfortunate and guilty female, an inhabitant of Morpeth, resolved, when in the last stage of a consumption, to close her eyes within the sacred precincts of the Lady's chapel. She retired thither accordingly; and though every effort, that humanity could dictate, was made to remove her to a more comfortable habitation, she resisted, with wild and delirious strength, all attempts to tear her from the situation she had chosen. After lingering a few weeks, she died, and was buried on the spot. I have alluded to this circumstance in the sixth stanza of the introductory verses.

Fair Wansbeck, when thy limpid stream
Is deck'd with May's bright flowers;
And thy clear waters circling gleam,
Round Mitford's mossy towers:

How lovely is the blooming vale,
By woody mountains bound;
The spire high rises in the dale,
The village smiles around.

The modest mansion on the hill
Beams in the brightening ray;
Mitford's proud turrets crown the rill,
And all the vale is gay.

But dark is thy tempestuous flood,
When sad November lours;
And through old Bothall's gloomy wood
The foaming torrent pours.

Then e'en the oak's last lingering leaves
The slippery path-way spread;
The long brown grass the foot deceives,
And mocks th' uncertain tread.

The Lady's chapel rises there,
Amid the darkening gloom;
Its mouldering walls still brave the air;
The maniac's lonely tomb!

No roof has crown'd those mouldering walls,
For many a wintry day;
An aged ash high o'er them falls,
With moss and lichens grey.

The dreaded spot the peasant flies,
For in the torrent's swell,
He hears fair Sybille's piercing cries,
Or the sad passing bell.

And in the raging of the storm,
When the blue lightnings glare,
He sees pale Sybille's shrouded form,
Swift flitting through the air.

Gay summer smil'd on Bothall bowers;
The setting sun's resplendent beam
Illum'd fair Mitford's massy towers,
Tinging with gold the living stream.

High o'er the flood the castle steep
Rear'd its proud head in feudal state;
The banner floated on the Keep;
And darkly frown'd the arched gate.

No pleasant sound of wassail gay
Rung round Lord Bertram's splendid board;
Dark frowning, like his turrets grey,
Sate at the feast the haughty lord.

With Norman William, Bertram came;
De Mitford's lovely heir he saw;
The conqueror own'd his favorite's claim;
And William's word was England's law.

Vainly the suppliant fair-one knelt,
Vainly she spurn'd a foreign yoke;
The king nor love nor pity felt—
She wept, but yielded to the stroke.

Not long she wept. Two lingering years
Two lovely smiling babes had given;
Still faster flow'd the mother's tears,
Till her soul sought its native heaven.

Goodly and brave, the youthful heir
To battle leads his father's power;
And gay, and innocent, and fair,
His Sybille blooms, a northern flower!

And now, the Baron leaves the hall;
His chieftains pass the goblet round;
When from the castle's outer wall
Arose a harp's melodious sound.

Dark brows and rugged breasts had they;
But, who the minstrel's power withstands?
Who loves not well the rapturous lay,
Or pleasant tales from distant lands?

Well pleas'd the stubborn warriors smil'd;
The iron gates were backward flung:
And soon the harper's descant wild
Through Mitford's echoing turrets rung.

And high and haughty was the lay,
That sweetly flow'd in Provence tongue;
Of tourneys, lords and ladies gay,
A wondrous tale the minstrel sung.

Boldly he struck the martial strain;
His manly voice was deep and clear;
And rapture fires the hardy train,
Again their native tongue to hear!

The polish'd accents, as they fall,
(Long us'd to Saxon strains uncouth)
The fields of Normandy recal,
And renovate their lusty youth.

O then each well-remember'd cot,
Each blooming maid they lov'd so well,
Their earliest and their happiest lot!—
Again their steel-clad bosoms swell.

Sweet was the strain. Enchanting theme!
Of happy love the minstrel sung;
To the rapt poet's blissful dream
The magic chords responsive rung.

But soon they pause; and sad and low,
He touch'd a wildly plaintive air;
In thrilling tones of deepest woe
He told the hapless lover's care.

He ceas'd; and plaudits loud were made,
Grateful he rais'd his down-cast eye,
But scarce his modest thanks he paid
Ere the half-utter'd accents die.

For that dark eye had careless glanc'd,
To the high throne of feudal state;
And hovering there, inspir'd, entranc'd,
A lovely vision speechless sate.

O ne'er was form so witching fair!
Sweetly through recent tears she smil'd;
Loose and unbound her sunny hair
Flow'd round her sylphid figure wild.

Soft was her eye of heavenly blue;
Her cheek was like the opening rose,
Wet with the morning's pearly dew;
And pure her bosom's living snows.

In manly beauty's youthful glow
Was he, who touch'd the tuneful string;
Dark clustering o'er his polish'd brow
Hung ringlets, like the raven's wing.

Stately his form, and proud his mien;
High genius sparkled in his eye,
Softening from glances wild and keen,
To smiles of cherub infancy.

They saw, they lov'd—The harp still rung
To airs of love in Mitford tower:
Of war, of fame, no more he sung,
But high-born beauty's gentle power.

Nor wealth nor rank on Albert smil'd,
He knew no father's fostering care;
A widow'd mother rear'd the child,
Deep in the wilds of Provence fair.

But far from his romantic home
He sought Italia's blissful strand;
For Albert long'd the world to roam,
To visit every distant land.

“O he had wander'd far and wide
“Through vales, where Arno's waters flow;
“Seen the bright dames, Iberia's pride,
“And Grecian nymphs with necks of snow;

“But not in Tempe's classic shade
“Had he so sweet a valley seen;
“Nor e'er beheld so fair a maid,
“As she who tripp'd o'er Mitford green.”

The blushing girl, with accents mild
And gentle chidings, check'd his praise:
But still she listen'd, still she smil'd,
Whilst Albert pour'd his amorous lays.

No hopes had they, the Baron proud
Would e'er the minstrel's vows approve;
For noble youths to Sybille bow'd,
And sought the blue-eyed maiden's love.

Gay summer now was fading fast;
The robin twitter'd from the wood;
And scatter'd by th' autumnal blast,
The yellow leaves sail'd down the flood.

Still the fond youth his passion prest,
A smile half lit her down-cast eye;
“O! if of Sybille's heart possess'd,
“Albert can every care defy!

“Far from the scenes of pride and wealth,
“We'll seek some wood-embosom'd cot;
“Content, and innocence, and health,
“With happy love, shall crown our lot.

“At morn these sinewy limbs I'll strain,
(“How blest to labor, love, for thee!)
“At evening with the village train
“We'll join in rustic revelry.

“Haste then, my fair! a holy priest
“E'en now at Mary's chapel waits;
“Thy father loiters at the feast,
“The weary warder leaves the gates.

“My Sybille, come!” Her trembling feet
Can scarce her slender form support;
Hope, fear, and love, contending meet,
Scarce can she cross the echoing court.

“My Sybille, come!” Prophetic fears
The maiden's gentle bosom move;
Her azure eyes are dimm'd with tears,
Tears soon dispell'd by mighty love!

No more she turns; to Mitford's towers
No more her lingering footsteps stray;
Lightly she trips through Bothall's bowers,
Ting'd by the parting beam of day.

There in the virgin's chapel fair,
By Wansbeck's swiftly flowing tide,
The holy father blest the pair,
And Albert clasp'd his blushing bride.

'Twas night, and darkness veil'd the wood,
Save where the silver moon-beam shone,
Danc'd upon Wansbeck's rippling flood,
Or kiss'd the chapel's holy stone.

And nought the solemn stillness broke,
Save the clear water's rushing sound;
The night-breeze murmuring through the oak,
Or the dark bat quick flitting round.

But soon a thousand torches shine!
Wild shouts the sleeping echoes rouse!
And Sybille sinks by Mary's shrine,
Where late she pledg'd her stolen vows.

Soon, soon they pierce the holy walls!
The minstrel draws his trusty blade;
“Revenge!” the madden'd father calls,
And furious spurns the weeping maid.

They fight—the husband and the sire;
They fight—and desperate is the strife:
Still fiercer glows their mutual ire,
Nor heeds the daughter and the wife.

Frantic she darts between the foes—
The Baron's sword is dipp'd in gore,
O'er her fair form the life-blood flows,
And Sybille falls—to rise no more!

Who is that chief on Judah's strand,
Who, reckless of the mortal wound,
Hews desp'rate mid the Paynim band,
Strewing with mangled heaps the ground?

And who is he, whose raven hair
Is tann'd by sun and wet with rain,
Who lies on Mary's pavement bare,
Bathing with tears the bloody stain?

That chief—may Heaven its mercy show!
That wretched youth in woe unmov'd,—
That chief is he who gave the blow,
That youth is he whom Sybille lov'd.

ON REVISITING THE SCHOOL WHERE I WAS EDUCATED.

ADDRESSED TO MRS ROWDEN, OF HANS PLACE.

Dear scene of childhood's happy hour!
I feel thy softly-soothing power;
Again I view thy well-known walls!
Again I tread thy classic halls!
Here scenes of simple pleasure rise
In sweet succession to my eyes;
And here does pensive memory love
With many a fond regret to rove:
She loves, in each remember'd place,
Improvement or delight to trace;

For still instruction's genial power
With learning wing'd the fleeting hour,
And yet, so mild her gentle sway,
That pleas'd the youthful band obey.

Within the dome with learning stor'd,
Our daily studies we explor'd;
Or when, th' allotted lesson done,
Had struck the wish'd-for hour of one,
From care, from woe, from envy free,
We sported here with frolic glee.
My fair companions! though no more
Ye bound across the well-known floor,
Though few of all the youthful train,
Within these peaceful walls remain,
Yet still can faithful memory trace
The features of each blooming face!
To me their graceful forms appear!
Each gentle voice I seem to hear!

And fancy lends her vivid ray
To gild fair childhood's halcyon day!

Here in the Garden's ample shade
Through many a happy hour we play'd;
And still yon sunny path retains
The boundaries of our small domains.
Yes, still is seen the tiny bower,
The mimic walk, the drooping flower;
Turf, such as cheers th' imprison'd lark;
Pales that might bound a fairy park;
And fairy elves were here, I ween,
As light of heart, as gay of mien,
As ever midnight circle drew,
Or from the acorn sipp'd the dew.
Though blundering zeal and lack of skill,
The flower we lov'd, contriv'd to kill;
The deftest gardener of us all
Has known such evil chance befal;

Yet never blossom seem'd so fair
As the small plants we tended there;
Sweet mignonette, or flaunting pea,
Young rose and stunted myrtle tree:
'Twas sweet, at evening's sportive hour,
To pluck the long-expected flower,
Our own dear flower, with hope so gay
Nurtur'd and watch'd from day to day:
'Twas sweeter still to bid it deck,
With childish love, some playmate's neck;
That rose to every rose prefer,
Yet wish it fairer still for her.
There was but one, one only breast,
On which my treasur'd sweets could rest;
'Twas Zosia's; lovely, wise and good,
And sprung of Poland's noblest blood:
To others haughty she might be,
But kind and gentle still to me;
And, constant to the maid I lov'd,
With Zosia still I fondly rov'd.

In yon deserted path we walk'd,
Of home and our dear parents talk'd,
Or glowing with some rural theme,
Together wove the fairy dream:
For even then could nature's charm
My young imagination warm;
And landscapes, mountainous and wild,
Had charm'd the visionary child;
For I had heard old Ocean roar,
And chafe 'gainst Dorset's rocky shore;
Had listen'd to the sea-bird's cries,
Had mark'd the gathering tempest rise,
And, fearless 'mid the deafening jar,
Had watch'd the elemental war.

But chief in some sequester'd cot
I sigh'd to fix my tranquil lot;
Some straw-roof'd cot, 'mid southern vales,
And fann'd by Devon's balmy gales;

The white-wash'd walls and lattice clean,
Scarce through the twining jasmine seen;
The little garden's simple bound
With rose and myrtle fenc'd around;
A nameless, winding streamlet there,
'Midst shaggy copse-wood glistening fair;
While sheltering trees behind it rise,
And mountains towering to the skies:
In such a cot what bliss to dwell
With those dear friends I lov'd so well!
And still is childhood's happy dream
Of youth's romantic wish, the theme;
No cot to me so fair appears,
As that my glowing fancy rears,
And, e'en 'mid Berkshire's woody vales,
I sigh for Devon's balmy gales.

With lofty tales of feudal power
Would Zosia charm the lingering hour;

Describe her father's princely dome,
The splendors of her native home;
The slaves, that follow'd where she trod,
And swift obey'd her slightest nod;
Yet had she learnt, on this blest shore,
To wish that slavery liv'd no more,
For many a tale of negro woe
Had bid her generous bosom glow:
Pitying, she sigh'd at their distress,
And languish'd for the power to bless.
Perchance it might be her's to save,
From equal grief, some Polish slave!
To life, to liberty restore!
And bid his bosom bleed no more!—
Alas, my dear-lov'd friend, 'tis thine
In hopeless, helpless woe, to pine!
'Tis thine in youth's enchanting hour,
And grac'd with beauty's witching power,
Of every kindred friend bereav'd,
In every cherish'd hope deceiv'd,

To learn in that lov'd land to mourn,
An orphan, friendless, and forlorn!—
But still, my Zosia, youth and health
Are thine, and mines of mental wealth:
Again may prosperous Fortune pour
Fresh blessings from her golden store;
Some kindred spirit bid arise
Thy yet unwaken'd sympathies;
Till Poland's dreary deserts prove
A paradise illum'd by love!

But where is she, the only fair
Whose charms with Zosia's could compare,
The sweet Eliza? polish'd grace
Deck'd her fair form and lovely face;
Whilst the pure influence of her soul
Shed soften'd radiance o'er the whole:
Breath'd in her voice, when Handel's strain
Seraphic, thrill'd through every vein,

Gave added force to Boileau's sense,
Or glow'd in Milton's eloquence.
Her's was high honor; spotless truth!
Her's the gay laughing charms of youth!—
O where is now that lovely form?
Where that pure heart in feeling warm?
Where the sweet smiles that nature gave?
They rest in dear Eliza's grave:
In youth's fair spring, in beauty's pride,
In virtue's early prime—she died.

Yet still the echoing chambers ring
To fair Victoria's magic string:
Sweet tuneful maid! at her control
Alternate passions fire the soul!
As o'er her harp with bending grace
The strings her flying fingers trace,
Now lightly rings the sprightly measure
To gayest airs of joy and pleasure;

And now, with high and haughty sound,
The mimic notes of war rebound:
Sudden they pause, and soft and slow,
In murmuring cadence, sad and low,
Some sweetly plaintive melody
At distance seems to fall and die.
With mute delight we hover near
The strains, which still we seem to hear!
To move, to breathe, we scarcely dare,
So soft, so sad, so sweet the air!
Nor yet alone by music's art
Can fair Victoria charm the heart!
Whether she join in converse gay,
Where wit and frolic fancy play,
Or, whether on her pitying breast
She lull a brother's cares to rest;
Still ever lovely, ever dear,
Of temper soft, and heart sincere,
Her varying charms the soul inspire,
And all the beauteous maid admire.

There grace and symmetry combine,
To mock the sculptor's skill divine,
And round the young Olivia glows
A brighter charm, than beauty knows.
Who can, like her, with sylphid grace
The “poetry of motion” trace?
In airy bound, or slow advance,
Thread the soft mazes of the dance?
In easy elegance recline,
Or in light sportive movement twine?
Whilst modesty's celestial veil
Improves the charms it would conceal;
And in that mild and polish'd mien,
Shines spotless innocence serene.
Yet those blue eyes and looks demure,
That speak a heart both cold and pure,
Are oft by radiant fancy lit,
And sparkle with Hibernian wit;

Till scarce the gentle girl we know
Who hides, like Etna crown'd with snow,
The fires that in her bosom glow.
There too presides the gentle fair,
Who made me her peculiar care,
To me by every tie endear'd!
And still admir'd, belov'd, rever'd!
Skill'd in the rare and happy art
To win the timid, youthful heart;
By manners grac'd with courtly ease,
By playful wit, secure to please.
But who shall tell her mind's rich store,
Imbued with many-languag'd lore?
Who shall the thousand virtues tell,
That in her gentle bosom dwell?
Oh! could I catch from you, bright dame!
One spark of your immortal flame,
My verse should pay the tribute due
To friendship, gratitude, and you!

'Twas your's, with polish'd art to twine
A lovely wreath for Flora's shrine;
To fairest flowers fresh beauties give,
Which in your glowing strains shall live,
And bid each opening bud impart,
Some lesson to the female heart.
And now, with nobler visions fir'd,
By friendship's holy zeal inspir'd,
At her pure altars, lo! you bend;
To her poetic vows ascend;
For her you tune the warbling string,
Her triumphs and her joys to sing;
And emulate the classic fame
Of Rogers' and of Campbell's name.

Lov'd friend of childhood's early day,
Still deign to guide my devious way!
What though I fondly strive in vain
Like you to frame the polish'd strain;

Though no bright rays of genius fire,
But faintly breathes the trembling lyre;
Yet be your bright example mine,
And lead my steps to virtue's shrine!

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

Lov'd floweret, rear thy drooping head,
And wake thy beauty pale!
Thy lovely blossoms haste to spread,
And woo the fragrant gale!

Soon shall the evening breezes blow,
Soon fall the evening dews;
Then raise thy petals fainting low,
Thy modest charms diffuse.

Yon flaunting sun-flower, by thy side,
In starry radiance gay,
Spreads her rich breast in beauty's pride,
And courts the noon-tide ray.

Whilst, shrinking from the fervid glow,
Thy modest colors fly,
Each graceful floweret drooping low,
Thy silken blossoms die.

But fairer than proud Phœbus' flower
In noon-tide beauty bright,
Art thou, in evening's pensive hour,
By Cynthia's trembling light.

When faintly gleams the western star,
And evening's gentle breeze,
Like sweetest music heard from far,
Sighs softly through the trees:

Then, lovely in the silver beam
Thy flowerets glistening fair,
With pearly dew-drops brightly gleam,
Resplendent through the air!

WRITTEN IN A FAVORITE BOWER,

PREVIOUS TO LEAVING HOME, MAY 14, 1809.

Farewell! my own romantic bower,
Sweet shelter in the noon-tide hour!
Scarce yet thy willow buds unfold
Their silver leaves on stems of gold;
Scarce yet the woodbine's clasping arms
Twine round the elm her modest charms;
Scarce yet, in richest robe array'd,
The oaks display their summer shade;
But thy fair bank, in beauty gay,
Can boast the blooming tints of May;

Pure, limpid, sparkling is the flood,
That murmurs through thy tangled wood;
And fragrant is the balmy gale,
That gently whispers through the vale.

Oh! pleasant is thy turfy seat,
Sweet is thy shade, my lov'd retreat!
Bright pansies deck th' enamell'd ground,
Cowslips and harebels wave around;
The downy blow-ball, brilliant weed!
Spreads its gay blossoms o'er the mead,
Like stars, that in December's gloom,
A countless host, the sky illume.
In superstition's dreary hour
Vast is thy sway, thou star-like flower!
Thy light and feather'd orb reveals
The husband, cruel fate conceals,
As wafted by the maiden's sigh,
The buoyant seeds wide-scattering fly.

But oft, alas! the village maid
Seeks the dark gipsy's fatal aid;
Down by the wood's romantic side
She glides unseen at evening tide,
With trembling awe her fate she hears,
Quick-rising hopes, and bashful fears;
Wak'd by the sybil's wily art,
What transports swell that simple heart!
She tells of gentle lovers true,
With nut-brown hair, and eyes of blue:
“'Tis he, 'tis William!” Lucy cries
And light as air to meet him flies,
Too fond, too happy, to be wise!

How slowly wells the limpid flood!
How calm, how still the solitude!
No sound comes wafted on the gale,
Save the sweet warblings of the vale;
No curling smoke waves on the breeze,
Hemm'd closely in by circling trees,

Save where o'er yonder rustic gate
The tall oaks twine in gothic state,
And through the arch in lustre gay,
The landscape spreads its bright array:
The woodland wild—the cultur'd plain,
Its lowing herds, and fleecy train—
The cottage by the green-wood side,
With blooming orchard spreading wide,—
The village school—the farm—the green—
The ivied tower, at distance seen,—
And the soft hills that swelling rise,
Mingling their grey tops with the skies;
Illumin'd by the western beams,
How fair this living picture gleams!

Lov'd seat, farewell! yet soon I come,
I leave not long my happy home:
When thy sweet woodbine's charms unclose;
When blushes tinge thy modest rose;

When thy pure lily on the tide
Rears her fair flowers, in beauty's pride;
When, where the whiten'd blossoms spread,
The scarlet berry hides its head;
Then will I seek my shelter'd bower,
And wile away the noon-tide hour;
Remote from folly, noise, and strife,
Gaze from my calm retreat, on life;
List to the music of the glade;
Watch the swift flitting shadows fade;
With the lov'd muse of friendship stray,
Or weep o'er Campbell's melting lay.

TO THE GLOW WORM.

Hail! insect of the emerald ray!
Fair boast of summer's evening hour!
Whose beams with trembling lustre play,
And gild thy little verdant bower!

I love to seek thee on the hill,
When sweetly falls the evening dew,
To listen to the trickling rill,
And mark the twilight's soften'd hue.

I love to view the deepening shades,
The waving spots of varying light,
The cottage, rising 'mid the glades,
With little casements glistening bright.

Whilst hanging o'er the limpid stream,
Whose waters faintly murmuring glide;
A brilliant star thou seem'st to gleam,
Reflected on the silver tide.

The village-maid by thy pale rays
To meet her plighted lover roves;
Weaves visions gay of future days,
And, sweetly blushing, owns she loves.

And round thee oft, as poets sing,
Fair elfin beings circling tread;
Trip gaily o'er the fairy ring,
And balmy odors round thee spread.

Oh! may no daring hand intrude
To pluck thee from thy green retreat!
No wandering rustic's footstep rude
E'er crush thee in thy tranquil seat!

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY THE UNCERTAIN FATE OF MUNGO PARK, THE CELEBRATED AFRICAN TRAVELLER.

Oh! when at length through Afric's dreary wild,
Defying death and danger, Park had toil'd,
How proud the day! how blest the venturous man,
That saw accomplish'd all his mighty plan!
Saw Niger roll to meet the morning beam,

“Looking forwards, I saw with infinite pleasure the great object of my mission, the long-sought for majestic Niger, glittering to the morning Sun, as broad as the Thames at Westminster, and flowing slowly to the eastward. I hastened to the brink, and having drunk of the water, lifted up my fervent thanks in prayer to the Great Ruler of all things, for having thus far crowned my endeavours with success.” Park's Travels, page 194.

And Sego's towers reflected in the stream!
Delighted of the mystic wave he drank,
Hail'd that bright flood, and dropt upon the bank;
And on that spot, then first by Christian trod,
Pour'd forth thanksgiving to the living God.

Proud was that day! But lengthen'd labors rose;
By sickness weaken'd, and begirt with foes,
Reluctantly he turn'd; and pass'd again
The dreary wilderness, the fiery plain;

“The burning the grass in Manding, exhibits a scene of terrific grandeur. In the middle of the night I could see the plains and mountains, as far as my eye could reach, variegated with lines of fire; and the light reflected on the sky, made the Heavens appear in a blaze. In the day-time pillars of smoke were seen in every direction; while the birds of prey were observed hovering round the conflagration, and pouring down upon the snakes, lizards, and other reptiles, which attempted to escape from the flames. This annual burning is soon followed by a fresh and sweet verdure, and the country is thereby rendered more healthful and pleasant.” Park's Travels, page 229.

Through barbarous tribes and warring nations tost,
Till health and strength, and all but hope, was lost;
When negro friendship bore him to the strand,
And science hail'd him to his native land.

Then was his hour of bliss! success had crown'd
The daring youth, and spread his fame around;
And pity's sigh, and admiration's smile,
Flush'd his pale cheek, and sweeten'd every toil.
Then high-born beauty join'd th' applauding throng,
And added grace to nature's sweetest song;

Alluding to the beautiful Negro Song, written by the late Duchess of Devonshire.

Whilst in the “white man's woe, the negro's care,”
The gentler sex a double triumph share.
Oh! when secure in Albion's happy land,
He trac'd his dangers with recording hand,

He little thought, when Houghton's shorten'd date
Drew pitying tears, how similar his fate!

“From this village, Major Houghton, (being deserted by his Negro servants, who refused to follow him into the Moorish country,) wrote his last letter with a pencil to Dr. Laidley. This brave, but unfortunate man, having surmounted many difficulties, had taken a northerly direction, and endeavoured to pass through the kingdom of Ludamar, where I afterwards learned the following particulars concerning his melancholy fate. On his arrival at Jarra, he got acquainted with certain

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Moorish Merchants, who were travelling to Tisheet, a place near the salt-pits in the great desert, to purchase salt; and the Major, at the expense of a musket and some tobacco, engaged them to convey him thither. Their intention, probably, was to rob and leave him in the desert. At the end of two days he suspected their treachery, and insisted on returning to Jarra. Finding him persist in this determination, the Moors robbed him of every thing he possessed, and went off with their camels; the poor Major, being thus deserted, returned on foot to a watering-place, in possession of the Moors, called Tarra. He had been some days without food, and the unfeeling Moors refusing to give him any, he sunk at last under his distresses. Whether he actually perished of hunger, or was murdered by the savage Mahomedans, is not certainly known; his body was dragged into the woods, and I was shown, at a distance, the spot where his remains were left to perish.” Park's Travels, page 103.

How soon those blood-stain'd shores should seal his doom,
Or slavery close him in a living tomb!

Again he went! with hope and ardor fir'd,
With mild philanthropy's warm zeal inspir'd;
Again he went! untrodden worlds to scan,
To meliorate the lot of savage man;
To ope the track for England's peaceful train,
That wafts her commerce o'er the azure main;
To bid fair science bless the sultry shore,
And art diffusive spread her golden store;
Bid pure Religion, 'mid the trackless wild,
Rear her high fane, and pour her precepts mild;
Converted nations own the sacred tie!
And Afric hail the day-spring from on high!

For this the wanderer went: And how he fell,
Another Park, in future years, may tell;
But fall howe'er he might, whether he died
Swept by the fierce Tornado's furious tide;
Or whether in the desert met his fate,
With famish'd eye, alone and desolate;
Or still more wretched, destin'd to endure
The lingering tortures of the barbarous Moor;
Howe'er he fell, yet glorious was his end,
Of truth, of nature, and of man, the friend!
But long shall Science mourn her venturous son
Untimely lost; her arduous task undone.
Long o'er his fate Philanthropy shall sigh;
And Faith and Virtue waft him to the sky!

VERSES,

SENT WITH SOME PRIMROSES TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD PROMISED US A VISIT EARLY IN THE SPRING.

FEB. 7, 1808.

In learned Berkeley's fabled theme—
Philosophy's poetic dream!

“The Adventures of Signor Gaudentio di Lucca,” said to have been written by Bishop Berkeley.

Where—to our world, alas! unknown—
He fix'd perfection's airy throne;
In that bright theme, unshaken truth
Beam'd in each Mezoranian youth;
Nor fickle swain, nor changeful fair,
Nor broken vows, were heard of there;
But Flora's characters exprest
The wishes of each blameless breast,

“If the man be the person the woman likes, he presents her with a flower just in the bud, which she takes, and puts in her breast. If she is engaged before, she shows him one, to signify her engagement; which, if in the bud only, shows the courtship is gone no further than the first proposal and liking; if half-blown, or the like, it is an emblem of further progress; if full-blown, it signifies that her choice is determined, from whence they can never recede.” Gaudentio di Lucca, page 132.

And sav'd a world of lover's sighs,
Of blushes bright, and down-cast eyes.
First the pure bud, whose soft leaves swell
Inclos'd within their mossy cell,
Of infant love the fair one tell;
And next appears the half-blown rose,
Whose radiance like her beauty glows,
And still increasing passion shows;
Till in the full-expanded flower,
Triumphant love proclaims his power.

If then gay Flora's fragrant race
Can changeful love's gradations trace,—
Love! ever varying, ebbing, flowing,
Sinking in woe, with rapture glowing,—
Calm friendship surely may employ
These tokens sweet of grief or joy;
But not the blushing rose I send,
As my glad pledge to thee, my friend!

For thorns that brilliant rose surround,
And, like the god, his emblems wound.
I send those blossoms fair and pure,
That winter's stormy gales endure;
Those blossoms, firstlings of the year,
To sportive childhood ever dear.
Oh! still how fresh to memory's eyes
Those hours of childish bliss arise,
When in the deep and tangled dell,
I pluck'd the flowers I lov'd so well;
Or, on the primrose bank reclin'd,
Gay bouquets form'd, or garlands twin'd,
Deck'd hat and frock in flowery state,
And totter'd with the fragrant weight.
And still, no infant better loves
To view the primrose-spangled groves;
When, first of spring's enchanting train,
They bloom beside the verdant plain.
But doubly dear these timid flowers,
Sweet harbingers of happy hours!

Like drooping worth by Fortune scorn'd,
Late in the wintry blast they mourn'd,
Soon shall they bloom beneath thine eye!
Soon on thy snowy bosom die!

But ere ye die, lov'd flowerets! say,
“Haste! lovely Mary, haste away!
“At kindred friendship's call, arise!
“Seek southern bowers, and milder skies!
“Go, heighten spring's enraptur'd pleasures!
“Go, shed around thy heart's rich treasures!
“Fond tears as bright as morning dews,
“Sweet sunny smiles, around diffuse!
“Go! dearer than the rose of May,
“To southern bowers, fair maid, away!

A PORTRAIT.

Of stature low, and fairy size,
Her soul seem'd through her form to rise;
Scarce could the Sculptor's practis'd eye
Decide if her's were symmetry:
For ever bounding, turning, dancing,
Like sun-beam on a meadow glancing,
None could proportion trace;
But still her light and frolic round,
The charmed eye like magic bound,
And all proclaim'd it Grace.

Her face with youth's pure coloring glows,
So softly blent, yet so distinct,
Such brilliant white, such rosy tinct,
The apple blossom shows;
And the pure skin, divinely fair,
Seem'd as the sun had spar'd her ever,
And wintry storms, and summer air,
Had touch'd her never.
Her auburn locks, with wayward will,
From golden bodkin sever still,
Luxuriant, glossy, unconfin'd,
The silken ringlets freely wind;
Now on her snowy forehead wave,
Now sport around her fair cheek's dimple,
Which passes like the calm lake's rimple,
Where the young Cygnets lave:
Sometimes the ruby lips they kiss,
Where lovely smiles so gaily fly,
As if they liv'd for nought but bliss,
And ne'er had breath'd a sigh:

Sometimes they shade those azure eyes,
Whose bright rays thro' the dark lash beaming,
In their own liquid diamonds gleaming,
Like Summer meteors rise:
As if those rays, divinely clear,
Had never glitter'd thro' a tear.

TO THE HON. MISS MURRAY,

WITH MISS ROWDEN'S “POETICAL INTRODUCTION TO BOTANY.”

Charlotte! to thee, the fading gems of spring,
Immortaliz'd in Rowden's verse, I bring;
Fair as thyself, in her sweet strains appear
The varied beauties of the vernal year;
The Muse of Nature cull'd the flowery band,
Botanic Science touch'd them with her wand,
The hand of Modesty the garland twin'd,
And Wisdom fram'd it for the female mind,
And chose each lovely bud, and fragrant flower
The emblems true of youth's enraptur'd hour.

The brilliant rainbow-tints, the softer bloom,
The graceful form, the exquisite perfume,
Faded by heat, or scatter'd by the wind,
All pass away, nor “leave a wreck behind.”
Yon Cistus, mark, fairest of Flora's train,
Of velvet robe, and splendid colors vain,
Whose wide-spread blossoms proudly-flaunting gleam,
Woo the bright ray, and wanton in the beam;
To-morrow's sun shall view them strew'd around,
Borne on the breeze, or withering on the ground;
Successive flowers the parent shrub illume,
And each succession finds a daily tomb.

Alike in charms, but different far in fate,
May thy bright roses mourn no transient date!
Still may they bloom through many a golden year,
Unblanch'd by woe, “unsullied by a tear!”
Fortune for thee with Nature's bounties blend!
And purest bliss thy flowery paths attend!

THE NIGHT OF MAY.

To Miss W---

Fair is the blooming morn of June,
And fair October's brilliant moon,
And fair is July's sultry eve,
When showers the fainting earth relieve;
But fairer far thy night, sweet May,
Illum'd by Cynthia's silver ray,
When wandering through the shelter'd vale,
We fondly court the fragrant gale.

Fair was the scene: the clustering trees
Wav'd slowly in the gentle breeze;
The rustic bridge—the winding stream,
Where faintly play'd the trembling beam—
And, dimly seen, the quiet farm—
Increas'd the evening's pensive charm:
No sounds of day, with clamor rude,
Disturb'd the peaceful solitude;
Mute was all Nature's warbling train,
Save Philomel's enchanting strain:
Sweet bird! thy notes responsive find
A chord in each poetic mind;
And poets still in rapturous lay,
To thee their grateful tribute pay;
Of thee each hallow'd lyre has rung,
By Shakspeare and by Milton sung!

And, fair companion of my way!
You felt the breathing charm of May,

The lovely scene your mind inspir'd,
And bright imagination fir'd:
Now gay, now sad, our various theme
Was changeful, as life's morning dream;
Now, gravely conn'd th' historic page,
Which charms us still from age to age;
Now, glancing o'er the tuneful throng,
Explor'd the glittering mines of song;
And, varying still in fitful change,
From books to real life we range;
With noble deeds our fancy warm,
Or dwell on Nature's milder charm;
Now tell some childish frolic gay,
Now pause to view thy beauties, May!

Say, when you tread the fertile vales,
Or climb the towering hills of Wales,
Say, dearest Catherine! will you deign
To think of Berkshire's modest plain?

Yes; well I know, whate'er your lot,
You'll think of Whitley's lovely cot;

Whitley Cottage, near Reading, the residence of J. P. Reeve, Esq.

And still will Fancy's vivid ray
Frequent the well-known group pourtray:
Its hospitable master there
Shall Andrew's sportive gambols share;
And view, with still increasing joy,
The frolics of his blooming boy.
The graceful mother, young and fair,
Bends, smiling, o'er her latest care;
She, whose soft charms my verse inspire!
She, whom to know is to admire!
She, who to temper ever gay,
And feelings keen, and fancy's play,
Adds judgment true, and taste refin'd,
With every grace that decks the mind:
Alike in every scene of life,
The daughter, mother, and the wife!

Say—when for friends like these rever'd,
By kindred's sacred ties endear'd,
You feel affection's purest glow—
Will you a passing thought bestow
On her, who in the Night of May,
Delighted shar'd your converse gay?
And vary, as it may with me,
This shifting scene of woe and glee;
Whether, as now, of health possest,
With every social comfort blest;
Or, doom'd the general lot to share,
The prey of sickness or of care—
Still, when the wanton Zephyrs play,
And frolic in the sweets of May,
The dews of evening, as they fall,
Our pleasant rambles will recal.

May fate for thee bright garlands twine,
And health and peace, fair maid, be thine!

TO MY FATHER,

ON HIS RETURN FROM BOCKING, MAY 29, 1808.

From those sad scenes, where hopeless woe
No transient gleam of comfort cheers;
Where, still in silent sorrow, flow
The widow's and the orphan's tears;

From those sad scenes, where every thought
Recals the friend you lov'd so well,
And struggling sighs, with anguish fraught,
Your pitying bosom frequent swell;

From those sad scenes at length you turn,
And, pensive, seek your tranquil dome:
Then cease, my Father! cease to mourn,
And cheer again your pleasant home!

To greet you, summer smiles around,
The groves, the fields, the plains are gay;
Fair is each blossom on the ground,
Bright gleams the oak's majestic spray!

For you each floweret, that you love,
And each fair shrub, luxuriant blooms,
The gay Laburnum decks the grove,
The woodbine the soft breeze perfumes.

For you the lark's gay carols swell,
And notes of welcome grace his lay—
What notes shall Mary's pleasure tell?
What words her heart's fond welcome say?

To welcome you in vain she tries,
And vainly strives to speak ber bliss—
Then read her pleasure in her eyes!
And take her welcome in a kiss!

SONNET,

ON BEING REQUESTED TO WRITE ON SCOTTISH SCENERY.

Fair art thou, Scotia! The swift mountain stream
Gushes, with deafening roar and whitening spray,
From thy brown hills; where eagles seek their prey,
Or soar, undazzled, in the solar beam;
But, dearer far to me, be thou my theme,
My native Hampshire! Thy sweet valleys gay,
Trees, spires, and cots, that in the brilliant ray
Confus'dly glitter, like a morning dream:
And thou, fair forest! lovely are thy shades,
Thy oaks majestic, o'er the billows pale
High spreading their green arms; or the deep glades,
Where the dark holly, arm'd in prickly mail,
Shelters the yellow fern, and tufted blades,
That wave responsive to the sighing gale.

THE VOICE OF PRAISE.

There is a voice of magic power,
To charm the old, delight the young—
In lordly hall, in rustic bower,
In every clime, in every tongue,
Howe'er its sweet vibration rung,
In whispers low, in poet's lays,
There lives not one who has not hung,
Enraptur'd on the voice of praise.

The timid child, at that soft voice,
Lifts for a moment's space the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepar'd to fly:
'Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh,
And flushes o'er that rosy face;
Whilst shame and infant modesty
Shrink back with hesitating grace.

The lovely Maiden's dimpled cheek,
At that sweet voice still deeper glows;
Her quivering lips in vain would seek,
To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;
The charm her sweet confusion shows,
Oft springs from some low broken word;
O praise! to her how sweetly flows
Thine accent from the lov'd one heard!

The Hero, when a People's voice
Proclaims their idol victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dear—
It pierces to their inmost core;
He weeps, who never shed a tear,
He trembles, who ne'er shook before.

The Poet too—Ah well I deem,
Small is the need the tale to tell;
Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight dwell?
Who knows not that thy magic spell
Can charm his every care away;
In memory cheer his gloomy cell,
In hope can lend a deathless day.

'Tis sweet to watch affection's eye,
To mark the tear with love replete,
To feel the softly breathing sigh,
When friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh! a thousand times more sweet,
The praise of those we love to hear!
Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.

The lover lulls his rankling wound,
By hanging on his fair one's name;
The mother listens for the sound
Of her young warrior's growing fame;
Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame,
Of her soul's wedded partner riven;
Who cherishes the hallowed flame,
Parted on earth to meet in heaven!

That voice can quiet passion's mood,
Can humble merit raise on high,
And from the wise and from the good
It breathes of immortality;
There is a lip, there is an eye,
Where most I love to see it shine,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh—
My mother, need I say 'tis thine!

TO MY BELOVED MOTHER,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 15, 1808.

The rosy blush of blooming morn
Illumes the jasmine's fragrant bower;
Its brilliant tints the grove adorn,
And deck each dew-bespangled flower.

June's balmy fragrance scents the gale,
The meads in rich luxuriance shine;
The wild-rose gleams, in beauty pale,
And woodbines 'mid the hedge-rows twine.

The linnet, from yon hawthorn shade,
Pours his mild notes so gay and light;
And, springing from the bending blade,
The sky-lark sings at dizzy height.

All nature hails the happy day,
That smil'd on my lov'd mother's birth,—
And shall not Mary's simple lay
Attempt to tell her matchless worth?

Oh! no, still Mary strives in vain
Her mind's rich treasures to display;
Where taste and modest science reign,
And intellect's soul-piercing ray.

No; not to Mary's lay 'tis giv'n,
To paint that heart, so good, so pure!
That faith, that looks from earth to Heav'n,
And knows its blest reward secure.

Oh! long and happy may she live,
In peace and virtue beaming mild!
Long, long, a bright example give!
And bless her husband, and her child!

PROLOGUE,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BEFORE THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH, ACTED BY THE GENTLEMEN OF THE READING SCHOOL MEETING, OCTOBER 23, 1809.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. DR. VALPY.

'Twas here of late, triumphant and alone,
The tragic Muse uprear'd her double throne;

The Alcestis of Euripides, and King John, altered from Shakespeare by Dr. Valpy, had been admirably acted by the young Gentlemen of Reading School, at their Triennial Visitation, Oct. 18, 1809.

Whilst sad Admetus mourn'd domestic woe,
Or public wrongs bade English sorrow flow;
To the same chord the heart responsive rung,
In native accents, or in Grecia's tongue;
Still flow'd the tear, the pitying bosom bled,
For injur'd England, or Alcestis dead.

To-night a high, yet mirthful, theme we chuse,
And join Thalia to the buskin'd Muse;
As nature bade, immortal Shakspeare drew,
With varying shades, life's many-tinctur'd hue;
'Twas his alone, resistless, to control
Each jarring passion of the human soul;
Bright wit, and melting pathos, to combine
In the gay sportive jest, and lofty line;
Where pity claims the tear, and mirth the smile,
At once for Hotspur's death, and Falstaff's wile.
As the light showers, that dew the rose of May,
Resplendent glitter in the sunny ray,
So hangs the tear on beauty's blushing cheek,
Whilst dimpled smiles in radiant lustre break.

Now turn we then to Albion's elder days,—
Theme of our pride, our envy, and our praise!
When Percy led his gallant legions forth,
Proud to obey the Hotspur of the North,

Percy, whose valiant deeds, whose deathless fame,
Shed a bright beam on fell rebellion's name;
Till Harry Monmouth, in the glorious strife,
Despoil'd the hero's laurels with his life;
And gave the promise of that god-like day,
When haughty Gallia bow'd to England's sway.

What varied scenes this well-known spot recals!
What joyous mirth has echo'd round its walls;
In those fair hours, when childhood, blithe and gay
Cast o'er the world his visionary ray;
When rosy health, exulting, spurn'd the ground,
And hope, and life, and nature smil'd around!
Then he, who pleasure can with learning blend,
And in each pupil knows to fix a friend,
First taught, with manly voice and prouder mien,
To tread, with measur'd step, the tragic scene;
How oft with hope elate our bosoms swell'd!
How oft pale fear the rising transports quell'd!

Some mingled years of woe and bliss have flown,
Since last we call'd these anxious hopes our own;
Now thrown on active life's tumultuous stage,
New fears, new cares, our busy thoughts engage;
But still our hearts, to early feelings true,
Cling to the cherish'd wish of pleasing you;
To your indulgence we commend our cause,
And hope, yet dare not ask, your kind applause!

TO A YELLOW BUTTERFLY.

APRIL 8, 1808.

Hail! loveliest insect of the spring!
Gay, careless, buoyant flutterer, hail!
High soaring on thy downy wing,
Or sporting in the sunny vale!

Oh! lovely is thy airy form,
That wears the primrose hue so fair,
It seems as if some passing storm
Had rais'd the beauteous flower in air.

Far different from the spotted race,
That sultry June's bright suns unfold;
That seek in her fair flowers, their place,
And proud display their wings of gold.

For brilliant is their varying dye,
And, basking in the fervid ray,
They in the new-blown roses lie,
Or round the gay carnation play.

But thou, with April's modest flower,
Her violet sweet of snowy hue,
Tranquil shalt pass the noon-tide hour,
And sip content the evening dew.

Oh! may no frosts thy beauties chill!
No storms thy little frame destroy!
But, sporting gay beside the rill,
May'st thou thy transient life enjoy!

WINTER SCENERY.

JANUARY, 1809.

The dark sky lours: a crimson streak
In vain the heavy clouds would break;
The lowing herds desert the plain,
Scatter'd is all the fleecy train;
The feather'd songsters all are gone,
The dear domestic bird alone;
The cheerful robin, seeks his food,
And breaks the death-like solitude;
For, save his notes, no earthly sound
Through the chill air, is heard around:

E'en she, whose playful fondness still
Attends my steps on dale or hill;
She, who still wears the victor blue,
Maria, of the raven hue!
No longer seeks with frolic glee,
Where'er I roam, to follow me;
But shrinks within her shelter warm,
And hides in straw her graceful form.

Yet lovelier is the magic scene,
Than blooming summer's brightest green:
The icicles in crystal row,
Suspended from the pent-house low,
O'er the luxuriant ivy fall,
Or glitter on the moss-grown wall;
The level lawn, in dazzling light,
Array'd in pure unsullied white,
Scarce marks, with undulating bend,
With its smooth edge, where waters blend.

Crown'd is each grove with vestal snow,
Whilst varied colors gleam below:
The holly's deeply burnish'd green,
With coral berries faintly seen,
The oak's rich leaves of saffron hue,
The towering fir's dark misty blue,
Closer their mingling branches twine,
And through their brilliant burthen shine.

See on the pine the snow arise,
A tapering cone, it seeks the skies!
Or wreaths the rugged elm around!
Or bends the light broom to the ground!
Or, in ethereal lustre gay,
Clothes the pale aspen's flexile spray!

And, still to fancy's eye more dear,
What strange fantastic forms appear!
High arches rise, abrupt and bright,
And gothic fret-work silvery light;

There frown dark pillars, slim and tall,
And there the mouldering turrets fall!
But, emblem true of human joys,
Rais'd in an hour, an hour destroys;
Already has the brilliant ray
Melted the fairy scene away;
No fleecy whiteness decks the ground,
No glittering frost-work gleams around;
All, all are gone. The swollen flood
Spreads its stain'd waters to the wood;
Each tree, with snowy crest so fair,
That rose with gay fantastic air,
Now waves its dark boughs, rough and bare;
And o'er the hills, the groves, the plains,
The dæmon Desolation reigns!

TO CHEERFULNESS.

Hail! Goddess of the sparkling eye!
With rosy cheek and dimpled smile!
Offspring of health and industry,
Whose power can every care beguile

Alike to thee, where Hecla's snows
For ever crown the rugged steep;
Where vegetation never glows,
And scarce the sullen lichens creep;

Or, blest Italia's fertile vales,
Where Arno winds his classic stream;
Where softly blow th' unchanging gales,
Where mildly glows the sun's bright beam.

Not happier is the Tuscan swain,
When, in still evening's gentle shade,
He gaily trips along the plain,
And fondly woos his lovely maid;

Not happier he, 'mid fairy bowers,
With the soft moon-beams silver'd pale;
Than where, when polar darkness lours,
When loudly howls the wintry gale,

The Iceland peasant, by the blaze
That quivers on his moss-grown cell,
Tells the wild tale of other days,
And feels his heart to rapture swell.

For, vain are nature's countless charms
To summon bliss, or banish woe,
Unless, bright nymph! thy spirit warms,
Or thy inspiring graces glow.

O goddess of the brilliant eye,
Grant me thy soul-enchanting power!
Teach me each pensive scene to fly!
And wing with joy youth's fleeting hour!

No more I'll waste the listless day
In dreams with sickly fancy fraught,
To languid indolence a prey,
Or vain regret, or pensive thought;

No more o'er tales of fancied woe
I'll weep in sympathetic pain;
No more the ready tear shall flow
At music's sweetly plaintive strain;

No more, beneath the moon's pale beam,
I'll roam at evening's lonely hour,
List to the screech-owl's shrilly scream,
Quick, darting from her ivied bower;

Nor hanging o'er the streamlet's side,
Where waves yon aspen's foliage light;
Mark the bat flit across the tide,
Or circling wheel her eddying flight.

But, with thy cheering influence blest,
The merry dance I'll quickly join,
Mix in each gay fantastic jest,
Or seek Thalia's crowded shrine.

When laughing summer decks the plain,
I'll seek the hay-field's joyous throng,
Observe the merry rustic train,
And listen to their simple song.

And in the calm domestic hour
When closes dark November's day,
Then most I'll woo thy magic power,
To chase each gloomy thought away.

Then, by the wood-fire's sparkling light,
We'll gaily tell some sportive tale;
Court laughing fancy's wildest flight,
Nor heed the storms that shake the vale.

Oh! grant me thy unclouded ray!
And far from power, and fame, and wealth,
Thrice blest I'll pass life's varying day,
With thee, bright maid! and rosy health!

TO THE MEMORY OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Who has not felt exulting rapture's glow
For England's triumph o'er her haughty foe?
Who has not wept for England's gallant train,
That fought and died for Liberty and Spain?
Of every aid, of hope itself bereft,
Their firmness and their valor only left,
Let yon ensanguin'd plain their triumph tell;
Too dearly purchas'd—for their leader fell!

In vict'ry's arms thus Abercrombie died!
Thus Nelson bled, our sorrow and our pride;
Still Britain mourns stern fate's relentless doom,
And 'twines the hero's laurels round his tomb.
Lamented chieftain! thy well-skill'd command
From sure destruction sav'd thy faithful band;
'Twas thine with them each painful toil to share,
'Twas thine alone the mental pangs to bear,
When warring elements against thee rose,
Before thee doubtful friends—behind thee foes;
And when at length Corunna's towers appear'd,
And English vessels their proud ensigns rear'd,
'Twas thine to see thy bold pursuers fly—
Nobly to conquer—undismay'd to die.
Thy parting words to filial duty given;
And thy last thought to England and to Heaven,

No tawdry scutcheons hang around thy tomb:
No venal mourners wave the sable plume;

No statues rise to mark the sacred spot,
Nor pealing organ swells the solemn note;
A hurried grave thy soldiers' hands prepare,
Thy soldiers' hands the mournful burthen bear;
The vaulted sky, to earth's extremest verge,
Thy canopy; the cannon's roar thy dirge.
Affection's sorrows dew thy lowly bier,
And weeping valor sanctifies the tear.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

At length to bless our tranquil dome,
At friendship's call, dear maid, you come;
And, pleas'd, exchange the outline grand
Of mountainous Northumberland,
For scenes, though not unknown to fame,
Where all is spiritless and tame.
Though through our valleys softly flowing,
His waves in the bright sun-beams glowing,
The silver Thames in classic pride,
And Kennet's mingled waters glide,

And meads in richest verdure green,
Hedge rows and straw-roof'd cots are seen,
And spires high tapering to the skies,
And graceful villas frequent rise.

Full smoothly flows the lay that tells,
Of smiling vales and gentle swells;
But how can I, a lowland maid,
Rear'd in fair Berkshire's softest shade,
Us'd to the slowly-weeping rill,
The forest rich, the fertile hill,
The balmy gale that gently blows,
Scarce ruffling the expanded rose;
How, my sweet mountain nymph, can I
Sing the dark grandeur, stern and high,
That frowns beneath your northern sky?
Yet well I love that rocky strand,
That proudly-fair Northumberland:
For there, amid their mountains wild,
Your venerable parents smil'd;

There, still to kindred friendship true,
My noble cousins first I knew;
And with a sister's love was prest,
Sweet Mary! to thy glowing breast;
There, too, the last and dearest tie,
My father op'd his infant eye;
Play'd on those hills, a sportive boy,
And found the day too short for joy.
And oft parental fondness told,
The treasur'd tales of days of old;
Oft Tyne's fair banks his memory drew,
For well those pleasant banks he knew,
Knew where the fairest flowerets spread,
And where the timid bullfinch bred,—
And ever with the landscape gay,
Mix'd tales of childhood's happy day;
And ever on the darling theme
Threw May's bright sun, and fancy's beam;
Then, passing, view'd his ardent child,
And smil'd to hear her projects wild;

Yet cherish'd still her wish to see
The scenes of his lone infancy.

How true the wish! how pure the glow!
My lovely friend, full well you know.
Oft have you said, one heart, one mind,
The father and the daughter join'd,
In more than filial union twin'd.
'Twas flattery that; but to my ear
Was never flattery half so dear.
Oh! who can e'er his virtues tell,
That loves so truly and so well?
When I would say how firm his mind,
I only think, to me how kind!
When I would tell the playful wit,
With which his radiant eyes are lit;
I only see the soften'd rays,
That fondly beam his Mary's praise.

When I would tell the satire keen,
That pierces dark corruption's scene;
I only hear his stifled breath,
When, hovering on the verge of death,
In speechless agony I lay,
By him restor'd to life and day;
Till gratitude's too keen excess
Dissolves in melting tenderness.

Oh! brighter these warm feelings glow'd!
Faster the tide of memory flow'd!
When—vision oft by fancy rear'd—
My father's native home appear'd.
How different from the blooming bowers,
Breathing perfume from sweetest flowers,
In never-changing verdure gay,
And sparkling in the beam of May!
Now chill November's lowering gloom,
Seal'd nature in her annual tomb;

And darksome fog, and misty rain,
Hid hill and valley, wood and plain.
Scarcely we saw the waving Tyne,
Through his rich vales in beauty twine;
Nought met our eyes but giant trees,
Yielding their last leaves to the breeze
Save, where the sky's grey tinge was broke
By sullen clouds of blacker smoke;
Aud dusky children, by the cot,
Spoke the dark miner's wretched lot;
Bare was the wood, and damp the ground,
And all was sad,—for nature frown'd.

Have you not often dreamt, my fair,
Of bliss that mortals may not share?
Enchanting vales, that seem to rise
Fair as an earthly paradise?
Strains, such as charm the raptur'd ears
Of seraphs hovering o'er the spheres?

100

Such fragrance, as entranc'd the world
When Heavens immortal gates unfurl'd?
Soft murmuring breezes, that might calm
Despair's wild rage, with holy balm?
Deem'd all these angel-joys your own,
Then wak'd in darkness, and alone?
Felt a keen pang of sudden pain,
And turn'd, and tried to dream again?

So felt I when gay fancy's theme
Had vanish'd like an airy dream;
And still I cling, in reason's spite,
To hope's sweet tales and visions bright:
She whispers, that the joy may come
Again with my lov'd sire to roam,
And tread in summer's rosy hours,
His native fields and verdant bowers.

101

Oh! could I frame my artless lays
To speak, in accents meet, thy praise,
Northumberland! my rustic string
Of many a beauty wild should ring;
Of those fair ruins, which your sire
With all a chieftain's pride inspire,
As pointing to the mouldering walls,
“Behold,” he cries, “our father's halls!”

The ruins of Mitford Castle, near Norpeth, Northum-berland.

Of Kirkley's hospitable bowers;

Kirkley, the elegant mansion of the ancient Family of the Ogles.

Of stately Alnwick's gothic towers;
And Cheviot! of thy mountains grey,
Bedew'd by Linskill's dashing spray:

Linskill Spout, a water-fall in the Cheviot hills.

But all unequal are my lays
To speak, of scenes like these, the praise.

And see! amid these landscapes wild,
The vale in gentler beauties mild;
Where, rising from the shady wood,
Ascends your sister's bright abode,

Little Harle Tower, in Northumberland, the seat of the Right Hon. Lady Charles Aynsley.

102

Fair towers, to memory ever dear,
How desolate they now appear!
No more, dear mansion! can'st thou boast
The happy guest, the courteous host;
Thy noble master leaves thy halls,
To go where sacred duty calls;

Lord Charles Aynsley left his Lady's venerable mansion for his Deanery of Bocking, Essex, 1806, and left it, alas, never to return! He died in the prime of life, universally beloved and lamented, May, 1808.

And with him goes the lovely dame,
Who shares his virtues and his fame;
No more is blooming Charlotte there,
In youthful beauty beaming fair;
No more the cherub infant train,
With fairy steps, trip o'er the plain;
Nor dearest John his sports pursues,
Unmindful of the morning dews!

Rememberest thou, dear Mary, say,
The pleasures of that antumn day,
When through old Bothall's shady wood
We roam'd, by Wansbeck's devious flood?

103

Oh! never sure was scene so fair!
Scarce wav'd the aspen leaf in air;
The murmuring of the gentle stream,
That glitter'd in the sunny beam;
The trees, in various foliage seen,
Some deck'd in summer's livery green,
And some in autumn's mellow hue,
Reflected in the waters blue;
At distance seen the shelter'd mill,
Suspended o'er the tinkling rill;—
Sweet was that autumn day! and ne'er
Have I beheld a scene so fair.

Yet, though we boast not scenes like these,
Perchance our rustic walks may please;
While, gently fann'd by western gales,
We wander through the fertile vales;
Where blooms each floweret of the spring,
And birds their sweetest carols sing;

104

Or, view the peasant's white-wash'd cot,
And ponder o'er his simple lot;
Or, listen in the shelter'd lane,
To Philomela's tender strain.

Come then, my lovely cousin, come
And share with us our pleasant home!
No splendid fêtes, no costly cheer,
Dear Mary! will await you here!
But simple pleasures, rural fare,
And merry rambles we will share;
And still, where'er our steps we bend,
Friendship and peace our paths attend.

105

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

Thy youth and beauty all admire,
And yet, fair Caroline, I'm free;
Thine eyes the coldest heart might fire,
Yet harmless dart their rays on me.

While gentle Julia's artless grace
My soul with love's soft transport warms,
Unmov'd I view thy matchless face,
Yet yield to Julia's simple charms.

106

'Tis that her smile its dimple owes
To gaiety devoid of art;
'Tis that her eyes' mild lustre flows
From her own pure and spotless heart.

Thy beauty, fair and haughty maid!
Is transient as a summer's day;
But Julia's charms can never fade,
Her soul will bloom amid decay.

107

SONG.

The fairest things are those which live,
And vanish ere their name we give;
The rosiest clouds in evening's sky,
Are those which soonest fade and fly;
The loveliest hue which decks the rose,
Is when the mossy buds unclose,
Half-opening forth with smiling air,
Like red lips of my lady fair.

The balmiest hour the seasons bring,
Is that which summer joins to spring;
The sweetest moment of the day,
Is when the grey dawn slides away;

108

The brightest rays are those which fly
Through April showers, and dance, and die;
Just quivering through the dewy air,
Like eye-beams of my lady fair.

109

ON A BUST OF FOX.

In this cold Bust, a faint attempt we see,
A vain attempt, great Fox, to picture thee.
For say, can bronze, or marble e'er impart
That magic charm, warm-breathing from the heart?
That fire, which darting from th' expressive eye,
Wings with redoubled force the keen reply?
Or, when thy eloquence, with milder flow,
In Freedom's cause, bids wondering senates glow?
Or, when obeying friendship's sacred call,
Thou mourn'st illustrious Russell's early fall?

110

In those blest moments, when bright genius pours
At feeling's shrine his tributary stores,
Vainly the imitative arts aspire,
To give thy varying features all their fire;
Yet, though in vain the sculptor seek to trace,
With venturous hand thy soul-illumin'd face,
Thy fame a nobler monument shall prove,
Fix'd on the firmest base—a nation's love:
To distant ages shall thy name descend,
And grateful Britons hail Britannia's friend.

111

THE WILLOW.

[_]

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF J. J. ROUSSEAU.

I Planted thee, and watch'd thy growth,
Thou tender plaintive Willow-tree!
And oft, amid thy yielding boughs,
The little birds would sing to me.

Ah! sing no more ye little birds!
Ye happy, fond, and faithful band!
Poor Elinor was blithe as ye,
Till Henry left his native land.

To seek the gold of eastern climes,
From love he flies, and death he braves—
Alas! when bliss at home is found,
Why risk it on th' uncertain waves?

112

TO MAY.

1808.

Hail, lovely morn! the drooping spring
Revives to greet the youthful May,
And all his treasur'd charms will bring,
To doubly bless this hallow'd day.

The sun dispels sad April's gloom,
And darts again his cheering ray,
And wakes all nature from her tomb,
To hail, with him, the lovely May.

O doubly welcome art thou, May!
For sad were gloomy April's tears;
No “blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray,”
And scarce a budding leaf appears.

113

And scatter'd by the driving hail—
Where erst fair violets bloom'd around,
And spread their fragrance on the gale—
The mangled primrose strews the ground.

With tottering steps, the new-fall'n lamb
Seeks shelter from th' inclement sky;
And meekly couches by its dam,
And faintly breathes its plaintive cry.

From yonder bush, the blast so rude
The blackbird's clay-built nest has torn;
The grove, where late his bride he woo'd,
Now echoes to his notes forlorn.

All Nature felt the general chill,
The lightest heart a gloom confest;
It deaden'd fancy's magic thrill,
Imagination's fires represt.

114

But at thy mild approach, fair May!
Shall Spring his fainting charms renew;
The sun's enlivening beams shall play,
On meadows bright with morning dew.

There, on the primrose bank so fair,
Shall fresher, brighter flowerets bloom;
And cowslips, through the ambient air,
Shall shed around their soft perfume.

The meek-eyed lamb, on verdant plain,
With frolic mien shall skip and play;
The blackbird build his nest again,
And gaily chant his amorous lay.

Again the glowing ray inspires,
And nature all around is gay;
And cold the heart, and dull its fires,
That feels not thy enchantment, May!

115

THE WREATHS.

This Tale is taken from the following passage in Mr. D. Israeli's elegant and amusing work, “The Curiosities of Literature:”—

“I recollect a pretty story, which, in the Talmud or Gemara, some Rabbi has attributed to Solomon.— The incident passed as Solomon sat surrounded by his court. At the foot of the throne stood the inquisitive Sheba; in each hand she held a wreath of flowers, the one composed of natural, the other of artificial flowers. Art, in the labor of the mimic wreath, had exquisitely emulated the lively hues and the variegated beauties of nature; so that, at the distance it was held by the Queen, for the inspection of the King, it was deemed impossible for him to decide, as her question imported, which wreath was the natural, and which the artificial. The sagacious Solomon seemed posed; yet to be vanquished, though in a trifle, by a trifling woman, irritated his pride. The son of David—he who had written treatises on the vegetable productions, ‘from the Cedar to the Hyssop,’ to acknowledge himself outwitted by a woman, with shreds of paper and glazed paintings! The honor of the Monarch's reputation for divine sagacity seemed diminished; and the whole Jewish court looked solemn and melancholy. At length an expedient presented itself to the King; and, it must be confessed, worthy of the natural philosopher. Observing a cluster of bees hovering about a window, he commanded that it should be opened; it was opened, the bees rushed into the court, and alighted immediately on one of the wreaths, while not a single one fixed on the other. The decision was not then difficult; the learned Rabbis shook their beards in rapture, and the baffled Sheba had one more reason to be astonished at the wisdom of Solomon!”
Curiosities of Literature, vol. I. page 556.
A TALE.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

What flower, in nature's charms so fair,
With dear Eliza can compare,
Whene'er some sweet, some glad surprise
Bids her soft blushes mantling rise?
But when the fair, on conquest bent,
To charm some favor'd youth intent,
Distrusting her pale maiden rose,
With artificial radiance glows,
At distance still as fair, as true,
The blooming beauty stands to view;
Approach, and all her magic's flown,
Her cheeks their borrow'd tints disown;

116

This can alone her power disarm,
And bid Eliza cease to charm.
Then why, sweet Maid! to whom was giv'n
Each gentler grace by favoring Heaven,
In whose fair form and lovely face
The mind's pure excellence we trace,
Oh! why those native charms forego,
For gaudy art's delusive glow?
Forsake the meretricious train,
That people folly's wide domain!
And listen to the tale I sing
Of high Judea's far-fam'd king;
He, whose recorded wisdom bears
The touch-stone of three thousand years,
And will immortal shine,
Bright, as when through the world was known
The name of Solomon alone;
When monarchs bow'd before his throne,
And worshipp'd at his shrine.

117

'Twas then, to swell his mighty name,
Arriv'd fair Sheba's royal dame,
For knowledge much renown'd;
Perchance to prove if just his fame,
Perchance to win his heart, she came
With wit and beauty crown'd.
Howe'er it chanc'd, the learned fair,
By Sheba's sages taught,
Oft hop'd the monarch to ensnare,
With wily questions fraught.
Vain were her hopes, her wishes vain,
Baffled was all the studious train;
Still could that all-pervading mind
A clue to every labyrinth find,
Could learning's gordian knot untie:
Where art was vain, where science fail'd,
Quick-piercing intellect prevail'd;
And sophists fled, and sages quail'd,
Before his radiant eye.

118

At length, no more on study bent,
But much on female arts intent,
The crafty queen devis'd a plan,
To tame the pride of lordly man;
Force him to woman's powers to yield,
And baffled, vanquish'd, fly the field.
Two lovely wreaths soon rose to view,
Alike in size, in form, and hue.
The royal fair one saw and prais'd,
And piercing through the courtly ring,
She in each hand a garland rais'd,
And stood before the king.

And ne'er did Spring's enchanting hours
Rear purer buds or fairer flowers:
For there the blushing roses blow,
There lilies boast their summer snow;
And there each flower of brilliant dye,
That blooms beneath fair Judah's sky,
Or scents the gales of Araby.

119

With nicest art and purest taste,
The many-color'd blossoms plac'd
Like fragments of the rainbow bright,
In softening, varying, tints unite.
Or lovelier still by contrast's power,
The dark leaves mingle with the flower,
And jasmines on their polish'd bed
Around their pallid lustre shed,
Like stars that gleam in midnight hour.

“Here, mighty monarch,” cried the fair,
(Raising the lovely wreaths in air)
“Of nature, and of art the pride,
“To thee I bring. Behold! decide!
“One from the garden's fragrant store,
“To me my duteous maidens bore;
“The artist's imitative hand
“The other fram'd at my command.
“Say, then, great king, most wise of men!
“Say, can thine art the difference ken?”

120

Paus'd the high dame. The elders round
In doubt and consternation frown'd;
For well they thought no human eye
Could in those wreaths distinction spy.
In each the lily's snowy bell
Was stain'd with fertilizing flour,
And in the jonquil's golden cell
Hung the bright dew-drop's crystal shower.
Low murmurs pass'd around the ring,
Of sorrow, that their far-fam'd king,
Who every shrub and floweret knew,
From herbs that in the valley grew,
To the proud tree of Lebanon,
Should thus, by painted toys misled,
Be doom'd to vail his honor'd head,
By woman's arts o'erthrown.

Collected on his throne of state,
And calm the haughty monarch sate;

121

But in his eyes' expression keen,
Triumphant pleasure might be seen;
Small cause had he to fear!
For in a window near, a swarm
Of bees their daily task perform,
Their curious fabric rear.
From his high throne a page he sends,
Who straight the casement wide extends.
The clustering tribe, to instinct true,
To nature's living flowerets flew;
To the rich rose delighted clung,
Around the fragrant jasmine hung,
And sipp'd the balmy dew.

The courtiers and the royal dame
Bow'd to the monarch's well-earn'd fame:—
When, towering o'er the flattering ring,
Thus spoke Judea's mighty king:

122

“Those praises are not mine;
“'Tis instinct's true unerring power,
“That guides the insect to the flower,
“Bids him to shun art's gaudy bower,
“And fly to Nature's shrine;
“And Man, of wit, of reason proud,
“Might learn from yonder buzzing crowd,
“To fly the false and painted train;
“In Nature's form, in Nature's mind,
“His best, his only blessing find,
“Nor make that blessing vain.”

123

JOANNA'S PROPHECY.

ARGUMENT.

The Prophecy of the destruction of Bath, on Good Friday last, which afforded so memorable an instance of the credulity of the nineteenth century, cannot yet be forgotten. With the usual fate of reports, which “gather as they roll,” the terrific denunciation had, when it reached Reading, been extended to Bristol and London; one of which was to be overwhelmed by the tide, and the other destroyed by fire, at the same moment that Bath was to be swallowed up by an earthquake. Under these impressions, the following poem was written; and the result of the former part of the prophecy happily precludes the necessity of apologizing to this modern Cassandra for having added fresh horrors to her dreadful prediction.

124

Woe, Albion, to thy cities proud!
Death hovers o'er the fated crowd;
Fly to some wood-embosom'd home,
Far from the city's splendid dome,
Fly, fly, whilst yet you may!
Woe to the day of fear and dread,
The day the blest Redeemer bled!
E'en in the consecrated hour,
Again shall midnight darkness lour,
And cloud the noon-tide ray.

125

Then shall the volleying thunder roar
From Cambria's hills to Devon's shore;
Red flashes light the darken'd Heaven,
Trees, mountains, rocks, in twain be riven,
Whilst earth shall ope her womb.
Then tremble, sinners! for in vain
Ye fly, ye death-devoted train!
Vainly the screams of terror rise!
While shrieks of madness rend the skies,
Closes your living tomb.
Bristol, no more to Afric's strand,
Thy ships shall part from Freedom's land,
Thy deeds are past. Th' o'erwhelming tide
Shall sweep away thy wealth, thy pride,
Destroy thy very name.
Bath, fair abode of vanity,
Oh, where is now thy revelry?
O'erthrown thy domes, thy storied walls,
Gay nobles perish in thy halls,
With many a beauteous dame.

126

Still, still I see that horrid wild!
Where lovely cities gaily smil'd,
Rocks, ruins, pillars, mountains frown,
And echo to the dismal groan
Of sorrow and of pain.
Vainly yon buried wretches strive,
Ne'er shall they leave those walls alive:
Yon frantic mother, to her breast
Her lifeless child has fondly prest,
Nor knows her cares are vain.
There dead and dying men I see,
In every form of misery;
Those sounds of woe, those sights of fear,
I still must see, I still must hear,
With brain to madness driven.
But what is yonder blazing light,
That glares upon my aching sight;
Now soars in dazzling columns high,
Now casts red radiance on the sky,
And lights the eastern Heaven?

127

'Tis London!—God of mercy save
Her millions from their fiery grave!
Oh! grant the sons of wealth and crime,
Some short reprieve, some little time,
For penitence and prayer!
It may not be—the blaze is o'er;
The smouldering ruins glare no more;
But long shall England's sorrows rise,
Widows and orphans pour the cries
Of anguish and despair!

128

THE PEN AND THE SWORD.

ARGUMENT.

The following fragment is chiefly taken from a French translation of the 40th chapter of the Tahkemoni, a Hebrew work, supposed to have been written about the 13th century, by the Rabbi Jehuda Charizi, and in which that author attempts to imitate Hariri, one of the most celebrated Arabic poets of his time. I have so materially altered the structure of the poem, and changed, or totally omitted so many passages, that I can scarcely call these verses an imitation of the beautiful original, from which most of the images are derived. Yet even my imperfect translation may convey some idea of the fire and boldness of the Hebrew Poet.

129

And dar'st thou then with me compare,
Frail fleeting passenger of air!
Say, am not I my country's rock?
The lion in the battle's shock?
I pour impetuous from afar
The mighty torrent of the war;
Like Kissoun's waters, Phison's flood,
Spreads far the whelming tide of blood!
Forsaken parents well can tell
How fierce the raging currents swell;
Deserted lands the tide-mark form,
And nations perish in the storm.

130

Bright is the forked lightning's stream!
As bright, as fatal too, my beam!
From me the bravest warrior flies,
Or pausing bleeds, and sinks, and dies.
And as the dews of Heaven that fall
On vines that clothe the cottage wall,
Send life through every drooping cell,
The tendrils curl, the clusters swell;
So baths of blood my powers restore,
My nourishment, the hero's gore!
From me the lion's princely whelp
Expects and finds his only help;
Her prey from me the vulture seeks,
And pays me with her dismal shrieks;
And with the wild wolf's deepen'd howl,
Makes music for my restless soul;
Fear not! whilst I exist, ye ne'er
Shall pangs of thirst and hunger share;
Still be the warrior's flesh your food!
Still be your drink the hero's blood!

131

And dar'st thou, frail and brittle reed
Match thy weak word with my proud deed?
Can'st thou resist the eddying storm?
Will not the flames consume thy form?
And I, whom thou hast dar'd to brave,
My very touch would be thy grave.

Yes, such thou art, the pen replied—
Yes, such is war's ensanguin'd tide!
Thine be the fame to latest times,
To shine supreme in blood and crimes.

O Innocents untimely slain!
O Matrons kill'd in child-birth pain!
Babes from your mothers' bosoms borne!
Sons from your dying fathers torn!
Nations of orphans and of slaves!
Unpeopled earth and peopled graves!

132

'Tis yours to tell what endless fame
This all-consuming sword may claim.

And canst thou, fell destroyer, dare
My pure unblemish'd rights to share!
Learn thy contracted sphere to scan;
If strength were power, then what were Man?
The elephant had rul'd the world,
And monarchs from their thrones had hurl'd:
'Tis mind, 'tis reason's sovereign sway,
That nations own, and states obey.

And what art thou? and what am I?
The globe shall hear the proud reply.—
Me, science, wisdom, virtue claim,
And gain a never-ending fame.
Through me, the eloquence, that dies
Fast as the fleeting shadow flies,

133

To ages yet unborn shall show
The priest's pure zeal, the patriot's glow.
Through me the high behest ye share,
That bids frail man his fellow spare;
And still the heavenly thunders roll
“Commit no murder” on the soul!

Thou dwell'st among the mountain rocks,
Haunt of the chamois, and the fox;
Thou sleep'st upon the rugged bed,
Where foaming torrents erst have spread;
Thou roams't along the blasted heath,
Or shades of plunder and of death,
Where murd'rers ply their dreadful trade,
And bathe in blood thy reeking blade.
Such is thy fate! and dar'st thou then
Compare thee with the blameless pen?
Scourge of the weak, but wisdom's slave,
Dar'st thou to threat an early grave?

134

My waving banners once unfurl'd,
Have launch'd thee o'er a conquer'd world:
My breath can bid the havoc cease,
And sheath thy gory blade in peace.

135

BEAUTY:

AN ODE.

Who hath not, kneeling at thy shrine,
Vow'd fealty and duty,
Own'd thy mild power and sway divine,
O never-dying Beauty!
That shrine still wears fair woman's form,
Still garlanded with blushes warm,
Still lighted by her eye;
But different form and different face,
Varying in tint, in shape, and grace,
Rules under every sky.

136

Nor breathes there one who knows to tell
Where most the Goddess loves to dwell:
In Indian girl, in Negro maid,
In the fair flower of Northern shade,
Men trace the varying spell.
Where is bright Beauty's witching zone?
All nations claim it for their own,
And deem that in their land alone,
Is Beauty's coral cell.

The artist views Her in that piece,
Which might immortalize thee, Greece!
Had Time, destroying all thy glory,
Left only that to tell thy story;
The lover in his mistress' eye,
The poet in his fantasy:
'Tis now the magic of the face,
'Tis now the form's surpassing grace;
'Tis now a glance, bright, kind, and clear,
'Tis now a smile, and now a tear;

137

And shrouded oft by Fancy's veil,
From melody her spells arise;
As blind men deem the nightingale
The fairest bird that flies.

Doth she not dwell in yon bright maid
With tresses like the raven's wing;
Whose cheeks might bid the roses fade,
To mark their brilliant coloring?
With towering form erect and high,
With head uprais'd and lifted eye,
She treads in unblench'd majesty;
She treads, nor looks upon the earth,
But that dark eye's commanding ray
Calls every man of mortal birth,
To bow to Beauty's sway.
O lovely in her very pride,
As calm, as pure, as dignified,

138

As the chaste Orb that rules the night,
Extinguishing each planet light,
She passes on her way.

Doth she not dwell in yonder form
That seems inskied and sainted?
Th' Anemone, fair child of storm,
Less delicately painted!
Her form is of such airy lightness,
That, but for its celestial brightness,
'Twould seem a shadow resting:
Her neck of such a dazzling whiteness,
As swans the rude stream breasting;
Whilst her fair cheek's effulgent blush
Seems like the evening's rosy flush,
On Alpine snows reflected;
And the bright tresses of her hair,
Like sunbeams round her forehead fair,
By the light gale directed,

139

Form round her face a glory proud,
And play around that mild blue eye,
Like fragment of the noon-day sky,
Seen through a fleecy cloud.

See'st thou yon girl quick dancing by,
Chacing the painted butterfly,
Unconscious of her power;
Little she recks of lover's sigh,
But sports away the hour.
Dwells Beauty in that frolic grace,
That airy bound, that playful race;
In look now saucy, and now meek;
In modesty's soft blushing cheek;
Now graceful woman, coy and mild,
Now all that charms us in the child?

140

Her hazle eye, unfix'd and bright,
Dazzles with ever-changing light,
Like flames toss'd by the wind;
Now swimming in quick-passing sadness,
Now laughing in her soul's pure gladness,
The mirror of her mind:
Her lips,—the smiles those lips that curl
Twin cherries seem to sever;
And those two rows of living pearl
Has Ceylon rival'd never.
She shakes her head, to clear the hair
That clusters o'er her brow so fair;
And the quick motion wakes the grace
That dimples o'er that playful face;
Her lightning glance, her blush, her smile,
Would force old age to gaze awhile,
Would misery's sigh repress:
None can define the witching spell;
If it be Beauty none can tell;
All feel 'tis loveliness.—

141

And what is Beauty but the power
To steal the soul away?
And what so fair as Beauty's flower,
Lit, Genius, by thy ray?

142

FAIR ELEANOR: A TALE.

Fair Eleanor sate all alone in her bower,
And mus'd on her Knight as she pluck'd the spring-flower;
“O Ethelbert! Ethelbert! did you not swear,
“With December's chaste snow-drop to garland my hair!

“Now Winter is gone, and Spring passes away,
“Yet still with some bright Spanish beauty you stray;
“Forgotten, forsaken, I sigh,—once you said
“No beauty could rival your innocent maid.”

143

And most lovely the maiden: the almond that shed
Its soft bloom on her cheeks, stole their delicate red;
Whilst her bosom's pure snow, and her eyes' liquid blue,
Sham'd the harebel and lily that round her feet grew.

Still was Ethelbert absent—still Eleanor wept:
Suspense, in thy tortures how slow the days crept!
Yet suspense it seem'd bliss to the tidings that came,
“Thy Ethelbert weds with a fair Spanish Dame.”

She breath'd not a sigh, and she shed not a tear;
She threw off her rich jewels and maidenly geer;
And in guise of a page o'er the sea she will fly,
To steal a last look of her lover, and die.

O fair is yon Castle and olive-crown'd hill!
And sweetly the orange-grove waves o'er the rill!
And the sun glitters bright on a proud cavalcade,
Which winds round the mountain in nuptial parade.

144

A page faint and weary sate by the road-side,
“Say which is the bridegroom and who the fair bride?”
“That Knight is the bridegroom who leads the gay band
“And he weds the bright heiress of Merida's land.”

Poor Eleanor cover'd her eyes from the sight
They had strain'd for so long, of her own perjur'd Knight;
Yet she turn'd, whilst with grief shook her delicate frame,
To view the proud beauty of Ethelbert's dame.

Jetty black was her hair and her eyes' beamy light,
Outdazzled the gems on her bosom so bright;
But oft in that dark eye's expression, I ween,
Were haughtiness, malice, and treachery seen.

Finely form'd were her lips, and the teeth they disclos'd,
Whiter far than the pearls round her girdle dispos'd;
Yet those rosy-dew'd lips that out-tinctur'd the morn,
When they strove for a smile, curl'd to wrinkles of scorn.

145

Sorely Eleanor sigh'd as she gaz'd on that face,
On that soft swelling bosom, that towering grace;—
And she thought of the pale rose the warm sun had blench'd,
And the blue eyes, whose mild rays long sorrow had quench'd.

The cap hid her fair hair, and the doublet her form,
And she droop'd like the snow-drop that bends to the storm;
She sigh'd as she gaz'd on each quivering limb,
“How shrunken! how alter'd!—but all was for him!”

Sir Ethelbert pass'd with his haughty young bride;
O vainly for utterance poor Eleanor tried!
But she dropt on her knee, as before him she prest,
Whilst she clasp'd his rich robe to her agoniz'd breast.

He knew the blue eyes and the innocent look,
And his conscience-struck heart ill her presence could brook;
He turn'd to proud Constance and thought of her land:
“Away with thee, boy”—was the false one's command.

146

She sunk at his feet, and she scream'd as she fell;
Oh long on his ear shall that piercing scream dwell!
It shall mix with the strains in his gay feudal hall,
In his sleep it shall haunt him, in battle appal!

Full short were the joys that Sir Ethelbert found
In his fair Spanish dame, or her fair Spanish ground;
No sway but their lady's her vassals would own;
A new paramour came, and her light love was flown.

Though perjur'd the Knight, yet his spirit was brave,
“Proud Constance, thy master will ne'er be thy slave!”
She spake not a word, but the glance of her eye,
In its horrible brightness, proclaim'd,—Thou shalt die.

O mild was the season and lovely the morn,
When Ethelbert rode forth with hound and with horn:
The high-mettled courser scarce brook'd his firm rein,
As his ear caught the sound of the bugle's gay strain.

147

At eve to the castle came huntsman and hound,
But mute was the Clarion's heart-cheering sound:
The cavaliers cluster'd around the arch'd door,
But the generous courser no Ethelbert bore.

The dark eye of Constance, ungrac'd by a tear,
Spoke no feminine softness, no natural fear:
“The wild boar has slain him,”—so ran the dark tale,
And, shock'd at her calmness, the murderer turn'd pale.

Hollow murmurs the blast through the chesnut that blows,
Where deep in the dingle the wild briar grows:
Father Joachim wander'd from cloister and cell,
As the calm breeze of night on his charmed ear fell.

“'Tis the music of nature”—Ah what was that tone
That broke on its pauses? an agoniz'd groan!
The moon glimmer'd bright on the thick-tangled wood,
And show'd, in the damp glen, a Knight bath'd in blood.

148

The Friar has rais'd him from off the cold ground;
Has chaf'd his pale temples, and staunch'd his wide wound;
From his hair wrung the dew, cleans'd his hands from the gore,
And the knight to St. Clare's holy turrets he bore.

“O father, I die!—had I died ere the hour,
“When my cruelty blasted one innocent flower,”—
He paus'd; high above him a sullen bell swung,
And he shook as he thought, 'twas his death-dirge that rung.

“'Tis a sister departing;” faint, faltering, and slow,
To the Chapel the Father and Ethelbert go;
The portal op'd wide, and the wounded Knight shrunk
From the taper's bright glare, as exhausted he sunk.

That hymn, which a wandering seraph might hear,
And deem it the Cherubim hovering near!
The hymn for the dying—unearthly the strain!
Soon rous'd him to life, and to anguish again.

149

He gaz'd on the abbess and each sainted maid,
And he gaz'd on the bier where the dying was laid:
How dreadful his shriek, as that form met his view,
And the blue eyes and innocent features he knew!

Her pale face bent upwards, all tranquil she lay,
As if her pure spirit had glided away;
Exulting she waited her heavenly birth,
When love for a moment recall'd her to earth.

Sweet and holy her smile, a faint blush ting'd her cheek,—
Though life was exhausted, love struggled to speak:
“My Ethelbert,—bless thee!”—the feeble sound past,
And the sigh that she breath'd was fair Eleanor's last.

Yet none thought her dead—for the blush, and the smile,
On her beautiful features still rested awhile;
As the beams of the Sun, from the dull valley fled,
Still play on the Appennine's snow-crested head.

150

“She is gone!”—Still he clasp'd her cold hand to his heart,
“My Eleanor, never again shall we part!”
His blood flow'd on her bosom, and faint grew his breath,
And they, in life sever'd, are partners in death.

151

THE LOVE-SICK MAID;

AN IMITATION OF THE WRITERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Stranger, dost see yon pallid maid,
Reclin'd beneath the willow shade,
Who still, with listless mien,
Plucks the wild flowers that round her gleam,
And watches them sail down the stream,
Trilling a sad wild air between?
Would'st hear, what dims those eyes so sheen?
Know, this it is to love!

'Tis thus, upon her lute to play,
Warbling the weary hours away,
Like plaintive Philomel;
Yet, to one tender pensive song
Returning still, the notes prolong,

152

Still on that air enraptur'd dwell,
Hark! 'tis the song he lov'd so well,—
O this it is to love!

It is, when with the painter's dies,
She bids a new creation rise,
Surpassing mortal grace;
In Surrey's form, in Sydney's eye,
In hero, or in Deity,
With faithful pencil, still to trace
Her lover's form, and look, and face;
O this it is to love!

It is to shun his very name,
Yet thus in secret nurse the flame,
As rain-drops feed the fire,
So the blaze lit at Fancy's eyes,
Sprinkled with tears and fann'd with sighs,
As fears depress, or hopes aspire,
Still fiercer burns and blazes higher;
O this it is to love!

153

It is to doubt her beauty's power,
To languish o'er the faded flower,
Drooping and sad like her;
To doubt her glass, to doubt her eyes,
To shun false flattery's honey'd lies,
Yet still, from one dear flatterer,
Such praise to every sound prefer;
O this it is to love!

'Tis hating her whom he commends;
'Tis envying all he calls his friends;
Yet still his presence flying;
'Tis loathing the Sun's blessed light,
'Tis moaning thro' the tedious night;
'Tis musing, weeping, wailing, sighing,
Not yet to die, yet always dying;
Know, stranger, this is love!

154

THE MARINER'S TALE.

ARGUMENT.

Almost every circumstance of the following Poem is taken from a narrative, in the eighth volume of the Naval Chronicle, of the escape of the late Captain Boyce from the Luxborough, in the year 1727. Even the introductory stanzas are founded on fact: the seventh of July, the æra of his extraordinary preservation, was always held sacred by this venerable officer, and spent in darkness, in fasting, and in prayer.

155

“Sweet is the breath of fair July,
And bright the Sun's warm ray;
Yet thou in darkness shroudest thee,
To fast, and weep, and pray!”

“'Tis not for sin, nor foul misdeed,
I bend in penance low:
Come listen to an old man's tale,
And thou the cause shalt know.

156

How lovely was the summer sea,
Lit by the setting beam,
Whose gay light, level with the wave,
Came dancing o'er the stream!

And gentle as that sparkling ray,
The breeze of Evening blew;
And calm was Ocean's clear expanse,
And pure the Sky's bright blue.

It was no Ship of War that sail'd
Upon the tranquil Main:
And light was every jocund breast;
And blythe the sailor's strain.

At midnight, still in calm repose
Air, Sky, and Ocean lay;—
What is that light that flames on high,
And blazes o'er the spray?

157

What are those shrieks that rend the heart,
As still the flame glares higher?
What are they?—Oh I hear them still!
Our gallant Bark's on fire!

Yes, I was there! with breathless haste,
We hoisted out the boat;
One boy, and two and twenty men,
Upon the billows float.

Sixteen remain'd;—'twould have been death
To all, to venture more;
But dreadful the refusal seem'd!
We madly plied the oar:

For life we row'd,—and yet I turn'd,
That dreadful sight to see:
A comely youth,—I lov'd him well!
Climb'd up the mizen-tree:

158

The flames play'd round his youthful form,
And wrapt him in their glory;
His bright hair blaz'd like angel beams,—
I cannot tell the story.—

The crash, the dreadful crash! we heard,
And all was swept away:
Th' updriven mast, their funeral torch!
Their grave, the Ocean spray.

Our lives were sav'd, but life alone;
Compass nor sail had we;
Nor food nor drink;—nor knew we where
To seek our destiny.

Toss'd by the gale, we drifted long,
From coast and island far;
Our only guide, the sun by day,
By night the polar star;

159

Till rose a fog so thick, no star
Could pierce the dreary night;
So dense the air, we scarcely saw
The summer sun's gay light.

Still through that fog, we seem'd to see
A vessel gliding by;
But as we labor'd at the oar,
The vessel seem'd to fly.

And often in that cheerless night,
When sank the hollow gale,
We seem'd to hear the watchman's song,
And the quick-flapping sail.

We curs'd them for their cruelty,
With many a bitter word:
Oh 'twas the treacherous mist we saw!
The moaning wind we heard!

160

Days in that dreadful stillness past!
Scarce breath'd the fickle air!
The quivering wave that sway'd the boat,
Seem'd rock'd by our despair.

There were we fix'd; may sailor ne'er
Such misery feel again!
With hunger torn, and parch'd with thirst,
In vain we pray'd for rain.

We wrung the moisture from our clothes;
Oh more the woodlark sips
From acorn-cup, and yet it fell
Like balm upon our lips.

Short was that comfort; it was past,
And death and madness near:
'Twas dreadful then our comrades' groans,
And piercing shrieks to hear!

161

The little Negro boy was dead;
Three Sailors dying lay;
For water, water, still they call'd!
They died at dawn of day.

That morn, (though nature prompted it,
Yet nature loath'd the food)
By human flesh our pangs were stay'd;
Our thirst by human blood.—

How horrible it was to taste!—
Our blood chill'd in our veins;—
We had no hope—but yet with life
The wish to live remains.

Still every morn was mark'd with death;
Still madness rul'd the night;
Till a fresh breeze the fog dispers'd,
And woke to life and light.

162

'Twas then—O blessed sight!—we saw
The land before us lying;
The real land!—no vision'd shore
In fancy's sick dream flying.

But seven men remain'd; and each
Gaz'd fix'dly on the other,
As if to ask—Look I as wan,
As ghastly, as my brother?

Hope lent us strength, with quivering limb,
To ply the laboring oar;—
Hope did I say! God succour'd us!—
We safely gain'd the shore.

For this great mercy, still to Him,
On that revolving day,
The fullness of my Soul I pour,
And weep, and fast, and pray.

163

EPITAPH

ON MARY, THE WIFE OF GEORGE MITFORD, ESQ.

A Woman pious, liberal, frank, and kind,
Of gentlest manners, and of noblest mind;
A Wife, who forty changing summers knew
Unchang'd, tho' round her life's wild tempests blew;
A friend endearing, constant, and sincere;
A mother wisely fond;—lies buried here:
Friends, Husband, Children, wept her parting breath,
Yet in her Life find comfort for her Death.

164

STANZAS

WRITTEN NEAR A RUINED FARM.

'Tis sweet, fair Netley's woods among,
To gaze upon the roofless walls,
Where only sounds the night-bird's song,
While the pale moon-beam trembling falls.

'Tis sweet,—though memory loves to tell
The cloister'd forms that sleep beneath;
Pale ghosts in every shadow dwell;
And spirits sigh in every breath;

165

Still with that sweetly solemn fear,
A softer, better feeling blends;—
'Twas Superstition govern'd here,
And here her sullen empire ends.

Here oft resounds the cheerful wheel
Through aisles where sloth and misery slept;
Here frolic children gaily steal,
To sport where dark-rob'd Friars crept.

And lovelier far those ivied towers,
And happier in their proud decay!
Bosom'd in nature's loveliest bowers,
And crown'd by Taste's resplendent ray;

Weston's fair Villa hangs above them
(A garland on the brow of Time;)
Bards come to worship and to love them;
Art's Votaries o'er their ruins climb.—

166

And many a Castle proud I've seen,
The wreck of ages, bare and grey:
And moraliz'd in mood serene,
Thus human grandeur fades away!

I love such ruin'd towers; they float
With vision fair on memory's eye,
Till seems to breathe the Minstrel's note,
While Knights and Ladies hover nigh.

Sweet are those days in Poet's strain,—
Days of bold light and darker shade—
They come, with all their gorgeous train,
In Chivalry's bright tints array'd!

At beauty's feet the warrior brave,
In meek devotion seems to bend;—
Then woman rul'd the lover-slave!
Who guides she now?—the husband-friend!

167

The cloister'd cell, the ruin'd tower,
Wake feelings mild, or visions gay;
They brighten Fancy's pensive hour;
And chase remember'd ills away.

But sadden'd from one spot I turn,
One spot where nature's softest charm
Still seems decay's slow power to spurn,
And smiles around the ruin'd farm.

It stands amid a valley fair,
Where high elms bound the verdant meads
The winding stream slow lingering there,
A lakelet clear, its waters spreads:

And never purer mirror shone;—
There sleep the clouds so fleecy white;
And through the tender leaves the Sun
Darts sudden gleams of golden light:

168

They play upon the water's oreast,
Quick as the summer lightning's rush;
Upon the ruin'd wall they rest,
Deep as the maiden's hectic blush.

That wall so rude and desolate
A half dismantled roof supports;
Barr'd is th' inhospitable gate!
The long rank grass defiles the Courts.

Those chambers open to the day,
With casements flapping to the wind;
They shelter now the bird of prey,
Or the dark out-casts of mankind:

For, save the Gypsey's foot, no steps
E'er sound upon that mouldering stair;
And, as it sounds, affrighted leaps
From her rude form the startled hare.

169

Still herbs and flowers, half choak'd with weeds,
The garden's simple boundaries show;
And half conceal'd by cluster'd reeds,
The Gooseberries stand in stunted row:

And on the moss-grown apple-tree,
One solitary flower expands;
And still luxuriant, gay, and free
Before the door the rose-bush stands.

I gaze; and mournful o'er my brain
The thoughts of buried comforts press:—
Comforts, whose ruins still retain
Their desolated loveliness!

And fancy says—those walls so bare
Once quiver'd to the wood-fire's light;
And many a happy face was there
Drawn round the blaze at fall of night.

170

Oft from that mossy apple-tree,
Some boy, as fair as that lone flower,
Has flung the fruit with childish glee,
Much pleas'd to give, much vain of power.

The youth, more manly, from the rose
Its brightest bud has stolen, to deck
(Herself the loveliest flower that blows).
His village beauty's snowy neck:

Whilst the fair Sister smil'd to view
How carefully he pluck'd the thorn,
And archly prais'd its brilliant hue,
And begg'd it for the coming morn.—

Oh! such was once thy happiness!—
I gaze around, and fades the charm;
I sigh o'er ruin'd loveliness;
And mourn the desolated farm.

171

THE SECRET CELL.

ARGUMENT.

I am indebted to local circumstances for the foundation of the following tale. The house, in which I am now writing, was erected on the site of an ancient mansion formerly inhabited by a distinguished Roman-Catholic Family. I well remember, not many years back, playing in the secret room, described in the poem; the entrance to it was through a sliding pannel, so well concealed by the carved work that covered the wall, that it greatly excited the admiration of the workmen employed in taking down the house. All the neighbourhood came to view and wonder at the priest's hiding-place, the name all the old Inhabitants agreed in calling it by, and told tales as wild and romantic as the story that I have invented respecting this mysterious cell.

172

Where yonder villa rises fair,
A gloomy mansion rear'd its head:
No sound of mirth had echoed there,
Since its proud Lord affrighted fled.

'Twas when for Scotland's captive flower,
Fond Norfolk felt the axe so keen;
And glory wept the baleful power
That stain'd thy fame, O Virgin Queen!

173

Then all who Norfolk's friendship shar'd,
And all who own'd the aucient faith,
'Gainst jealous power must timely guard,
Or share the traitor's loathed death.

O all are fled; within the walls
Two feeble beings only stray,
To mourn the lone and cheerless hals,
And pray for those far, far away.

The holy Francis linger'd there,
Servant of God, and friend of Man;
The load of life he scarce could bear,
With age and sickness faint and wan.

To tend his wants young Agnes staid,
An orphan innocent and mild;
And peacefully they liv'd and pray'd,
That saint-like man, that gentle child.

174

Days, weeks, had pass'd, ere at the gate
A band of armed men appear'd;—
Fear'd not the priest to meet his fate,
As high those glittering arms were rear'd

But Agnes knelt, and pray'd, and wept,
“O shroud thee in the secret cell,
They seek but thee,”—cold shivers crept
Through her fair form, as peal'd the bell.

“But thou, my child, to leave thee so,
“Midst soldiers harden'd, wild, and free,”—
“They seek not me, my Father, go!
“Fear nothing; God will succour me.”

She drew the Father to the cell,
She touch'd the carv'd work's secret spring,
With quick rebound the pannel fell;
And wild shouts through the mansion ring.

175

Poor Agnes hurried from the place,
With fluttering heart and blushing cheek,
“O may no eye my footsteps trace,
“No hand the mystic pannel seek!”

Scarce thirteen springs had Agnes seen,
But woman's graces deck'd her form;
Her black eye sparkled bright and keen,
And her soft roses mantled warm.

Dark Cuthbert saw the lovely child,
His glance his soul's foul passion told:
“Ah Traitress, with the look so mild,
“Say where lies hid the buried gold?

“'Tis death the Traitor's wealth to hide,—
Confess and live to love and pleasure!—”
“No gold is here,” the maiden cried,—
And thought upon her living treasure.

176

So past the weary day: at night,
Dark Cuthbert to his comrades said,
“Guard you our royal Sovereign's right,
“Whilst I to London bear the maid.”

The rain fell fast on Agnes' form,
She felt it not, yet wild her cries!
They mingled with the raging storm,
“No food! no drink! he dies, he dies!”

That night the elemental war
Rock'd sea and river, tree and ground;
And thunder-clap and tempest-jar,
Drown'd mortal plaint and earthly sound.

The next they heard, or seem'd to hear,
Faint groans of mortal agony:
Groans such as pierce affection's ear,
Ere mounts th' enfranchis'd soul on high.

177

Trembling they search'd; the search was vain;
Yet awe-struck, mute, and scar'd, they lay:
Still fainter grew the dismal strain;
And all was hush'd ere break of day.

At noon, with eye all haggard-wild,
Dishevell'd hair and panting limb,
Rush'd madly by the lovely child,
“He dies, and I have murder'd him!”

She mounted quick the spacious stair;
She cross'd each room on Frenzy's wing;
Struck the carv'd oak with frantic air,
And press'd upon the secret spring.

There lay the Friar as if at rest,
The holy Cross was in his hand;
She flung her fair form on his breast;—
But never shall those lungs expand!

178

She plac'd her red lips on his cheek,
She strove to raise each stiffen'd limb;—
O dreadful, Agnes, was thy shriek!
“He dies, and I have murder'd him!”

Nor other word she ever spake!
Nor ever reason lit her eye!
And down by yonder tangled brake,
In the lone pool, doth Agnes he.

179

INFANTILE LOVE.

[_]

FROM “BLANCH” AN UNFINISHED POEM.

If in this world of breathing harm,
There lurk one universal charm,
One power, which to no clime confin'd,
Sways every heart and every mind,
Which cheers the monarch on his throne,
The slave beneath the torrid zone,
The soldier rough, the letter'd sage,
And careless Youth, and helpless Age,
And all that live, and breathe, and move,—
'Tis the pure kiss of infant love.

180

Ev'n Tyrants, whose suspicious ear
Loathes the lip-praise they seem to hear,
Seek in some child of tender age,
Some lisping girl, some urchin page,
The mind's stern feelings to relieve,
With sounds of love they dare believe.

Ev'n they, of human kind the stain,
Banditti fierce, or pirate train,
Exiles, who ne'er shall hear the sound
Of sweet and innocent mirth rebound;
But groans of dying victims' fall,
Mix'd with brute riot, round their hall;
Who mock at name of wife or friend;—
Ev'n they their gloomy brows unbend
To a stern rugged tenderness;
When some sweet infant's gay caress,
Wooing awhile from vice, imparts
A human feeling to their hearts:

181

Ev'n they can love the blooming toy,
That woke the long-still'd pulse of joy.

That kiss can deaden pain's rude throb;
Can silence misery's bitter sob;
A ray of light on Winter's sky,
Can bid despair and darkness fly;
It sways from Ind to Zealand's coast;
All feel,—and Woman feels it most.

182

THE WATCH.

O silent is the foot of Time
And noiseless his eternal way,
From Infancy to Manhood's prime,
And feeble Age's slow decay!
The year obeys the Solar sway;
The changing seasons mark his power;
And light and darkness rule the day;
Whilst loud-ton'd clocks proclaim the hour.

183

But life is fickle as the wind;
And bliss and woe divide the year;
Change, still the Seasons make and find;
Nor days nor hours unmix'd appear.
We dare not Hope's fair fabric rear,
Nor build beyond this little span:
The watch that marks the moment here,
Counts all of bliss that's given to Man.

Thou little watch, with stilly voice,
How boundless is thy silent power!
Thou call'st the happy to rejoice;
And point'st to misery's eye the hour:
The sentenc'd wretch in lonely tower
Reads in thy face that death's at hand;
And he enthron'd in princely bower,
Who doom'd that death, owns thy command.

184

The exile torn from every tie,
From children, wife, and native land,
Feels at thy sight stern misery fly;
It bears him to his lovely strand:
There was a cherub boy would stand
And stay his cry, thy voice to hear;
Would reach for thee his rosy hand,
And smile and crow to see thee near.

Blest in the Sailor's happy home,
Thou feel'st his faithful partner's sigh;
More blest with him the world to roam,
And mark the fond tear in his eye.
The Lover chides thee lingering by,
When absent from the maid he loves;
When basking in her sunny eye,
Unmark'd, unfelt, thy quick hand moves.

185

The prisoner, doom'd to waste his days
In dungeon damp, or cheerless cell,
When time has quench'd hope's lambent rays
And memory but on wrongs can dwell;—
Ev'n in despair he feels thy spell:
It links him still to human kind,
Mid one dull calm of change to tell;—
Though vain as colors to the blind!

Ah, me! how slow the moments creep,
When, watching by the sick man's bed,
The daughter's tears his pillow steep,
Unheard as snow on straw-roof'd shed:
No sounds break on that silence dread,
Save thy low tick and his faint breath;—
Morn comes,—the vital spark is fled!
Thou sound'st on the still couch of death.

186

Thou diest not—mischance, neglect,
May clog thy fine machinery;
But care can thy nice springs protect,
And Art repair all injury.
O thou full many a race shalt see,
Like him who form'd thy wonderous frame,
Count their long woes, their transient glee;
Different the kind, th' amount the same.

187

ODE TO CONSUMPTION.

Avaunt, gay mockery of truth!
Thou canker in the bud of youth!
Thou gilded serpent, whose bright show
Conceals thy poison bags below!
Consumption, hence! thou, hand in hand
With madness, broodest o'er the land:
Bright mischief, hence! the church-yards groan
With victims by thy power o'erthrown.
Insatiate thou of human blood,
Most delicate glutton in thy food;
The best and fairest chasing still,
And breaking hearts thou canst not kill.

188

Thine ear drinks heirless fathers' groans;
And childless widows' hollow moans,
And plighted maidens' agony;
And this to thee is harmony!—
Thou seest the parent first awaking;
Through hope's fond dream seest terror breaking,
Seest doubt and fear come rushing on,
And markest, when all hope is gone,
Despair's fix'd look and tearless eye,
And quivering lips that breathe no sigh;
And this to thee is extasy!

O smiling mischief! angel bright
Thy victim seems to human sight:
Beauty her only warning given,
Thou trickest out a bride for Heaven.
So thin, she floats upon the eye,
Like light clouds o'er the evening sky;
It seems as no terrestrial creature
Could so throw off all earthly feature.

189

Bright vision of the element!
'Tis snow thy dazzling fairness lent:
The sky, thy veins of softest blue;
The rainbow, thy cheeks' rosy hue;
The Sun, the lambent flames that fly,
Dazzling and burning, from thine eye:
So beautiful thou art! 'Tis sad
To view thee—Beauty makes us glad;
But still, as grows thy loveliness,
Dread signs of woe our joys repress:
The panting breath, the ghastly smile;
The short and frequent cough; the toil
With which thy gayest speeches come;
All have a tongue to speak thy doom;
The lightning flashes of thine eye
Tell, in their brightness, thou must die.

O many a mother who has trod,
O'er one fair victim's funeral sod,

190

Watches, with sad and fearful glance,
The sister beauty's charms advance;
She trembles at the form's light grace,
At youths' pure blush and lovely face;
Shivers to mark those eye-beams clear,
Deems thee, thou cruel spoiler, near,
And dies a living death in fear.
As he, once wreck'd, in summer's breeze
Dark rocks and hovering tempests sees.

Dreadful that fear: more dread the hope,
When nought the husband's eyes can ope,
Which hang enraptur'd on the charms
That tear the lov'd one from his arms.
Thy shaft is sped; she dies not yet,
Consumption, soon thou'lt claim thy debt;
Blooming till life itself be o'er;
Love cannot heal, nor skill restore.—
The woodbine thus, when some rude shower
Has snapp'd the fair but fragile flower,

191

Suspended by one slender thread,
Hangs mournfully its drooping head.
Then, if some maid, in pitying guise,
To its lov'd tree the blossom ties,
Awhile it lives beneath her care,
As sweet in scent, in form as fair:
Again the fair one seeks the tree,
Her renovated flower to see;
But drooping now, the pallid head,
Which late in flaunting beauty spread;
But wither'd now the tubes, whose store
Of sweets the humming pilgrims bore;
But shrunk and curl'd the leaves, whose green
Late glitter'd through the dew-drops sheen;
And the fair girl, in pensive hour,
Sighs o'er her desolated flower.

Such are thy works! I may not scan
The ruin thou hast wrought in Man.

192

The cannonry in battle-field,
To Death less glorious harvest yield:
They sweep the corn-sheaves standing near;
Thou pluck'st from each the fairest ear;
Thou throb'st in Valor's pulses high;
Light'st treacherous fire in Genius' eye;
And giv'st Ambition strength,—to die!

193

BERTHA. A BALLAD.

“Oh come ye from my own true love?
Oh come ye o'er the sea?
If it be Bertha that you seek,
Speak, Seamen, I am she.

“Of Henry's life, of Henry's health,
Of Henry's coming, tell;
And say,—O I shall bless the sound!
Loves he his Bertha well?”

194

“Of Henry's welfare, fame, and wealth,
To tell we gladly seek;
But Henry's self to Bertha's ear
His heart's true love must speak.

“The vessel rides on yonder sea,
In all her summer pride;
And Henry, and his gentle love,
Will meet ere evening tide.”

Fair Bertha broke her flaxen thread,
And toss'd her wheel away;
And round her Mother clasp'd her arms,
“Our Henry comes to day!”

Her little sister laugh'd for joy;
Loud was her Mother's cry;
And Bertha smil'd, and sobb'd, and smil'd,
With tear-drop in her eye.

195

Her Mother thank'd the Mariners
With many a courteous word;
And Bertha listen'd eagerly
As first that tale she heard.

“My Henry comes ere evening tide,”
Still sounded in her ear;
“Oh come, and help to braid my hair,
Come, help me, Emma dear!

“Oh deck me like a gallant bride,
My own true love to see!”
And pleasure danc'd in Emma's eyes,
She sang for very glee.

“O sister! I am pale and shrunk,
Since my true love departed!
Will he not say, ‘Art thou the maid,
From whom so late I parted?

196

“I left thee fair and beautiful,
I find thee pale and worn,”—
My Henry, 'tis for thy dear sake,
That I am thus forlorn.

“'Tis pining for thy sight has chas'd
The rose that bloom'd so red;
The lustre of mine eye is quench'd
By tears for absence shed:”

Young Emma held the glass and laugh'd,
“Fly, love-born terror, fly!
See pleasure lights thy blooming cheek,
And happy love thine eye:

“O thou wert ne'er so beautiful!—
Come let us to the shore,
To look for Henry's milk-white sail,
And list for Henry's oar.”

197

'Twas noon: upon the glassy wave
The zephyrs seem'd to sleep;
And the bright sun-beams danc'd and play'd
Upon the tranquil deep.

“There is no wind to swell the sail,
He cannot come to-night;
We gaze around for many a mile,
No bark is yet in sight.

“Blow, summer wind, and waft my love,
And bear him to the shore!
Flow, summer wave, and bring my love,
Where we shall part no more!

“And I will bribe ye, wave and wind,
With flowery coronet;
And you shall wear my maiden crown,
And I my true love get.”

198

She took her garland from her hair,
And flung it on the sea;
The garland fell on the distant wave,
And floated gloriously:

The snow-white spray hung in the flower,
Like dew-drops of the morning;
The Sun's bright ray play'd on the wreath,
With gems each bud adorning.

The light wave rippled on the shore,
And kiss'd her feet so fair;
The rising breezes fann'd her cheek,
And lifted up her hair:

And the low whispering of the breeze,
The murmuring of the Sea,
They seem'd to speak to Bertha's ear,
We'll bear thy love to thee.

199

“Is't not a vessel, sister, say,
That breaks yon level line?”
“Oh no! 'tis but a dusky cloud,
Where Sky and Ocean join!

“Seest thou not, Bertha, how it spreads,
And darkens as it goes?
Feel'st thou not now the gathering gale,
How fearfully it blows?

“Would that the wind were hush'd again,
And calm the summer sea!”
“Cease, trembler, cease! I woo the breeze
It wafts my love to me;

“Still, still, upon the foaming Sea,
The sun-beam gaily dances;”—
“Sister, the bright orb drinks the wave;
And threateningly it glances!”

200

At Evening darker grew the sky;
And higher toss'd the wave;
Poor Bertha's only prayer was now,
“Great God, my Henry save!”

The loud storm howl'd; the lightning flash'd,
And blaz'd upon the Ocean;
And Bertha thought, upon the wave,
She saw a vessel's motion;

Again across the dark sea glanc'd
That blue and forked light;
There toss'd the bark! she never saw
So horrible a sight!

Between each deafening thunder-clap,
Roll'd faint the signal gun;
Till one loud shriek came on the blast,
To tell that all was done.

201

Again the lightning flash! no bark
Bertha's sad glances meet:
Another comes; her true love's corse
Is laid at Bertha's feet.

Deck, maidens, deck the bridal bed!
And strew them o'er with flowers!
And plant a red rose at the head,
Watered with virgin showers!

And sing soft dirges o'er their tomb,
All who such fondness prove!
Yet mourn ye not fair Bertha's doom;
She died with her true love.

202

PORTUGAL.

AN ODE.

England weeps for thee, Portugal!
O thou wert once the loveliest land
Of southern Europe's blooming band,
Most beautiful of all!
And many an eye thy beauty can recal;
Thy silver shore, thy golden river,
Thy citron groves where sun-beams quiver,
On the dark leaves and snowy flowers,
Fragrant as Araby's blest bowers,
When Evening breezes fall;

203

The vine-clad hill; the olive shade,
Where at the merry vintage feast,
Danc'd lightsome youth, and black-ey'd maid,
From pleasant toil releas'd;
Such scene will many a heart recal,
And weep thy ruin, Portugal.

The sick man sought thy lovely shore,
When Art was foil'd and hope was o'er,
When in each gasping laboring breath,
Life seem'd to fly the victor Death;
Yet even then thy breeze could fling
Life, health, and healing, from his wing:
Oh! bid that healing gale dispense,
On thy sick sons, its influence;
Thou bidd'st in vain: the very air
Is heavy with thy soul's despair.
Thy teeming earth still reeks with blood;
Thy full-gorg'd ravens loathe their food;

204

And corses of th' unburied slain
Taint thy pure breeze, and load thy plain.
O wretched land! th' invading foe
Has laid thy smoking hamlets low;
'Tis terrible to hear the strife!
He came like the dread earthquake's shock,
Palace and Church, and Cot, to rock;
Or like the dire Volcano's flame,
The devastating ruin came,
And swept away thy life.

The roofless barns, the untill'd fields,
Mark the fell spoiler's way;
The fruitful vale no harvest yields,
Nor promise for a future day;
The villages, the soldier's prey,
In hopeless desolation frown;
And many a wide and populous town,
Seat of calm peace, of fair renown,—
Beneath their direful sway,

205

Unpeopled now and overthrown,
Breathes such a sad and dreary stillness,
Filling the awe-struck heart with chillness,
As if pale Pestilence, with brooding wing,
O'er the lone walls was hovering.
O see along the silent street,
Full many a corse is lying!
Such sight is horrible to meet,
'Tis worse to see the dying.
O not the red plague slew them here;
War, War, thou wert the murderer!

The yawning wound, the mangled limb,
The death-fix'd face, with gashes grim;
The babe dash'd from its mother's arms,
The virgin's violated charms;
The graves torn wide for hidden gold,
The convent ruins scarcely cold;

206

Where still one sainted sister straying,
Her white hands cross'd upon her breast,
Poor sufferer! soon to be at rest,
For each departed soul is praying!—
Doth not each corse, each wound proclaim,
War, fiend-like War! the murderer's name?

Th' invader flies!—and peace once more
May heal thy devastated shore:
But famine dwells on vale and hill;
The iron hoofs indent the plain;
No harvest blooms; all, all, is still,
Still as despair's cold sullen reign.
Oh bitter are the scalding tears that steal
From the fond dying mother's half-clos'd eyes,
Who stills with her last bit her infant's cries,
Nor knows if it may taste another meal!

207

O dreadful are the husband's groans, who sees
His bride's fair form with hunger shrinking,
To the low tomb each moment sinking,
Yet smiling in her pangs, his grief to ease.
Still famine sits within thy gate,
And thou art sad and desolate,
Queen of the golden shore!
Can aught uprear thy fallen state,
Thy vanish'd bliss restore?

Yes,—England: from the Gailic band,
'Twas English valor clear'd thy land!
And English bounty shall recal
Thy people to their ruin'd wall;
Shall bid the golden harvest wave,
The hungry feed, the dying save;
For England weeps thy woes, O Portugal!

208

THE BLIND MAN'S STORY.

How beautiful is yonder cot
With vine and jasmine twining fair!
Enamor'd of the lovely spot,
The western sun-beams linger there:

They light the tall elms by its side,
The little garden blooming by;
The orchard spreading rich and wide,
And the slow streamlet rippling nigh.

209

Full in the beam fair children sport;
Yon fairer Woman spins the while,
Yet glances still towards the court,
And views them with a mother's smile.

And here, reclin'd beneath the vine,
The Grand-sire lies, an aged man!
How bright on him the sun-beams shine!
And gild that cheek so mildly wan.

“O happy man! such scenes of peace
To share, to view, how blest is he!”
“Ah! Lady, bid thy day-dream cease,
That scene of bliss he cannot see;

“He cannot share; for bliss from him,
With sight, with strength, with children fled;
His hearing fails, shakes every limb,
And all but memory is dead;

210

“Approach! he loves the tale to tell
Of joys to him for ever lost;
On those so dearly lov'd to dwell,
And of his buried Lucy boast.”

“O gentle Lady! would you know
Of happier days, of Lucy's fate;
List to a blind man's tale of woe,
And listening, ease his sorrow's weight.

There was no man in all the land,
More happy, or more gay than I;
I envied not the rich and grand,
More blest my proud security.

I till'd the farm by yonder hill;
Oh it was lovely to the sight!
You cannot see, I see it still;—
It fell in that most dreadful night!

211

How happy was my peaceful cot!
My wife was blameless, frugal, mild;
Prosperous our calm and equal lot;
Thrice blest in our most gracious child.

One only child! she was most fair,
Most kind, most good, most dutiful;
The poor man blest her in his prayer,
The rich man call'd her beautiful:

But wise as fair, my Lucy wed
Robert, a faithful village youth;
And three blest years too quickly fled,
In simple love, in spotless truth.

A lovely boy at Lucy's breast
Still drew his balmy aliment,
Whilst Robert soothed his girl to rest,
Or on my knee the prattler leant.

212

One summer night, the blood-red sky
Was ting'd with clouds like dusky smoke;
“See, Father, see, a tempest's nigh!”
I thought she trembled as she spoke.

Sound is the sleep that labor gains,
And tranquil is the matin waking;—
I woke that night with dreadful pains,
And saw the death-fraught flames wild breaking.

Above, below, around, I gaz'd,
Till my eyes ached to see the sight;
Barns, stables, house, together blaz'd,
There seem'd nor chance, nor hope of flight.

One child, the girl, I toss'd below,
I strove to save Wife, Lucy, all:—
A beam fell in, I felt the blow;—
I may not that sad scene recall!

213

When life return'd, I sought in vain,
To know what ill had happen'd me;
A dreadful dream weigh'd on my brain,
A sense of unknown misery!

I mus'd when one low sound I heard,—
The sound delightful to mine ear!
“Father”—'twas Lucy spoke the word,
My heart seem'd lighten'd of its fear.

I turn'd,—O God! the sight I saw,
It chill'd my heart and froze my veins!
My child scorch'd, shrivell'd, mangled, raw;
O Beauty! such were thy remains!

Her boy awaken'd from his rest,
And stretch'd his hands with baby moans,
And sought his mother's downy breast,—
Dear, wretched one! how deep her groans!

214

I gaz'd and listen'd till she died;
Then came the dreadful pause of grief;
Then came despair:—till frenzy's tide
O'erwhelming all, lent sad relief.

I wander'd long, I know not where,
By whom attir'd, or lodg'd, or fed;
Harmless was I, my only care
To seek my Lucy's earthy bed.

At length I woke to sense and woe;
Sight, happiness, and Lucy, gone!
That night laid all my treasures low,
Of all I lov'd, remain'd but one:

'Twas Lucy's child! you see her there,
Yon happy mother at her wheel!
They say, she too is passing fair,—
That she is passing good I feel.

215

If ever sound of comfort rings
Upon mine ear, and cries, rejoice!
'Tis when my gentle grandchild sings
My Lucy's songs, with Lucy's voice.

I cannot bear to hear the storm
Of summer, howling o'er the sky;
It shakes with frenzied grief my form;
Again I see the dear one die!

I cannot bear the woodfire's glow,
Or list the crackling faggot blaze:—
But I forget awhile my woe,
Whilst basking in the sun's warm rays.

Yet those warm rays are flying fast,
My gentle guests would leave the vale;
Should misery's clouds your sun o'ercast,
Oh think upon the Blind Man's Tale!

216

SUN-SET.

The clouds disperse:—just glancing bright,
The Sun sends forth his shrouded light.
'Tis pleasant on th' horizon's verge,
To see the clouded beams emerge;
Which strove all day 'twixt frown and smile,
Like the coy Beauty's simple wile,
Who seeks to fix her rover's eye,
By thy strong spell, Variety!
It clears!—we'll rest upon the bridge,
And mark yon purple western ridge,

217

Where the dividing clouds unfold
Long narrow streaks of burnish'd gold;
Now seen amid the clustering trees,
Like flaming sparks borne on the breeze;
Now tipping every verdant elm
With radiant light, like warrior's helm;
Now higher mount the clouds, and higher,
Bursts on the eye that orb of fire!
Lighting the landscape's fair expanse,
Wide, far, the brilliant sun-beams dance;
Now on th'unruffled lakelet playing,
Now on the winding streamlet straying;
Gilding fair cot and white-wash'd farm,
Awakening every sleeping charm;
Chacing the dark sky's vapoury sorrow,
And promising a glorious morrow.

How beautiful the sight! the eye
Shrinks from its dazzling majesty,

218

To rest upon the rosy cloud,
Which overhangs its lustre proud;
Catching the pure refulgent rays,
But softening their excessive blaze.
Refresh'd, the charmed eye returns,
Where that bright orb of glory burns,
Suspended for a moment's space,
He seems to check th' etherial race,
Then sinks beneath th' horizon's bound,
With added speed to run his round.
So sinks the hero's soul to rest,
To rise more bright amid the blest!

He speeds upon the viewless wind;
The track of light remains behind;
And golden tint, and rosy blush,
Wide-circling, mix in brilliant flush.
Reflected in the stream below,
How lovely the bright colors glow;

219

Fring'd in by trees, that shake and quiver
On the clear margin of the river;
That downward growing seem to spread,
And proudly wave th' inverted head.
There, bending o'er the light rail, sleep
Our watery shadows dark and deep;
There, too, my playful favorite bends,
And o'er the stream her head extends;
Graceful inclines the long arch'd neck,
With haughty wave, and sportive beck:
Then starting back, erects her ear,
To see, deep in the water clear,
Another jetty grey-hound rise,
With long arch'd neck and sparkling eyes;
Advance, recede, stoop down, or fly,
With apt and faithful mimicry;
Pursuing still her every motion,
Baffling her every simple notion,
Till, with slow step and frequent pause,
Maria from the bridge withdraws.

220

'Tis sweet to linger here, and view
The fading landscape's twilight hue;
To mark how nature owns the hour,
That calls to sleep's refreshing bower.
All hasten to their home; the lamb
Meekly pursues its mild ey'd dam;
The plover, with loud flapping wing,
And shrilly scream, is hovering;
The peasant, his day's labor o'er,
Sits idly at his cottage door;
And ploughboys swing on farm yard gate,
And laugh and joke, with heart elate;
Whilst cackling geese, quick flutt'ring come,
And whirring chaffers loudly hum.
O, Nature has no voice, no tone,
Howe'er discordant when alone;
But breathing her glad spirit free,
Bursts forth in general harmony!
The sheep bell low, the screaming bird,
The loud rude jest, the lowing herd,

221

The insect hum—who'd wish to cease,
Music of Nature, joy, and peace!

But they are hush'd;—the sky grows pale;
The purple clouds no longer sail;
The gath'ring shades the valley fill;
The low'ring mists obscure the hill;
The ev'ning dew is rising fast,
And ev'ning's loveliest hour is past.

222

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Where all that strikes th' admiring eye
Breathes beauty and sublimity;
Where the cool air and tranquil light
The world-worn heart to peace invite;
Whence comes this sadness, pure and holy,
This calm resistless, melancholy?
This hallowed fear, this awe-struck feeling?
Comes it from yonder organ pealing?
From low chaunt, stealing up the aisle?
From clos'd gate echoing through the pile?

223

From storied windows, glancing high?
From bannerets of chivalry?
Or from yon holy chapel, seen
Dimly athwart the Gothic screen?
No, 'tis the stranger's solemn tread,
Resounding o'er the mighty dead!
He came to see thy wond'rous state,
The wise, the beautiful, the great;
Thy glory, Empress of the Wave,
He came to see—and found a grave:
But such a grave, as never yet
To Statesman paid a people's debt!
In battle-strife, the Hero's sigh
Is breath'd for thee, or victory!
And Bards immortal, find in thee
A second Immortality!

He, who first rais'd from gothic gloom
Our tongue; here Chaucer finds a tomb:

224

Here gentle Spencer; foulest stain
Of his own Gloriana's reign!
And he, who mock'd at Art's control,
The mighty master of the soul,
Shakespeare, our Shakespeare! by his side,
The man who pour'd his mighty tide:
The brightest union Genius wrought,
Was Garrick's voice, and Shakespeare's thought.
Here Milton's heaven-strung lyre reposes;
Here Dryden's meteor brilliance closes:
Here Newton lies,—and with him lie,
The thousand glories of our sky:
Stars, numerous as the host of Heaven!
And radiant as the flashing levin!

Lo, Chatham! The immortal name,
Graven in the patriot's heart of flame!
Here, his long course of honors run,
The mighty Father's mighty Son!

225

And here—Ah wipe that falling tear!
Last, best, and greatest, Fox lies here!
Here sleep they all: On the wide Earth
There dwell not men of mortal birth,
Would dare contest fame's glorious race
With those who fill this little space.
Oh could some wizard spell revive
The buried dead, and bid them live,
It were a sight to charm dull age,
The infant's roving eye engage,
The wounded heal, the deaf man cure,
The widow from her tears allure,
And moping idiots tell the story
Of England's bliss, and England's glory!

And they do live!—our Shakespear's strains
Die not while English tongue remains;
Whilst light and colors spread and fly,
Lives Newton's deathless memory:

226

Whilst Freedom warms one English breast,
There Fox's honor'd name shall rest:
Yes, they do live!—they live t' inspire
Fame's daring sons with hallow'd fire;
Like sparks from Heaven, they wake the blaze,
The living light of Genius' rays:
Bid England's glories flash across the gloom,
And catch her Heroes' spirit from their tomb.

227

MATERNAL AFFECTION. AN ODE.

Hail, love most blessing, and most blest!
Thou mild maternal flame,
That brightest burn'st in purest breast,
But spring'st in all the same!
Nor flickering change, nor jealous fear
Can ever trouble thee;—
No change, save nature's smile and tear;
And but a father's rivalry.
Hail blessed love! thy very care
'Tis bliss to feel, to cause, to share.

228

There is no other love but springs
From base alloy of earthly things;
But thou art fonder than the flame,
Lit at bright eye of witching dame;
And purer than the innocent love
Of female childhood's fairy grove;
And firmer than coy friendship's power,
That rules o'er manhood's golden hour.
Thrice happy love! fair woman's blessing,
The world is her's, in thee possessing;
She seeks not then the golden store,
Her treasure thou, she asks no more;
She feels not then the cheerless shade,
Thy every sorrow self-repaid.

O lovely is the Mother's smile,
When first within her arms,
Her proud heart beating high the while,
She folds her infant's charms!

229

What sounds upon her rapt ear fall?
It is her babe's low plaintive call,
The first sad notes of mortal woe!
But still on her maternal soul
They fall like sun-beams on the snow;
Dissolving at their blest control,
The tears of rapture flow.
Sweet is that sound; In memory's cell
Can any tone so thrilling dwell?
O yes, there is one other!
'Tis when, with slow and broken speech,
Which mimicry and fondness teach,
He lisps the name of mother.

Even she to whom that hallow'd name
Brings houseless poverty and shame,
Turn'd from the walls that wont to cherish,
Left, by the man she lov'd, to perish;

230

Who sees revenge, life's only joy!
Her only refuge, death!
If, while such dreams her brain destroy,
She feels her infant's breath,
O, then how sweetly fond remembrance
Rushes on her quivering heart!
She sinks subdued in mild repentance,
And all revengeful thoughts depart.
To blessings all her curses turn;
She sees those she best lov'd the sinner spurn;
But, Heaven within her view,
For them, for all, she mildly prays;
“O bless my guiltless infant's days,
And bless its father too!”

See yonder lovely widow'd one,
Lamenting o'er her warrior's grave;
His short bright course of glory run,
Unprofitably brave!

231

She sits upon the lowly tomb,
No tear-drop fills her moody eye,
But every breath seems misery's sigh;
And, in the wild and speechless gloom,
Madness seems starting through despair:
She sits—her eyes defiance glare!
Fix'd, motionless, but not at rest,
Her pale hands cross'd upon her breast,
With hair unbound, and garment rent,
Herself his living monument!
There, lovely statue, wilt thou stay
'Till life and reason fade away?
No! tottering through the church-yard dank,
Half hid by graves and briars rank,
A little Cherub form appears;
That form dispels the death-fraught charm,
The mourner folds her in her arm,
And dews her with her tears:
One only form could wake those feelings mild,
And bid her strive to live;—it was her child!

232

See ye not that fair matron form,
Who o'er yon lovely vision bends,
Fanning that cheek with rose-blush warm
Where the pure lily sweetly blends?
And now around her forehead fair
Twists the bright curls of auburn hair,
And in her pleasant labor pauses,
To gaze on that sweet face delighted!
No thanks are her's, no fond applauses;
Can such a mother's love be slighted?
Hark! heard you not that sudden cry?
See the dishevell'd ringlets fly!
And now, with swift and sudden bound,
She rushes from her mother's arms;
And shrieking whirls in giddy round,
Till breathless, prone upon the ground,
Fall those resplendent charms:
And there she sits, with rocking motion,
And faint monotonous moan,
Restless as waves upon the ocean;

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As wildly sad her tone.
O lovely idiot! that low voice
Has never breath'd a word;
That senseless mind ne'er form'd a choice;
That dull ear never heard.
Thy mother still, with mournful pleasure,
Dwells proudly on her blooming treasure;—
Yes, as she views thee, mockery of beauty,
A strange and wond'rous pride endears her duty!
She fancies that to thy bright eye
Some latent sparks of meaning fly;
Hoping, believes, some future year
Thy love shall soothe, thy genius cheer;
Years pass—but nought those hopes can banish,
With love they came, with life shall vanish.

Hear ye not the voice of gladness?
See ye not tears, that breathe no sadness?
The joy that lifts yon fragile frame,
It is the mother's hallow'd flame!

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O, many a night she watch'd the weary hour,
By her sick moaning infant's restless bed;
Dew'd with her tears the sweet and fading flower,
And pillow'd on her breast the aching head.
Contagion sat within the room,
And all save the fond mother fled its gloom:—
But what can daunt her heart?
The hero in the death-fraught battle,
Who flies where most war's thunders rattle,
Less fears the conqueror's dart!
She watch'd, she wept, she every danger brav'd,
And sweet is her reward—her child is sav'd!

Hail, love most blessing and most blest!
Thou gentlest inmate of the breast,
All hail, for thou art pure!
And ceaseless as revolving time
Through every changing day;
In nations' rise and laughing prime,

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And in their sad decay,
Though states and empires fade away,
Thy harbour is secure;
Source of our earliest bliss, our latest tie;
While Woman lives, thou canst not die!

236

BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY.

A BALLAD

ARGUMENT.

The following Tale is founded on a circumstance, that really occurred in the vale of Leadnoch, during the great plague in Scotland in 1666, and which is very elegantly related in the Honorable Mrs. Murray's “Guide to the Highlands.” It is probable that an ancient Scotch ballad on this subject still exists, though the Song which bears the same name in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, is (excepting the first four lines, which evidently belonged to the original poem) nothing more than a common love-song. The fate of Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray, has recently been the subject of a beautiful Episode in Mrs. Rowden's Pleasures of Friendship.

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How beautiful is Leadnoch's vale,
And Almond's pastoral stream!
Gurgling through rush and lily flower,
Or sparkling in the beam.

'Tis beautiful; though rude neglect
Has choak'd the path with briar;
And lawns, which once like velvet spread,
The struggling footstep tire.

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Yet oft the traveller lingers here,
To pluck the desert flower:
And hoards the wither'd rose and says,
It grew in Leadnoch Bower.

But many a Scottish bower is fair
As Leadnoch's lonely vale;—
Ye who would know what spell is there,
Come listen to my tale!

O, Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
They were two lovely maids!
As ever roam'd in noon-day sun,
Or tripp'd in evening's shades.

Young Bessy had a merry glance,
And a sweet sunny smile;
And noble youths, that smile to catch,
Would ride for many a mile.

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She dream'd not she, of gallant gay,
But blythe as matin lark,
Lov'd nought like her own Mary Gray,
And sang from morn till dark.

As fair, as fond, was Mary too,
But, in her soft blue eye
And pensive mien, the look of love
Might searching glance espy.

Yet still could Bessy's lively spirit,
Chace Mary's thoughtful gloom;
So hangs the red rose o'er the lily,
And sheds its radiant bloom.

But now'twas gloomy through the land,
The red plague hovered there:
All still as wind before a storm;
All silent as despair.

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The red plague stalk'd o'er all the land,
And swept off half the nation;
Happy the dead! 'twas death to live,
And feel the desolation.

Then every tie was snapp'd in twain,
That link'd man to his brother;
From the clos'd door the guest was turn'd,
Aye—though it were his Mother!

That Mother fear'd her babe to nourish,
Lest she should taint its blood;
And wretches who with famine perish'd,
Found death within their food.

Then Sons their dying Fathers fled;
The Bridegroom left his Bride;
None knew what friends remain'd to him;
None knew how many died.

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Ev'n next door neighbours strangers seem'd;
None pass'd the sullen gate;
The cart alone, that came at night,
Gave tidings of their fate.

There were they thrown, the dead, the dying;
Nor grave nor priest was there;
In one vast pit together lying,
The wise, the brave, the fair!

O Pestilence, o'er all the land,
Thy fell contagion spread!
Yet seem'dst thou yon sweet maids to spare;—
Flowers blooming 'midst the dead!

Fair Bessy wore hope's airy form,
Unchang'd her peerless beauty;
And still she watch'd her Mary's cheek;
'Twas Friendship's pleasant duty!

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That cheek by pity only blanch'd,
Still own'd its blushing charms;
And struggling Love itself was lost,
Entomb'd in Friendship's arms.

“My Mary, raise thy drooping head,
And listen to my reid!
Death revels here; in every breath
We draw destruction's seed:

“Soon shall we die, if here we stay,
My Mary, we will fly:
Together shun this death-fraught plague,
Or else together die.”

Oh, it fell sweet on Friendship's ear,
To live or die together!
“Yes, Bessy, I will fly with thee,
Live, die, I care not whether.”

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They wrapt them in their silken plaids,
And left the silent town;
And past along like angel forms,
By Hermit's prayer call'd down.

They pass'd o'er many a vale and hill,
And over moor and mountain;
And sate them down in Leadnoch vale,
By Almond's pleasant fountain.

There, with rich branches of the Oak,
They built their simple bower;
Cover'd it with the water rush;
Deck'd it with wild rose flower.

No care had they; like birds that flew
And caroll'd o'er their head,
On berries of the woods they liv'd,
And sought at eve their bed;

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There, folded in each other's arms,
Like infant twins, they lay;
And mild as cherub's breath their dreams;
As pure their blameless day.

The world forgotten; save that oft
For all who liv'd they pray'd;
And sometimes Mary's roving thought
To faithful Henry stray'd.

One morn she started from her sleep,
And scream'd in glad surprise;
And strove to frown, but almost smil'd,—
He stood before her eyes!

“And is the red plague spent” she cries,
And comest thou for me?”
“It rages still—but thou wert gone;
I could but follow thee.”

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She could not chide him, thence they liv'd,
Like Sisters with their Brother;
And three calm, tranquil, happy days,
Had follow'd one another,

When, on the fourth revolving morn,
Young Henry felt the fire,
Quick-raging in his burning veins,
And every pulse throb higher.

“O fly me, fly,” The lover cried,
“My Mary, I must die;”
Too late the generous warning came,
Death sate in Mary's eye.

She saw her Henry's alter'd form,
She heard his dying groan;
She laid her head in Bessy's lap,
And breath'd her plaintive moan.

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Still Bessy's cheek no paleness show'd,
Contagion fled her charms!
But life was woe without her friend;
She woo'd him to her arms.

She liv'd to close her Mary's eyes,
To shield her from the weather;
Then laid her down, and dying cried,
“Mary, we die together.”—

And there, by Almond's lovely stream,
Their simple graves are seen;
Twin graves, with Henry at their feet,
Among the rushes green.

Their names that rustic tablet bears,
With mosses overgrown;
And village maidens flowerets strow
On friendship's hallow'd stone.

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And hence the Traveller wanders here,
To weep upon the tomb
Of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
And mourn their hapless doom!

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SILCHESTER.

O pride of England's elder time,
Fair in decay as in thy prime,
Vindomis! Caer Segont! what name
Thy wond'rous walls delight to claim,
Queen of the Hills! thy towering throne
Looks on thy vassal vallies down;
And firm as rocks thy ruins stand,
And hem around thy fertile land:
That land where once a city fair
Flourish'd and pour'd her thousands there;

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Where now the waving corn fields glow
And trace the wide streets as they grow

Leland says, “the corn in these fields is marvellous fair to the eye, and ready to show perfecture, it decayeth owing to the foundation on which it grows.” This happens only on the site of the principal streets, which may be plainly traced during the time that the corn is ripening as well as when it first begins to appear. The general fertility of the land is very remarkable: the average crop last year was 5 quarters of wheat to an acre; whilst the fields without the walls did not produce more than 3 quarters and a half.

O chronicle of ages gone!
Thou dwellest in thy pride alone!
Nature her noiseless circle ranging,
Unchanged still but ever changing,
Hath left nor tree, nor earth, nor flood,
That at thy birth around thee stood;
Now e'en amid thy massy line
The fibres twist, the roots entwine:
Repaying the support it finds,
Deep, fix'd, the living cordage winds;
And oak, and ash, and elmin tree,
Now interlac'd, now waving free,
Rear the proud trunk, the wide branch spread,
And form a forest o'er thy head.

Erst on that wood-cloth'd rampart fell
The tread of Roman sentinel;

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Familiar peal'd their graceful tongue,
Thy walls with clanging armour rung;
Or started as discordant sound
Of Saxon war-cry woke the echoes round.
And they are gone! states, empires, all!
Their armour rusts in trophied hall;
Their tongues, the polish'd as the rude,
Sleep in their learned solitude.
That Latian strain, which wont to cheer,
With native tone, the soldier's ear;
Which, faintly warbled, lull'd to rest
The babe upon its mother's breast;
The common speech of toil's rude mates,—
No city now reverberates.
Yes, they are gone! and thou may'st stay,
To view another state decay,
Another tongue to ruin fall,
Ere sinks to earth thy massive wall.

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Yet sweetly rural now the sounds,
That venerable wall rebounds:
The plough-boy's whistle clear and strong;
The rosy milk-maid's evening song;
The laugh from schoolboy's joyous breast,
Who seeks the ring-dove's rude-built nest;
The bell which calls the swains to pray;
And the low hymn which dies away;
Sweet sounds of peace, song, prayer, and bell,
Why are ye not unchangeable!

But all is change; upon the wall
The glancing sun-beams gaily fall;
And we may sit, and muse, and view
That mirror tint of greyish blue,
Till visionary shadows throng,
And buried heroes pass along;
Flitting o'er Fancy's vision'd eye,
Like clouds across the noon-day sky.

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See ye who leads yon crowded line?
'Tis the usurper Constantine!
The recent purple proudly wearing,
Pomp, state, and pride of Empire bearing,
He treads; and Romans watch his nod,
And Britons own a demi-god.
That band, the flower of British land,
They follow to Gaul's hostile strand;
And weeping mothers line the shore,
To bless those who return no more!—

The shadows fly! another race
Is here, of rude and savage face;
Another tongue, another form,
Rough as the wave, loud as the storm.
'Tis Saxon Ælla comes! fly! fly!
Destruction dwells within his eye;
Barbarian chief! he levels all;
Cottage and temple, tower and hall;

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Impartial in his cruelty,
Not who oppose, but all shall die;
Nor sex nor age exemption claim,
Unknown to Mercy's very name!

Fades the rude pageant! the bright ray,
That drives it hence, brings England's day.
Hail to the Briton Prince! 'Tis he
Who lives in Merlin's witchery!
'Tis Arthur, Sun of Chivalry!
They come, they come, the glorious train!
The table round is rear'd again!
And gallant knights, and ladies fair,
Enchanters, elfin sprites, are there!
The rich confusion brighter glows,
And blends and dazzles as it grows,
Till hoots yon owl from ivied throne;
The shades dissolve, the vision's gone!

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The twilight dim obscures the wall,
The trees in deepening masses fall;
Retiring now, and now advancing,
Like moonlight caverns, darkening glancing;
Whilst from her ruinous shelter creeps,
The rabbit forth, then backward leaps,
Scar'd that unwonted steps intrude,
And break her evening solitude.
Yon sea of leaves, with tremulous motion,
Quiver like foam upon the ocean!
Now murmuring low, now whistling shrill,
The breeze of night blows damp and chill;
The rank grass bends with heavy dew,
And lingering long we sigh Adieu!

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ON THE VICTORY OF BARROSA.

TO MRS. TAYLOR, OF HARTLEY COURT, NEAR READING, MOTHER OF COLONEL NORCOTT.

Is there a joy unstain'd, unmingled given,
Or only mix'd with gratitude to Heaven!
Is there a pride so holy, that the blaze
Which fires the heart is caught from virtue's rays.
'Tis when the mother hails her warlike son
From the red field by conquering valor won!
'Tis when the mother hears the voice of Fame
“Shout and reverberate” her hero's name!

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Oft has the bliss through that fond bosom past,
Yet is each triumph dearer than the last:
Dearer for anxious days, for nightly tears,
For all the pangs she knows, and all she fears.
From one pure spring those tender feelings part,
Spring of celestial love! the mother's heart.

Thrice happy thou such transports to have prov'd!
Thrice happy son by such a mother lov'd!
Whose hope aspiring lulls her fear to rest,
The bravest spirit in the gentlest breast;
Who mildly wise each virtuous precept caught,
And gave the bright example which she taught.

Blessing and blest, ah, long may ye remain!
Heaven shield the hero on the battle-plain!

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For this each lovely sister heaves a sigh;
This dews the Brother's and the Father's eye;
The beauteous wife this one great mercy seeks;
These the first words the lisping infant speaks;
And this—ah, none that tender fear can share!
This the fond Mother's earliest latest prayer.
Heaven shield the hero on the battle-plain!
And blest and blessing long may ye remain!

Colonel Norcott had been in twelve general engagements before the Battle of Barrosa.

THE END.